Nobody: Did you kill the white man who killed you?
William Blake: I’m not dead.
Nobody: What name were you given at birth, stupid white man?
William Blake: Blake.William Blake.
Nobody: Is this a lie? Or a white man’s trick?
William Blake: No, I’m William Blake.
Nobody: Then you are a dead man.
William Blake: I’m sorry. I d– I don’t understand.
Nobody: Is your name really William Blake?
William Blake: Yes.
Nobody: Every night / and every morn’, / some to misery are born. / Every morn’ and every night, / some are born to sweet delight. / Some are born to sweet delight. / Some are born to endless night.
William Blake: I really don’t understand.
Nobody: But I understand, William Blake. You were a poet and a painter. And now, you are a killer of white men. You must rest now, William Blake. Some are born to sweet delight./ Some are born to endless night.
Mr. Smith: You got spunk. There was this guy, big guy, Irish-Italian, red face, black hair, jolly son of a bitch. Nobody could make me laugh like him. Made a science out of collecting jokes. Closed more bars together than I could count. He was a pal. I loved the crazy Mick. I’m not ashamed to say that, but he was a fuck-up. He had this image of himself. He thought he was a con man. Always trying to shave the edge. He was nickel and dime. I’ll always miss him. Tell me why.
Gene Watson: Tell you why what?
Mr. Smith: Tell me why I miss him.
Gene Watson: He’s dead?
Mr. Smith: That’s right. But tell me why.
Gene Watson: How do I know?
Mr. Smith: Tell me why he’s dead.
Gene Watson: ‘Cause you killed him.
Mr. Smith: That’s right. He fucked up once too often, so I put a bullet in his eye, two more to be sure. Now, that was somebody I loved. I loved him. But I got the call, I put him down like a sick animal. So if you got doubts about what’s gonna happen if you don’t deliver, let me tell you something. I’ll make gravy out of your little girl, just to season that black Irish cocksucker’s meat. You do what you’re supposed to do. You do it now.
Peter Llewelyn Davies: What did you bring me over here for?
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: Peter.
Peter Llewelyn Davies: But, this is absurd. It’s just a dog.
Sylvia Llewelyn Davies: Come on, darling.
J.M. Barrie: Just a dog? *Just*? Porthos, don’t listen! Porthos dreams of being a bear, and you want to dash those dreams by saying he’s *just* a dog? What a horrible candle-snuffing word. That’s like saying, “He can’t climb that mountain, he’s just a man”, or “That’s not a diamond, it’s just a rock.” Just.
Ed Wood: I just wish you coulda seen the movie.
Bela Lugosi: No problem. I know it by heart [beat] “Home. I have no home. Hunted. . .despised. . .living like an animal – the jungle is my home! But I will show the world that I can be its master. I shall perfect my own race of people. . .a race of atomic supermen that will conquer the world!”