As the knight of the quill never ventured into the fight, and only snuffed the battle afar, he knew nothing accurately of battles, but managed to pick up a few real or supposed incidents from the wounded and from stragglers.
The Collector: These carriers can use the stone to mow down entire civilisations like wheat in a field. Peter Quill: There's a little pee coming out of me right now.
The word processor is a better tool than a quill pen because you can do so much more with it, but on the other hand, what you have to say and how you say it is the ultimate determination.
[a brawl takes place between Drax and Rocket] Drax the Destroyer: This vermin speaks of affairs he knows nothing about! Rocket Raccoon: That is true! Drax the Destroyer: He has no respect! Rocket Raccoon: That is also true! Keep callin' me vermin tou...
I don’t understand how I could have believed you were a warm, affectionate, and tenderhearted person! You’re obviously as prickly as a porcupine and any man who comes close to you will end up with a face full of quills!
Rocket Raccoon: Fine, but I can't promise when all of this is over I'm not going to kill every last one of you jerks. Peter Quill: See, this is exactly why none of you have any friends!
Rocket Raccoon: I live for the simple things... like how much this is going to hurt! [zaps Quill, who falls down yelling] Rocket Raccoon: Yeah, writhe, little man.
[from trailer] Peter Quill: So here we are: a thief, two thugs, an assassin and a maniac. But we're not going to stand by as evil wipes out the galaxy. I guess we're stuck together, partners.
Peter Quill: If we're gonna work together you might wanna try trusting me a little bit. Gamora: How much do you trust me?
Peter Quill: What are you doing? Drax the Destroyer: This vermin speaks of affairs he knows nothing about! Rocket Raccoon: That is true! Drax the Destroyer: He has no respect! Rocket Raccoon: That is also true!
You know, it's hard work to write a book. I can't tell you how many times I really get going on an idea, then my quill breaks. Or I spill ink all over my writing tunic.
With a goose-quill and a few sheets of paper, I mock myself of the universe. They say I am the son of a courtesan; it may be so, but I have the heart of a King. I live free, I enjoy myself, I can call myself happy.
Nobody worked harder than Mozart. By the time he was twenty-eight years old, his hands were deformed because of all the hours he had spent practicing, performing, and gripping a quill pen to compose. That's the missing element in the popular portrait...
Meredith Quill: [letter] Dear Peter: I know this will be hard for you, but I'm going somewhere good and nice. But know this: I will always be with you, my angel from heaven, my prince... my Star-Lord.
Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes. Toute lune est atroce et tout soliel amer: L’âcre amour m’a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes. Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j’aille à la mer!
Prickly When I'm feeling porcupine-y, I get nasty, I get whiny. Stay away or I might stick you. My sharp words are quills to prick you.
Peter Quill: I saw you out there. I don't know what came over me, but I couldn't let you die. I found something inside of myself, something incredibly heroic. I mean, not to brag, but objectively... Gamora: [sigh] Where's the orb?
Unable and crippled I am As I gaze into the vastness The vastness that harbors your praise And glories of the best of creation... If I tried to spell.. A drop of ink from your love Ma quill would burn in shame for your love match no words...ya rasool...
Take any writer you want in the 19th century: they wrote with quill pens, dipping a piece of goose feather in ink and writing. And yet we read those novels today, and if we're sensitive to them, we respond to them with an immediacy that is stronger t...
A fine gentleman like that, they said, had no need of books. Let him leave books, they said, to the palsied or the dying. But worse was to come. For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey...
When you have committed enough words to paper, you feel you have a spine stiff enough to stand up in the wind. But when you stop writing, you find that's all you are - a spine, a row of rattling vertebrae, dried out like an old quill pen.
