Butch: I'll be back before you can say Blueberry pie. Fabienne: Blueberry pie. Butch: Okay, maybe not that fast. But pretty fast, alright?
Jules: I don't know why, I just thought he'd be European or something because he... Vincent: Yeah, man, he's about as European as fuckin' English Bob.
Vincent: That's the Marilyn Monroe section that's Mamie Van Doren... I don't see Jayne Mansfield, she must have the night off or something.
Zed: Bring out the Gimp. Maynard: Gimp's sleeping. Zed: Well, I guess you're gonna have to go wake him up now, won't you?
The Wolf: [after the row between Jules and Jimmy over the quality of his coffee, The Wolf tries some, he looks impressed, looks at Jimmy and says] Mmm.
Butch: Will you hand me a towel, Miss Beautiful Tulip? Fabienne: Ah, I like that. I like tulip. Tulip is much better than mongoloid.
...what distinguishes pulp fiction from great literature is how emphatically the work challenges us to interpret it.
You look at John Travolta in 'Pulp Fiction', you look at Donnie Wahlberg in 'The Sixth Sense.' People have liens against them in crazy ways and the audience is always forgiving - if you prove it.
Every Friday, my dad would rent three videos. Me and my brother would ask for something with guns or fighting, but my dad would say, 'Come on, think about it.' He'd choose more involving films like 'Pulp Fiction,' and at the end of the night, we'd ag...
[Marsellus is telling Butch to take a dive] Marsellus: The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.
The Wolf: You see that, young lady? Respect. Respect for one's elders gives character. Raquel: I have character. The Wolf: Just because you are a character doesn't mean that you have character.
Jules: I hate to shatter your ego, but this is not the first time I've had a gun pointed at me. Pumpkin: You don't take your fucking hand off that case, it'll be your last.
Vincent: You know what they put on French fries in Holland instead of ketchup? Jules: What? Vincent: Mayonnaise. Jules: Goddamn. Vincent: I've seen 'em do it, man. They fuckin' drown 'em in that shit.
Jules: I'll just walk the earth. Vincent: What'cha mean walk the earth? Jules: You know, walk the earth, meet people... get into adventures. Like Caine from "Kung Fu."
Vincent: Get her the shot! Lance: I will if you let me. Vincent: I ain't fuckin' stopping you! Lance: Well, then quit talking to me, talk to her. Vincent: Get the shot!
[Butch comes up beside Vincent at the bar] Butch: You lookin at something, friend? Vincent: You ain't my friend, Palooka. Butch: What's that? Vincent: I think you heard me just fine, Punchy.
Mia: Don't you just love it when you come back from the bathroom and find your food waiting for you? Vincent: We're lucky we got anything at all. I don't think Buddy Holly's much of a waiter.
Marsellus: You see, this profession is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers. Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don't.
The Wolf: Maybe I can give you guys a ride. Where do you live? Vincent: Redondo Beach. Jules: Inglewood. The Wolf: In your future... I see a cab ride. Move out of the sticks, gentlemen.
I remember thinking how easy it is to speak in clichés, to steal a line from pulp fiction and let it fall. We can only hover around the inexpressible with our words anyway, and there is comfort in saying what we have heard before.
Lance: Hey, whattya think about Trudi? She ain't got a boyfriend. You wanna hang out, get high? Vincent: Which one's Trudi? The one with all the shit in her face? Lance: No, that's Jody. That's my wife.
