Danny Archer: So, don't tell me you're here to make a difference, huh? Maddy Bowen: And you're here to make a buck? Danny Archer: I'm here for lack of a better idea. Maddy Bowen: That's a shame.
Maddy Bowen: You lost both your parents. Danny Archer: That's a polite way of putting it, ja. Mum was raped and shot and uh... Dad was decapitated and hung from a hook in the barn. I was nine... boo-hoo right?
Captain Poison: Young man, young man, listen to me. The gov'mint wants you to vote. They say "the future is in your hands." We now the future. So we take your hands! No more hands, no more voting!
[as they were encountering some child soldiers while driving] Danny Archer: Drive right at them, they'll panic. Benjamin Kapanay: No, do you know where the word "infantry" comes from, it means: Child Soldier. They're just children.
[to Longshanks] Princess Isabelle: You see? Death comes to us all. But before it comes to you, know this: your blood dies with you. A child who is not of your line grows in my belly. Your son will not sit long on the throne. I swear it.
Marty: I got a job for you. Private Detective Visser: Uh, well, if the pay's right, and it's legal, I'll do it. Marty: It's not strictly legal. Private Detective Visser: [Thinks for a second] Well, if the pay's right, I'll do it.
Abby: [referring to Marty] Fact is... he's ANAL, Ray! Ray: Hmmmmm? Abby: [pointing to her forehead] In HERE... Abby, in HERE... I'm anal. Ray: Well, I'll be damned. Abby: I couldn't believe it myself.
All stories are love stories, and there are numerous kinds of love, from the love of a mother holding her child for the first time to the love of blood that drives a psychopath, so I will always write about love, but not necessarily romance. Let the ...
Death moved in the night, in search for blood, and when it found Life, it passed on by, like a cloud that moves by the face of the moon. When he found those dead without the red, he took the life before them born first, and the mourning emptied itsel...
I'm living to the edges of my fingernails, using everything I have. It's impossible for me to look at things politically or in any way as a project, to further my career. You're injected directly into the blood of the places in which you're living an...
I've never really been serious about my villainy. I don't have a master plan. I suppose my philosophy is: Every villain has a mother. For every cold-blooded killer on your screen, there's a little old lady somewhere who calls him 'sonny.'
I want to do it all. I want to climb mountains, go through jungles, fight wars in space, get the girl, shoot the bad-guy full of lead, have all the zippy one liners, bulge muscles out of a singlet, drip sweat and blood on screen, all of that.
One’s story isn’t a skin to be shed— it’s inescapable, one’s body and blood. You go on pumping it out till you die, the story veined with the themes of your life, the ever-recurring story that’s at once your invention and the invention of...
When the power falls on me, it buzzes in the warm, dark spaces of my skull. It stings like nettles at the tips of my fingers. The power is a fever I have felt since early childhood, a heat in the blood that leaves me flushed and unsteady, dreaming in...
There is a deep and undeniable sadness in all this: whenever we see the dawn of an eternal good that will never be overcome by evil – an evil that is itself eternal but will never succeed in overcoming good – whenever we see this dawn, the blood ...
Like most people - unless they're very practised at it or have no warm blood at all in their veins - I feel a little apprehensive about the red carpet. It's always a bit bewildering when people are taking pictures and asking questions before the cere...
They fought because they loved the dance, and the weight of a sword in their hands. The clash and spark of metal and hiss of flame was like music written just for them. They fought for glory, but not for blood. They were Weirlind, heirs of the warrio...
I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.
But love, like a mushroom high compared with the buzz from cheap weed, outlasts grief.
They talked on into the early morning, the high, pale cast of light in the windows, and they did not think of leaving.
Highs and lows make you feel that things matter, but they're nothing.
