I don’t like to explain myself.
— Daniel Plainview, There Will Be Blood
So ends the story of Kohlhaas.
— Heinrich von Kleist, Michael Kohlhaas
If you don’t know, I can not explain it to you.
— Helen Ramírez, High Noon
We’re born alone and we die alone, that’s it. Who wants another scotch?
— Michael Longstreet, Carnage
I found myself enormously moved, and I was struck by the sense that I was recovering, under a different guise, something that had once been my own.
— Jorge Luis Borges, “Story of the Warrior and the Captive Maiden”
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
— Fabian, Twelfth Night
It seemed to be so fragile.
— Ian Fleming, The Spy Who Loved Me
The unit disappears into the pattern.
— Stan Alan, “Conversation: Field Conditions Maribor,” Field Conditions Revisited
Man somehow feels he is infinite.
— Umberto Eco, “The Sacred Is Not Just A Fashion”
And it has to be enough.
— Miriam Grant-Panofsky, Barney’s Version
Solely so that I might discover who she was and what she was really like.
— Jorge Luis Borges, "There Are More Things"
It simplifies; it diminishes great, complex ideas, stretches of time; whole careers become reduced to a single snapshot.
— James Reston, Frost/Nixon
How do you know for sure?
— John Nash, A Beautiful Mind
An inclination for ships always means the joy of perfectly enclosing oneself, of having at hand the greatest possible number of objects, and having at one’s disposal an absolutely finite space.
— Roland Barthes, “The Nautilus and the Drunken Boat," Mythologies
We’ll use our eyes instead.
— Matt & Kim, “Cameras”
He can only kill you if you’re OK.
— Volkswagen Commercial
Further from my widowed home take the road that sets it to the sun.
— Matthew and the Atlas, “I Will Remain”
A lot.
— Oliver Fields, Beginners
I hate to say I told you so, so welcome to Miami.
— Tracy Jordan, “When It Rains, It Pours," 30 Rock
He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself.
— Rudyard Kipling, The Man Who Would Be King