Jonathan: You have a resistance to alcohol which is rarely seen on our continent.
writers
Alexander, on old authors.
Alexander: I keep reexamining the words of old authors I love in the hope of finding some semblance of clarity and comfort in their familiarity; yet it’s all for naught, and my ongoing stare-down with the Void has become more treacherous than ever.
Two friends, on denouement.
Cecily: I’m hungry all the time. I don’t know why. I want a big bowl of pasta.
Charles: Please don’t be with child. Movies end with marriage and childbirth because nothing happens thereafter.
Two friends, on codices.
Xavier: I love the word “codex”.
Cecily: Me too. It’s so “Davinci”.
Delilah, on New Year’s Eve.
Delilah: How did you celebrate this castratingly realisational passage of pointless measurement of arbitrary parameters? Did you have a snog and a whisky? Or a cabaret and a spliff? Or, dare I say it, a bottle episode?
Cecily: Bottle episode. Setting: my house. Cast: every Tinder date I’ve met over the past year. Food: fromage. Ending: catastrophic, as preordained.
Cecily, on literary devices.
Cecily: I have created whole characters out of hyperbolic metaphor, and written of kaleidoscopes of butterflies without the need for any metaphor at all.
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.
thedailymails 