Cecily: I may still have to get married.
Ishmaël: You know I’ll run for it.
Cecily: Run from it is my suggestion.
Ishmaël: Why would you fill my heart with disillusion?
Cecily: The butterfly drinks its own nectar my dear. I fill it not. Drink only from lovely flowers, and you shall be saved from your disillusionment.
Ishmaël: What a poet thou art, Cecily Shelley Keats Tennyson.
Cecily: Egad! I already have too many last names to get married.
Arnaud: I can’t get married. I am an autistic Sagittarian.
Rahoul: I am a very convenient human being.
Cecily: I choose my sweet potatoes for their aesthetic merit.
Alexander: All male members of our race are DEAD TO ME.
Cecily: Your only recourse is to become a lesbian. Or a monk. Or both.
Alexander: I’ll be a lesbian insofar as I don’t have to see any tits.
Cecily: Jonathan loves churches. If only we could have a non-denominational wedding in a Catholic cathedral. Or a mosque.
Alexander: Perhaps a nice, non-denominational meadow? I’m getting married in a whiskey library.
Alexander: Isn’t there something so much more romantic about getting hitched in a setting devoid of human touch — a place not shaped by anyone’s ideas and ideologies but your own? When you decide to let nature be your cathedral, your love becomes the architect.
Cecily: No! I want our relationship to be strong enough to blossom in reality — a reality shaped by previous architects and heavy expectations and other people’s disdain.
Cecily: Just one day, I want to be on the train to Inverness and catch a man’s eye. We’d fall easily into a Lady Macbeth and Macbeth kind of love.
Alexander: Love is an illusion, death is inevitable.
Cecily: Love is not an illusion. Marriage is inevitable. I will be happy.
Alexander: The very existence of love, or indeed any sentiment, is questionable. Marriage is a social construct. Happiness is rampant hedonism.
Alexander: Whenever I move back to Paris I’m going to live in the 10ème and eventually marry Xavier Dolan. I’ve realised it to be my destiny.
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