Delilah: Their whole marriage they’ve had no connection with each other, aside from money. Now they can gleefully bitch about their delinquent daughters. One’s a french libertine, the other’s a suicidal mental case. It’s like high school, only there’s less attention to fashion and Leonardo DiCaprio’s “dad bod”.
Sisters, on annexation.
Delilah: Tell me something. What’s a gal to do with insurmountable neuroses and twenty thousand Mongolian Tugriks?
Cecily: Is twenty thousand a large amount in set currency?
Delilah: I could probably buy… six hamsters.
Cecily: Do you want six hamsters?
Delilah: Not at the present. That comes later. After I annex Russia.
Cecily: So why do you need advice?
Delilah: This Mongolian currency is almost obsolete. By the time I annex Russia they could be dealing in tiny Serbian model aeroplanes.
Cecily: Then quick, invest in those.
Sisters, on celebrity.
Cecily: You’re building quite a fan base.
Delilah: Excellent. Wait. What? Amongst who? Satanists?
Cecily: Everyone. Your darkness is a lovely foil to Cecily’s sparkling naïveté.
Delilah: Wonderful. But how do you know?
Cecily: People write me and tell me.
Delilah: Interesting. I guess without this face, the darkness becomes a lot easier to accept. How are they regarding Alexander?
Cecily: They’re either Team Cecily or Team Alexander.
Delilah: I never expected your writing to get ‘teamed’.
Cecily: I am polarizing.
Delilah: Yes. But I assumed fans of your prose would deride any hint of group identification.
Delilah, on Wilmot.
Delilah: Women love John Wilmot. Trouble is, I am not a 17th century rake. I’m a tiny female something-o-path with no desire to charm women out of their drawers.
Delilah, on essays.
Delilah: I have fun sometimes writing essays. It’s a gamble. Some of them pay off big time. I get some really passionate academic fans. But every once in a while, my sweary critic-despising style deeply offends someone. That someone is always a woman.
Two sisters, on the box office.
Cecily: I may be in love. I need your advice.
Delilah: Well, there are about six million romantic comedies you could consult that have more knowledge on the subject than I.
Cecily: Can you suggest one?
Delilah: That’s not really my scene. From my understanding of the genre, romantic comedies generally build up to a truth-telling climax wherein the man’s dreams are torn in twain, or a comical farce in which the man turns out to be gay. Or a neo-nazi.
Cecily: You’re thinking of opera. Or Broadway.
Delilah: The point is, it’s not your job to be psychologically tortured by love feelings. The story will be a hit at the box office either way.
Two sisters, on genetics.
Cecily: One wonders how our parents, being who they are, created us.
Delilah: Well, what would you retrospectively expect? A russian count and a coquettish haberdasher? If you pay any mind to matters of the completely random you’ll go inaccessibly insane before your prospective memoir publishers have time to commence their battle royale.
Two Italians, on the night sun.
Carlo: The night sun is good.
Nicolas: You’re looking at a gas heater.
Carlo: But it is a gift — bright and lovely.
Two friends, on lamb.
Cecily: I spent the whole of yesterday stressed about the small levels of dust in my house, and obsessing over the lamb shanks that I’m cooking for my impending romantic home date.
Alexander: I am silently judging you for eating not only an animal, but a baby animal.
Cecily: I love eating baby animals. And wearing their parents.
Alexander, on the Gap.
Alexander: I have a pathological terror of all reptiles. It’s almost as crippling as my fear of the Gap.
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