Blade Runner Quotes

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.

Fiery the Angels rose, & as they rose deep thunder roll’d Around their shores, indignant burning with the fires of Orc.

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.

Your generation - you've not heard the Verve or Jimi Hendrix or Eminem, you've not read The Catcher in the Rye, you've not seen a classic film like Terminator or Blade Runner. All you've done is read dross, listen to crap and watch Disney movies with happy endings. And what kind of generation have we produced? A slow, simple, dull one who never questions anything. A stunted generation. It's devolution because in order for society to progress, you need to be able to debate ideas, to question, to see the dark and the light in things

Blade Runner 2049 is an example of science fiction as magical thinking: whites fear that all the sins they committed against black and brown people will come back to them tenfold, so they fantasize their own fall as a preventative measure to ensure that the white race will never fall.

The clones are already there; the virtual beings are already there. We are all replicants! We are so in the sense that, as in Blade Runner, it is already almost impossible to distinguish properly human behaviour from its projection on the screen, from its double in the image and its computerized prostheses.

Dear Jeff, I happened to see the Channel 7 TV program "Hooray for Hollywood" tonight with the segment on Blade Runner. (Well, to be honest, I didn't happen to see it; someone tipped me off that Blade Runner was going to be a part of the show, and to be sure to watch.) Jeff, after looking—and especially after listening to Harrison Ford discuss the film—I came to the conclusion that this indeed is not science fiction; it is not fantasy; it is exactly what Harrison said: futurism. The impact of Blade Runner is simply going to be overwhelming, both on the public and on creative people—and, I believe, on science fiction as a field. Since I have been writing and selling science fiction works for thirty years, this is a matter of some importance to me. In all candor I must say that our field has gradually and steadily been deteriorating for the last few years. Nothing that we have done, individually or collectively, matches Blade Runner. This is not escapism; it is super realism, so gritty and detailed and authentic and goddam convincing that, well, after the segment I found my normal present-day "reality" pallid by comparison. What I am saying is that all of you collectively may have created a unique new form of graphic, artistic expression, never before seen. And, I think, Blade Runner is going to revolutionize our conceptions of what science fiction is and, more, can be. Let me sum it up this way. Science fiction has slowly and ineluctably settled into a monotonous death: it has become inbred, derivative, stale. Suddenly you people have come in, some of the greatest talents currently in existence, and now we have a new life, a new start. As for my own role in the Blade Runner project, I can only say that I did not know that a work of mine or a set of ideas of mine could be escalated into such stunning dimensions. My life and creative work are justified and completed by Blade Runner. Thank you...and it is going to be one hell of a commercial success. It will prove invincible. Cordially, Philip K. Dick

—Si es amor por una mujer o una imitación androide, es sexo. Despierte y cuestióneselo, Deckard. Quería acostarse con un androide femenino, nada más y nada menos.

it was an odd sensation, knowing intellectually that they were machines but emotionally reacting anyhow.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain - Roy Batty of Blade Runner

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In my mind android is a metaphor for people who are physiologically human but behaving in a nonhuman way.

During the two months of preproduction, I did two or three hours a day of exercise to get in shape for the role.

Jak złożymy wszystko, co wiemy, to widzimy tylko, że coś tu nie gra. Ale jak pięknie i ciekawie nie gra.

La mayoría de los androides que he conocido tenían más deseo de vivir que mi esposa, piensa Deckard.

... chciałbym, aby awansował pan do wyższej klasy, klasy posiadaczy kóz, do której - jestem tego pewien - powinien pan należeć. Szczerze mówiąc, sprawia pan wrażenie posiadacza kozy.

Knihy vystavené v Nonstop knihkupectví pana Al-Asmariho v září 1969 na stolku s cedulkou MO DOPORUČUJE: Lloyd Alexander: Král králů* Maya Angelouová: Vím, proč ptáček v kleci zpívá Penelope Asheová: Nahá přišla cizinka* Margaret Atwoodová: Žena k nakousnutí* J. G. Ballard: Utopený svět Richard Brautigan: V melounovém cukru* John Brunner: Jeden vedle druhého na Zanzibaru Michael Crichton: Kmen Andromeda* Philip K. Dick: Blade Runner: Sní androidi o elektrických ovečkách?* Lawrence Ferlinghetti: Skryté významy věcí Stan Lee a Jack Kirby: Fantastická čtyřka #89 Ursula K. Le Guinová: Levá ruka tmy* Norman Mailer: Armády noci* Michael Moorcock: Hle, člověk* Philip Roth: Portnoyův komplex* Jack Vance: Město Chasch Kurt Vonnegut: Jatka č. 5* Tom Wolfe: Kyselinovej test*

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like, tears in rain. Time to die.

You have to be with other people, he thought. In order to live at all. I mean, before they came here I could stand it, being alone in the building. But now it’s changed. You can’t go back, he thought. You can’t go from people to nonpeople.

But Thomas didn’t have time to finish his thought. Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a wicked-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. As he did so, Thomas heard a shout to his right, sensed movement. Toward him. The blade windmilled, its every turn visible to Thomas, as if the world had turned to slow motion. As if it did so for the sole purpose of allowing him to feel the terror of seeing such a thing. On the knife came, flipping over and over, straight at him. A strangled cry was forming in his throat; he urged himself to move but he couldn’t. Then, inexplicably, Chuck was there, diving in front of him. Thomas felt as if his feet had been frozen in blocks of ice; he could only stare at the scene of horror unfolding before him, completely helpless.

If you dial', Iran said, eyes open and watching, 'for greater venom, then I'll dial the same. I'll dial the maximum and you'll see a fight that makes every argument we've had up to now seem like nothing. Dial and see; just try me!' She rose swiftly, loped to the console of her own mood organ, stood glaring at him, waiting.

The moment before the gun goes off is always the most silent. Your world is quiet, but it is not calm. The runners around you bounce and flex and relax, flex and relax. They slap their faces for motivation, they look to the sky and mumble prayers to God. The coaches shout instructions and the teammates cheer as do the fans in the stands, but you cannot hear because you are somewhere else, somewhere deep inside, preparing your body to deal with the coming pain, the breath sucked from you, your limbs on fire and the voices that won't let you stop. They say keep moving, it gets better, it will be better if you can only break through this pain. They say there's another life after this torture, a new level, just keep breathing. Then the gunshot and your body no longer belongs to you. Yes, you are there, you are present but you are no longer in control. Whatever happens from this point happens and all you can do, all you must do now is breathe, keep breathing, don't lose your nerve, don't choke, no matter how much it hurts, don't stop breathing otherwise it will all be over before it's time. They cheer for me. I can't breathe. Harvard isn't going to know what hit them, I hear. I can't breathe. We are the champions, I hear, we are the champions, they sing around me. I can't breathe. Your personal best by a long shot. That's Coach Erickson's voice. That's my boy. It's my father. It's like I'm dying, trying to hold on. My body says oh no, and my knees buckle but so many arms are around me, they hold me up. The voices they say breathe, keep breathing. They bring me water, they bring me something sweet and then they lay me down in the soft grass where I feel the blades against my tingling skin.

Another general would have let them go and been glad of it. But he saw that if they secured that high ground they might regroup and come at us again, this time with their archers positioned to advantage. So he called us to ranks with a curdling cry. I glimpsed his face through the crowd of men. It was bloodied, dirt-streaked, avid. Then he turned, fist to the sky, and sprinted. He set the pace for the fleetest of his runners, youths who could give him a decade. Even uphill, he seemed to fly over the loose stones that slid out from underfoot and left me skidding and swearing. I fell behind, and lost sight of him. Others—younger men, better fighters—overtook me, swarming to him, compelled by his courage. When I finally glimpsed him again, he was above me on a long, slender ridge, in the thick of fierce fighting. Trying to narrow the distance between us, I lost my footing entirely on the uncertain ground. I slipped. Metal, leather and flesh scraped against rough limestone that bit like snaggleteeth. I could not control my fall until I planted my foot into something that gave softly under my weight. The man had been attempting to crawl away, dragging himself with his remaining hand while a slime of blood pulsed from the stump of his sword arm. My boot, mashing his neck flat into stone, had put an end to that. When I lifted my foot, the man gave a wet gargle, and was still. I scraped the mess off my boot onto the nearest rock and went on. When I reached the ridge, the king was making an end of another fighter. He was up close, eye to eye. His sword had entered just above the man’s groin. He drew it upward, in a long, slow, arcing slash. As he pulled the blade back—slick, dripping—long tubes of bowel came tumbling after. I could see the dying man’s eyes, wide with horror, his hands gripping for his guts, trying to push them back into the gaping hole in his belly. The king’s own eyes were blank—all the warmth swallowed by the black stain of widening pupils. David reached out an arm and pushed the man hard in the chest. He fell backward off the narrow ledge and rolled down the slope, his entrails unfurling after him like a glossy ribband. I was engaged myself then, by a bullnecked spearman who required all my flagging strength. He was bigger than me, but clumsy, and I used his size against him, so that as I feinted one way, he lunged with his spear, overbalanced and fell right onto the dagger that I held close and short at my side. I felt the metal grating against the bone of his rib, and then I mustered enough force to thrust the tip sharply upward, the blade’s full length inside him, in the direction of his heart. I felt the warm wetness of his insides closing about my fist. It was intimate as a rape.

Psychotherapist and author M. Scott Peck noted that “one of the major dilemmas we face both as individuals and as a society is simplistic thinking – or the failure to think at all. It isn’t just a problem, it is the problem.”[11

Alongside Martian Timeslip and The Man in the High Castle,” Dick told this author in 1981, “Sheep? is one of my three favorite novels.

I want to draw especial attention to the treatment of AI—artificial intelligence—in these narratives. Think of Ex Machina or Blade Runner. I spoke at TED two years in a row, and one year, there were back-to-back talks about whether or not AI was going to evolve out of control and “kill us all.” I realized that that scenario is just something I have never been afraid of. And at the same moment, I noticed that the people who are terrified of machine super-intelligence are almost exclusively white men. I don’t think anxiety about AI is really about AI at all. I think it’s certain white men’s displaced anxiety upon realizing that women and people of color have, and have always had, sentience, and are beginning to act on it on scales that they’re unprepared for. There’s a reason that AI is almost exclusively gendered as female, in fiction and in life. There’s a reason they’re almost exclusively in service positions, in fiction and in life. I’m not worried about how we’re going to treat AI some distant day, I’m worried about how we treat other humans, now, today, all over the world, far worse than anything that’s depicted in AI movies. It matters that still, the vast majority of science fiction narratives that appear in popular culture are imagined by, written by, directed by, and funded by white men who interpret the crumbling of their world as the crumbling of the world.

Squeaker and the Colonel were aware that death had visited them in their home, she'd come swaggering in on spike heels, and with a big noise had removed one of their number, from the world of the living to that other place where all one's batteries were run down flat and the light behind one's button eyes went out.

Then before the big lug even knew what was happening, Dom lunged forward to catch him by the neck in a hold. Jabbing the tip of his blade into the brute’s back, Dom dragged him into the alley. A moment of struggle ensued until Dom hissed, “I’ll bury this knife in your ribs, you bloody fool, if you don’t stop fighting.” The man stilled. “If it’s money ye’re after--” “It’s not.” Dom tightened his forearm across the man’s throat, just enough to limit his breathing. “Who’s in the house with Barlow?” There was a long pause. “Don’t know what ye’re talking about,” the man wheezed. “Then we’ll stand here until you figure it out.” Dom stuck the bruiser with his blade just enough to make him bleed. “While we wait, I can do some carving.” “Now see here,” the man warned him, “if you cut me, my friends will hunt you down and smash your face to bits. You don’t know who ye’re dealing with.” “Neither do you. Ever hear of the Duke’s Men?” God, how he hated that term, but it was better known than Manton’s Investigations. “I’m one of them.” “Ye’re lying.” “Not a bit. I’ve got friends of my own. With guns. And plenty of reason to shoot them. My name’s Manton. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” The man froze. “Dominick Manton? The runner what captured those rebels in Cato Street?” “The very one.

Extraordinary films transport you into their worlds, but with Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner it was the opposite: the world of the film transported into me.

Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave. —BLADE RUNNER (MOVIE, 1982)

Quite an experience, to live in fear, isn’t it? That’s what it is to be a slave.

Invite him to poetry club," Doff said with a smirk. "See if he asks you to take a look at his Emily Dickinson." Beatrice snorted. "How long did it take you to think that up?" "Most of lunch, and the rest of G block," Doff said, shrugging modestly. "I started with 'read his Charles Dickens,' but Charles Dickens is a novelist." "What about his Philip K. Dick?" "Who's that?" asked Doff. "He wrote the book that got turned into Blade Runner.

P3 - ten minutes of that movie, or indeed of any movie whose message is similarly dystopian about a post-aging world (Blade Runner), you will see that they set it up by insinuating, with exactly no justification and also no attempt at discussion (which is how they get away with not justifying it), that the defeat of aging will self-evidently bring about some new problem that we will be unable to solve without doing more harm than good. The most common such problem, of course, is overpopulation - and I refer you to literally about 1000 interviews and hundreds of talks I have given on stage and camera over the past 20 years, of which several dozen are online, for why such a concern is misplaced. The reason there are 1000, of course, is that most people WANT to believe that aging is a blessing in disguise - they find it expedient to put aging out of their minds and get on with their miserably short lives, however irrational must be the rationalizations by which they achieve that. Aubrey has been asked on numerous occasions whether humans should use future tech to extend their lifespans. Aubrey opines, "I believe that humans should (and will) use (and, as a prerequisite, develop) future technologies to extend their healthspan, i.e. their healthy lifespan. But before fearing that I have lost my mind, let me stress that that is no more nor less than I have always believed. The reason people call me an “immortalist” and such like is only that I recognize, and am not scared to say, two other things: one, that extended lifespan is a totally certain side-effect of extended healthspan, and two, that the desire (and the legitimacy of the desire) to further extend healthspan will not suddenly cease once we achieve such-and-such a number of years." On what people can do to advance longevity research, my answer to this question has radically changed in the past year. For the previous 20 years, my answer would have been “make a lot of money and give it to the best research”, as it was indisputable that the most important research could go at least 2 or 3x times faster if not funding-limited. But in the past year, with the influx of at least a few $B, much of it non-profit (and much of it coming from tech types who did exactly the above), the calculus has changed: the rate-limiter now is personnel. It’s more or less the case now that money is no longer the main rate-limiter, talent is: we desperately need more young scientists to see longevity as the best career choice. As for how much current cryopreservation technology will advance in the next 10-20 years, and whether it enough for future reanimation? No question about the timeframe for a given amount of progress in any pioneering tech can be answered other than probabilistically. Or, to put it more simply, I don’t know - but I think there's a very good chance that within five years we will have cryo technology that inflicts only very little damage on biological tissue, such that yes, other advances in rejuvenation medicine that will repair the damage that caused the cryonaut to be pronounced dead in the first place will not be overwhelmed by cryopreservation damage, hence reanimation will indeed be possible. As of now, the people who have been cryopreserved(frozen) the best (i.e. w/ vitrification, starting very shortly immediately after cardiac arrest) may, just possibly, be capable of revival by rewarming and repair of damage - but only just possibly. Thus, the priority needs to be to improve the quality of cryopreservation - in terms of the reliability of getting people the best preservation that is technologically possible, which means all manner of things like getting hospitals more comfortable with cryonics practice and getting people to wear alarms that will alert people if they undergo cardiac arrest when alone, but even more importantly in terms of the tech itself, to reduce (greatly) the damage that is done to cells and tissues by the cryopreservation process.

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.

Training Day, What Women Want, Minority Report, The Godfather, Tootsie, and Blade Runner

[from 'Blade Runner 2049' review in 'Cut The Kink'] Here, in a reversal of 'The Force Awakens,' Harrison Ford survives and Gosling, his surrogate son, dies. The last shot of the film shows baby-boomer Ford creepily watching his daughter, a maker of memory implants, through a glass partition. Somehow, this generic version of the female has become the creator and repository of false memories, a scrapbooker of all the unnecessary backstories that have been weighing down screenplays since the original 'Blade Runner' came out. At one point we meet some official Hollywood-movie Tribal Scavengers, followed later by some official Hollywood-movie Meaningless Revolutionaries. Since at least the Matrix movies, such figures have heralded a revolution that never comes, though President Donald Sutherland did get trampled to death by rebels in 'The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 2.

If we then think of the apartment system and the emanator as something akin to bodies, then Joi actually swaps bodies several times. So, what at first blush might appear to distance Joi from humans and even replicants—the fact that Joi doesn’t have a proper physical body—really brings her closer to the Cartesian idea of what is most essentially human: Joi is pure, disembodied “soul.

The biggest excuse for film is that it is a film. It’s a game, an art for a bunch of people who sit in a dark theatre. The light hits them and then they go home, and it’s more or less over. But a good film, or a cautionary one . . . A darkened theater is a safe place to say things that mean something.

The biggest excuse for film is that it is a film. It’s a game, an art for a bunch of people who sit in a dark theatre. The light hits them and then they go home, and it’s more or less over. But a good film, or a cautionary one . . . A darkened theater is a safe place to say things that mean something.

Traffic was light, but Tommy was nevertheless driving at his standard speed of twenty miles below the legal limit. I wondered, sometimes, what drivers on the freeways of Greater Los Angeles thought when they passed Tommy. Expecting to see some centenarian crypt keeper behind the wheel, they instead saw a Cro-Magnon profile, wild black hair, and Blade Runner sunglasses

The term android is a dangerous one, undermined by certain generic assumptions. I don’t like using it. In fact, I threatened to crack open heads with a baseball bat if I heard it used around me on the set,” Scott jestingly declared to this writer in 1981. “You see, android is a very familiar word. Not just to science fiction readers, but to the general public. A lot of material—some good, some crap—has been touched by the term. Therefore, I didn’t want Blade Runner to be premonitory of android at all. Because then people would think that this film was about robots, when in fact it isn’t. I thought it was better that we come up with a new word altogether.

after hearing the sounds of emptiness in their building, Iran decides to program her Penfield Mood Organ to make her feel depressed six hours a day, twice a month, followed by a more uplifting mood setting. She’s not crazy, as some readers might conclude. Rick has heard it too and understands what it portends. Silence is emblematic of death, of loss beyond measure, of the daily encroachment of human extinction. But for Rick, the answer is to use the Mood Organ to feel better, not worse. As earlier noted, the Penfield Mood Organ is a kind of drug that allows users to escape feelings of sorrow and pain. But it’s for this very reason that Iran needs to feel depressed. Depression is the only authentic response to the fact of a dying world that they (the human race) helped create. Everything else is just escapism.

She decries the boiling alive of a lobster as “depraved.” In our world, such base depravity is commonplace and considered culturally acceptable by all but a minority. Androids, thus, presents an interesting, if tragic observation. The near annihilation of animal life has finally gotten people to value animals for who they are – not as gratification for taste buds, or as fashion items, decorations, or entertainment – but as living, feeling creatures with their own intrinsic worth. Schweitzer predicted “The time will come when public opinion will no longer tolerate amusements based on the mistreatment and killing of animals. The time will come, but when? When will we reach the point that hunting, the pleasure in killing animals for sport, will be regarded as a mental aberration?

No one can win against kipple… except temporarily and maybe in one spot, like in my apartment I’ve sort of created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I’ll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It’s a universal principle operating throughout the universe; the entire universe is moving toward a final state of total, absolute kippleization…

If you want to think with integrity,” he writes, “and are willing to bear the pain involved, you will inevitably encounter paradox.

Schweitzer argues is each creature’s inherent right to life without being injured or impeded by us, except in cases of absolute need: “We must fight against the spirit of unconscious cruelty with which we treat the animals. Animals suffer as much as we do. True humanity does not allow us to impose such sufferings on them. It is our duty to make the whole world recognize it. Until we extend our circle of compassion to all living things, humanity will not find peace.

In all this, Androids reveals the potential for transcendence despite suffering. Society will likely not grow, but individuals can, and individuals make up society. Rick chooses to become a promoter of life rather than a destroyer. It’s a decision – to suffer and yet remain empathetic – that every human being can make. This, of course, implies that there’s something morally and psychologically wrong with those who are not empathetic, and the story points a finger at the reader as if to say that we are as underdeveloped as the androids. We, who are emblematic of the modern world, are the real chickenheads and degenerates. We, who may not have had the trials of these characters, and who haven’t even come to extend our circle of compassion to our fellow human beings, let alone the animals, are the destroyers, as we continue to make excuses for our tribalism, racism, exploitation, destruction, and war.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain." - Roy Batty of Blade Runner

When Ridley Scott made the film Blade Runner in 1982,  he used a screenplay that was very loosely based on Phil’s novel Do Androids Dreams of Electric Sheep? While that film was a box office flop, failing to make back the cost of production, it did bring the name of Philip K. Dick to the attention of Hollywood and the general public. Sadly, Phil did not live long enough to see the finished film or to enjoy his newfound fame and fortune.

drove to San Vicente just north of Beverly and parked at the curb. Hot Dog Heaven was built around a giant hot dog, yet another testament to L.A.’s literal thinking. The fast-food joint became a landmark when the pony ride that had occupied the corner of La Cienega and Beverly for decades was replaced by the neon-and-concrete assault known as the Beverly Center. Too bad Philip K. Dick had committed suicide. A few years later and he’d have seen Blade Runner spring to life. Or maybe he’d known what was coming. Back during pony-ride days, the dirt track had been a favorite weekend visitation hangout for divorced dads and their kids.