Jesteśmy społecznością, która kocha książki

Hugh: I can remember exactly what I was doing when I heard the news. I was listening to the news.

Hugh: Who are the great hat-wearers of today? There aren't any, you see. No one for the kids to look up to.

Stephen: (...) Do you know in the fifteen years we've been married, I've never so much as looked at another woman.
Hugh: Really?
Stephen: Well, except my mother of course.
Hugh: Um...
Stephen: But then you have to look at your own mother, don't you? Rude not to.

Psychiatrist
(...)
Hugh: Frank, I want now that you should allow your mind to take you backward in time. Think yourself back and back and back.
Stephen: Right. (...)
Hugh: You've gone back. What do you see in your mind's eye, Frank?
Stephen: The Spanish Armada.

Stephen: Let's tell the average honest and surprisingly pretty punter a little about the genesis of this book, shall we Hugh?
Hugh: This book doesn't have a genesis, Stephen. You're thinking of the bible.

Stephen: I said to him, he must have been about fourteen, then. I said 'Son, you can't carry on forever just hanging onto your mother's apron. She's going to want it back one day'.

Stephen: Great. Now I think you've got one last poem for us, before you go?
Hugh: I certainly have. This is 'The Rest of My Life' by R.P. Mitchell.
Stephen: The R.P. Mitchell?
Hugh: No. A R.P. Mitchell.
Stephen: Right.

Stephen: (...) So, any advice for someone who's just picked this book up, say, in one of the many fresh, clean High Street bookshops that stock this important new work and is considering, if not making a purchase, then at least slipping it down his or her trouser or trousers?
Hugh: Well Stephen, I'd like firstly to congratulate the potential thief on his or her good taste or tastes, but I'd like to follow up that congratulation quite smartly with a caveat or warning. (...) No matter who you are, no matter what your name is, no matter how far away you run, no matter how you try to disguise yourself with towels and the cunning application of coloured yoghurts, no matter what lengths you go to, no matter how well you protect yourself, we will seek you out and destroy you.
Stephen: Eventually.
Hugh: We will destroy you eventually. And when we do...
Stephen: Well...
Hugh: Exactly.
Stephen: So. Just remember. You can run, but you can't hop.
Hugh: We'll be here. Across the street. In dark glasses.
Stephen: Arms folded.
Hugh: Watching.
Stephen: In silent reproach.
Hugh: So just you trot over to the desk and pay the nice lady cash money for this book.
Stehpen: Apart from anything else, you'll find that if you don't none of the jokes will be at all funny.
Hugh: That's right. Every sketch will have a punchline limper than...
Stephen: Limper than...
Hugh: Limper than a very limp thing that's especially limp today.
Stephen: Exactly!

Stephen: We wrote these sketches over a period of... what, Hugh?
Hugh: Over a period of time, if I remember rightly.
(...)
Stephen: (...) these sketches are the original children of our minds.
Hugh: They're our babies.
Stephen: In a sense, yes. In a wholly unacceptable sense.
Hugh: Yes, because that's not to imply that we literally went to bed together, introduced various fleshy nozzles into each other's warm places and then gave birth to a pile of paper covered in amusing sketch material, is it Stephen?
Stephen: Hugh.
Hugh: Yes?
Stephen: Shut your bleeding neck for a moment will you?
Hugh: Right-o.

Hugh: Yes but too much is bad for you.
Stephen: Well of course too much is bad for you, that's what 'too much' means you blithering twat. If you had too much water it would be bad for you, wouldn't it? 'Too much' precisely means that quantity which is excessive, that's what it means. Could you ever say 'too much water is good for you'? I mean if it's too much it's too much. Too much of anything is too much. Obviously. Jesus.