I find myself, walkin’ the streets.
— Girl Talk, “Like This”
I’m recording my story for the scientists in the future.
— Hushpuppy, Beasts of the Southern Wild
Then it occurred to him that reality seldom coincides with the way we envision it beforehand; he inferred, with perverse logic, that to foresee any particular detail is in fact to prevent its happening.
— Jorge Luis Borges, “The Secret Miracle”
I paid closer attention to details.
— Paul Auster, Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story
To say good-bye is to deny separation.
— Jorge Luis Borges, “Delia Elena San Marco"
Wow, that’s a good moth.
— David Snydacker
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