We’re all puppets, Laurie. I’m just a puppet who can see the strings.
There’s no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There’s only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof.
If I have to have a past, then I prefer it to be multiple choice.
Equality and freedom are not luxuries to lightly cast aside. Without them, order cannot long endure before approaching depths beyond imagining.
It is the oldest ironies that are still the most satisfying: man, when preparing for bloody war, will orate loudly and most eloquently in the name of peace.
Real life is messy, inconsistent, and it’s seldom when anything ever really gets resolved. It’s taken me a long time to realize that.
You know what I wish? I wish all the scum of the Earth had one throat and I had my hands about it.
Once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense.
There are people. There are stories. The people think they shape the stories, but the reverse if often closer to the truth. Stories shape the world. They exist independently of people, and in places quite devoid of man, there may yet be mythologies.
In an era of stress and anxiety, when the present seems unstable and the future unlikely, the natural response is to retreat and withdraw from reality, taking recourse either in fantasies of the future or in modified visions of a half-imagines past.
Everybody has their story to tell.
Noise is relative to the silence preceeding it. The more absolute the hush, the more shocking the thunderclap. Our masters have not heard the peoples voice for generations, Evey and it is much, much louder than they care to remember.
I thought, “Well if I’m gonna react might as well overreact!
Happiness is a prison, Evey. Happiness is the most insidious prison of all.
For whatever the future holds, one thing is certain... It just won’t be the same.
Isn’t it strange how life turns into melodrama?
In heaven’s name be a man, sir! Your pitiful whining sickens me!
It’s raining in Washington tonight. Plump, warm summer rain that covers the sidewalks with leopard spots. Downtown, elderly ladies carry their houseplants out to set them on the fire-escapes, as if they were infirm relatives or Boy Kings. I like that.
I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us. All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.
You are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg; the clay in which the forces that shape all things leave their fingerprints most clearly.