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W Quotes

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All W Quotes

“We had a teacher, named Mr. Brown, and he was writing something on the board once - he was writing something on the board, and he farted. And you would have thought kids had seen the face of God. Kids weren't even laughing; they were just sitting there screaming, just screaming. Kids had to get carted out; kids were screaming. Kids had to get carted out, and they were going to the nurses' office. Kids are crying in the hallway. 'Oh, this is our 9/11.' And it was. It was their 9/11 'cause they never thought anything like that could ever happen.”

“We had a wonderful trip, a seven-day trip, talking and sitting in the sun and so forth [with Bernard Leach]. And as we were approaching England, Leach said, "Do you have a place to live?" And we said, "No, we didn't." We hadn't worried about that. But Bernard had just separated from his second wife, which we had not realized, and Bernard was a person who could not stand to live alone. So he said, "Would you like to share my house with me?" Naturally we said yes.”

“We had accomplished what we could on the small stage of the university; whatever marks we left behind were like "the corpses of angels" in Forché's poem, fleeting and ephemeral impressions on the snowy field of history. We thought we had made a difference, or could. We believed we knew where we were going. Some of us were even right.”

“We had all kinds of great. But you were right to finish it. You did the right thing, in the cosmic order of things. There is no rejection, there is only redirection. You know, I've been thinking a lot. About the cosmos. I've been tuning in. And the cosmos has been telling me I need to get my shit together. It's balance, man. What we had was too intense and our lives are too intense and it's like Darwin's third law of motion. About an action leading to a reaction. Something had to give. And you were the one who saw that and now we are just particles floating in the universe that may reconnect one day at the Chateau Marmont...”

“We had an ancient Russian acting coach at my drama school who said the worst offense you could commit was to let your subtext show. That is the point of acting, is to be saying one thing and not be allowed by society or your predicament to show what you're really feeling. In a way, I think that's why the therapy generation has killed script writing, because all you ever get is people going, "Hi, I'm feeling really angry right now."”

“We had an electronic head and arm for Threepio, and I manipulated the mechanism with a joystick. But it wasn't working. The propman said, 'Give me fifteen minutes.' We all went to get coffee, and when we came back, Threepio's head turned perfectly and his arm moved naturally. I looked up and realized that the prop man had a fishing pole with a fine nylon string attached to Threepio's arm. He had rigged another string around the head, which Chewbacca was holding. As Chewie moved his hands, Threepio's head turned!”

“We had an interesting conversation with one of my Accenture managers toward the end of my tenure there. Something about sandcastles. Well, thank God, he got my point. It’s not a REAL job. You don’t NEED to update your stupid Oracle every 3 years. It shouldn’t be so fucking hard. It’s just debits and credits, isn’t it? What we need to do is find out which jobs in the economy are ACTUALLY essential (bartenders, for instance), pay those people a good wage, and give UBI to everyone else so they can go to the fucking bar. Simple.”

“We had been able to smell Bridges's vinegary sauce, its sharp notes tickling our noses, as we sat in the chapel. We knew what was awaiting us, and we knew that it would be good. The food that the caterer had prepared for the estimated thirty-five guests was served as the appetizers: dainty pimento-cheese sandwiches- made not with white sandwich bread but with a brioche loaf, which started a wave of "Oh, my!" and "Oh, dear!" among those of my great-uncle's generation who weren't quite sure that they approved of the substitution but eagerly ate the sandwiches anyway, bite-size buttermilk biscuits with thin slivers of baked ham, little tureens of summer squash casserole. I had ordered that dish for Kelly, the lone vegetarian in a sea of pork eaters. It was also a veiled reference to our childhood nemesis Sally Campbell, who, beautiful as she might have been and still may be, would always be to us a member of the humble squash family.”

“We had been assured by our elders that intelligence was a family trait. All my kin and forebears were people of substantial or remarkable intellect, thought somehow none of them had prospered in the world. Too bookish, my grandmother said with tart pride, and Lucille and I read constantly to forestall criticism, anticipating failure. If my family were not as intelligent as we were pleased to pretend, this was an innocent deception, for it was a matter of indifference to everybody whether we were intelligent or not. People always interpreted our slightly formal manner and our quiet tastes as a sign that we wished to stay a little apart. This was a matter of indifference, also, and we had our wish.”

“We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night — every night, every night — the moment I feigned sleep.”