Television is not the truth. Television is a goddamned amusement park.
God save us from people who do the morally right thing. It’s always the rest of us who get broken in half.
I’m a human being, god-dammit. My life has value!
Television is the menace that everyone loves to hate but can’t seem to live without.
Don’t think of it as art, think of it as work.
I’m not a great writer. I’m a great rewriter.
I’m not sentimental about war. I see nothing noble in widows.
I’m afraid to look in the mirror. I’m afraid I’m going to see an old lady with white hair, just like the old ladies in the park. Alittle bundle in a black shawl just waiting for the coffin.
Americans don’t want drama, especially good drama, they just want their boredom killed.
This was the story of Howard Beale: The first known instance of a man who was killed because he had lousy ratings.
You British plundered half the world for your own profit. Let’s not pass it off as the Age of Enlightenment.
Television is democracy at its ugliest.
It’s always the generals with the bloodiest records who are the first to shout what a hell it is. And it’s always the war widows who lead the Memorial Day parades.
Howard Beale is processed, instant God, and right now it looks like he might just go over bigger than Mary Tyler Moore.
Ma, sooner or later there comes a point in a man’s life when he’s gotta face some facts. And one fact I’ve got to face is whateverit is women like, I ain’t got it.
You’re not such a dog as you think you are.
I would like at this moment to announce that I will be retiring from this program in two weeks’ time because of poor ratings. Since this show is the only thing I had going for me in my life, I’ve decided to kill myself. I’m going to blow my brains out right on this program a week from today. So tune in next Tuesday. That should give the public relations people a week to promote the show. You ought to get a hell of a rating out of that. 50 share, easy.
Oh, there are no living poets, Miss Van Damn. We’re not entirely sure there ever were. They’ve found some shreds of sonnets in England and, embedded in a chalk wall of a cave in France, some yet undetermined thing which might be the legendary inward eye. But all evidence, such as it is, suggests that, if there ever were poets, they were all burned into extinction during the interglacial period of despair.
We are a gutted generation, born in the depression and obsessed with prosperity.
What are you doing tonight?” “I don’t know, what are you doing?” Burlesque! Loew’s Paradise! Miserable and lonely! Miserable and lonely and stupid! What am I, crazy or something?! I got something good! What am I hanging around with you guys for?!