Eames Quotes

Eventually everything connects - people, ideas, objects. The quality of the connections is the key to quality per se.

WHEN WE SEEK TO RULE ONLY OURSELVES, WE ARE EACH OF US KINGS.

You should write a book," Matrick suggested. Kit snorted. "Who wants to read the self-pitying lamentations of an old revenant?" "There's your title right there," said Ganelon.

Clay pushed his body off him and mumbled another apology - because, enemy or not, when you hit a man in the nuts with a magic hammer the least you could say was sorry.

But what does a mirror know? What can it show us of ourselves? Oh, it might reveal a few scars, and perhaps a glimpse—there, in the eyes—of our true nature. The spirit beneath the skin. Yet the deepest scars are often hidden, and though a mirror might reveal our weakness, it reflects only a fraction of our strength.

As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way

The most important thing is that you love what you are doing, and the second that you are not afraid of where your next idea will lead.

Eventually everything connects — people, ideas, objects...the quality of the connections is the key to quality per se...I don't believe in this 'gifted few' concept, just in people doing things they are really interested in doing. They have a way of getting good at whatever it is.

Well, you see how big he was. Apparently he broke through a latrine seat and drowned in the sewage below.” A shitty way to go,

A tiger, however fearsome, could be hunted into a corner. It fought alone, so it died alone. But to hunt a wolf was to constantly look over your shoulder, wondering if others were behind you in the dark. “Lost?

Watch this!” he said, and what happened next might have been extraordinarily funny were their lives not at stake. But they were, so it wasn’t.

How do I look?" he asked. Barret grinned. "Old." Moog glanced over appraisingly. "Tired." Gabriel snorted a laugh. "Fuck you guys.

Take your pleasure seriously.

Matrick plied his knives like a parade drummer, his rhythm so fast his enemies didn’t know he’d murdered them until their god asked them if they took milk in their tea

Who is to say that pleasure is useless?

You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt eam," Unless the Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch who guard it.

Who says vanquish anymore?" Moog breathed. People who vanquished things, Clay supposed.

he had long since learned that harbouring regrets was akin to stashing embers in your pockets: it was pointless and bound to hurt.

And so it goes, thought Clay. Life was funny, and fickle, and often cruel. Sometimes the unworthy went on living, while those who deserved better was lost. Or not lost, he considered, since they lingered on in the hearts of those who loved them, who love them still, their memory nurtured like a sprig of green in an otherwise desolate soul. Which was, he supposed, a kind of immortality, after all.

Design is a plan for arranging elements in such a way as best to accomplish a particular purpose.

Some people knew how to kill a conversation. Cura, on the other hand, could make it wish it had never been born.

Judge them for what they wished to be,” he begged the Father of Gods, “not what the world made of them.

Gods fuck me,” said Roderick, managing the impressive feat of swearing and praying at the same time.

You didn’t get to be the villain of one story, she supposed, unless you were the hero of another.

Among them is a renegade king, he who sired five royal heirs without ever unzipping his pants. A man to whom time has imparted great wisdom and an even greater waistline, whose thoughtless courage is rivalled only by his unquenchable thirst. At his shoulder walks a sorcerer, a cosmic conversationalist. Enemy of the incurable rot, absent chairman of combustive sciences at the university in Oddsford, and the only living soul above the age of eight to believe in owlbears. Look here at a warrior born, a scion of power and poverty whose purpose is manifold: to shatter shackles, to murder monarchs, and to demonstrate that even the forces of good must sometimes enlist the service of big, bad motherfuckers. His is an ancient soul destined to die young. And now comes the quiet one, the gentle giant, he who fights his battles with a shield. Stout as the tree that counts its age in aeons, constant as the star that marks true north and shines most brightly on the darkest nights. A step ahead of these four: our hero. He is the candle burnt down to the stump, the cutting blade grown dull with overuse. But see now the spark in his stride. Behold the glint of steel in his gaze. Who dares to stand between a man such as this and that which he holds dear? He will kill, if he must, to protect it. He will die, if that is what it takes. “Go get the boss,” says one guardsman to another. “This bunch looks like trouble.” And they do. They do look like trouble, at least until the wizard trips on the hem of his robe. He stumbles, cursing, and fouls the steps of the others as he falls face-first onto the mud-slick hillside.

I think it may have pierced his heart.” “The heart is on this side,” Rose pointed out. “Is it?” The wizard frowned and placed a hand on his own breast. “Gods, you might be right.

Beyond the age of information, there is the age of choices.

The details are not the details. They make the design.

We seek to escape the dark cave of a despondent mind by either dulling oneself mentally or through imaginative acts. One form of escapism is daydreaming.

This day,” said Gabriel, “this moment, is when you step out from the shadow of the past. Today you make your name. Today your legend is born. Come tomorrow, every tale the bards tell will belong to you, because today we save the world!” Clay sighed in relief. There’d been a hammer, after all. Gabriel tore Vellichor from its scabbard and leveled it at the encroaching Horde. “This is not a choice between life and death, but life and immortality! Remain here and die in obscurity, or follow me now and live forever!

Clay smiled like a man who’d won first place in a “Whose Life Sucks the Most

We slept beside them, fought beside them, bled beside them. We trusted them to watch our backs and save our asses – which they did, time and time again. And somewhere out there, between one gig and the next, something changed. We woke up one day and realized that home was no longer behind us. That our families were with us all along. We looked around at these miscreants, these motley crews, and knew in our hearts there was nowhere we’d rather be than by their side.

Death or glory,” she said. “Death or glory,” they echoed. “But preferably glory,

In stories, when a giant was slain, it toppled thunderously to the ground. In reality, a giant died much the same way anything else did: screaming and shitting itself.

Her smiles were shorter. Her laugh was louder. She became distracted at times, and would stare at nothing with a look of shattered sorrow that passed like a cloud the moment someone spoke her name. She loved less quickly, but more fiercely, and made certain that those she cared for knew it well. Sometimes she wept when it snowed.

It’s not enough to survive what we do, Tam. We must also endure it.” “What’s the difference?” she asked. “One concerns the body, the other the mind. Every battle has a cost,” he said quietly. “Even the ones we win.

Most people, she figured, sized up the truth when it came knocking, decided they didn’t much like the look of it, and shut the door in its face.

It is not easy to do something good, but it is extremely difficult to do something bad.

What a nice bunch of girls,” declared Matrick, watching her go. “They certainly were,” Gabe agreed. “I mean, they made us breakfast and everything,” said Moog, and the other two nodded. Which left Clay to state the obvious. “Y’all are fucking crazy,” he said.

EAMES: Shouldn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, Arthur- Eames lines up a shot with a grenade launcher. Fires- the sniper EXPLODES into the air- Arthur looks at Eames. EAMES: Shall we?

But life, Clay knew, didn’t work that way. It wasn’t a circle; you didn’t go round and round again. It was an arc, its course as inexorable as the sun’s trek across the sky, destined at its highest, brightest moment to begin its fall.

Ganelon sighed. "Slowhand..." "Never again," Clay said. "Where you stand, I stand.

Choose Your Corner, Pick Away At It Carefully, Intensely, & To The Best Of Your Ability, & That Way, You Might change The World.

You’re a legend now, girl, and legends are like rolling stones: Once they get going, it’s best to stay out of their way.

This is not a choice between life and death, but life and immortality! Remain here and die in obscurity, or follow me now and live forever!

(...) Clay knew better. He and Gabriel had been friends for thirty-five years, and Gabe had been talking him into doing recklessly stupid shit for damn near all of them. He was a charismatic craftsman: every heart a furnace, every soul a blade.

What was it about fathers, Clay wondered, that compelled so many of them to test their children? To insist that a daughter, or a son, prove themselves worthy of a love their mother offered without condition?

Judge them for what they wished to be,” he begged the Father of Gods, “not what the world made of them.” The

Hubris, man. It’s killed more heroes than monsters ever did.

A battle, as relayed by a poet, is a glorious thing, full of heroic stands, daring charges, and valiant sacrifice. But a battlefield, as experienced by some poor bastard mired in the thick of it, is something different altogether. The word clusterfuck came to mind.

Genius? Nothing--we just worked harder.

The world is big, the young are restless, and girls just want to have fun.

Pike,” Clay said by way of greeting. “Heard you were dead.” “Close. Married.

and in the ensuing silence Clay heard the quiet but ominous thud of Ganelon setting his beer down on the table.

a little embellishment was so often the difference between a good story and a great one.

The pool,” said Kallorek, pointing. “The pool, right there.” “You mean the pond?” “I mean the pool,” growled the booker. “Get in. Swim.” He accompanied these words with effusive gestures that set his jewellery ringing. Clay examined the pond. “Swim to where?” he asked. “What do you mean swim to where?” Kallorek’s brow deepened. “Is it a healing spring?” Gabe asked. He flexed his arm, wincing as he extended it fully. “Because I think my elbow—” “Listen, fuck your elbow!” Kallorek blew up. Clay had forgotten how short the booker’s fuse was. That big toothy smile one moment, and the next …“It ain’t a spring, or a pond, or a godsdamned sea nymph’s bathtub. It’s a fucking pool. Just a pool! You swim around in it to relax.

I had a cat named Astra. Spiteful creature! And vicious.” He whistled. “I swear, it once killed a bird and left it on my doorstep in the morning.” Brune shrugged. “So what? Lots of cats—” “It was an eagle,” Moog finished. The shaman nodded appreciatively and poured himself a drink.

ARTHUR: (indicates rain) Couldn't you have peed before we went under? YUSUF: Sorry. The front door OPENS and Eames climbs in, soaked. EAMES: Bit too much free champagne before takeoff, Yusuf? YUSUF: Ha bloody ha.

We were giants once, remember? Kings of the Wyld.

If it sounds like a sheep but looks like a lion, it's probably a lion.

they passed through the wide-open gates into the city whose parents had hired a prostitute as a babysitter and never come home. The

Saying glory to a warrior was like saying walk to a dog—you got its tail wagging, sure as shit. “Because

Be careful of making friends out of enemies, lest they remember why they didn't like you in the first place.

...evil thrives on division. It stokes the embers of pride and prejudice until they become an inferno that might one day devour us all.

What’s the matter with you? I’m all for a little brooding—believe me, I do it better than most—but there’s brooding, and then there’s being a total sack of dicks.

Because even a misspent life, he reasoned, was worth remembering.

He considered going for his hammer, which lay just out of reach, or maybe diving for Ganelon instead, since waking the warrior was probably his best hope of survival.

Who didn’t enjoy the glassy stare of a severed animal’s head gazing down at them as they ate supper?

Most people aren’t trained to want to face the process of re-understanding a subject they already know. One must obtain not just literacy, but deep involvement and re-understanding.

EAMES: Try this... "MY FATHER ACCEPTS THAT I WANT TO CREATE FOR MYSELF, NOT FOLLOW IN HIS FOOTSTEPS." COBB: That might work. ARTHUR: Might? We'll have to do better than that. EAMES: Thanks for the contribution, Arthur. ARTHUR: Forgive me for wanting a little specificity, Eames.

Funny, Tam thought, how different a thing could seem at a distance—how beautiful, despite the ugly truth. Was it worth it, she wondered, to look closer? To examine something, or someone, if doing so risked changing your perception of them forever after? She was young enough to think the answer was yes, but too young to know if she was right.

For a while no one spoke, because in the roundabout course of thirty-some years they had said just about all there was to say to one another, until finally Clay could bear the silence no longer and cleared his throat. “I love you guys,” he said, and gods-be-damned if his voice didn’t sell him out at the end and crack like a boy of twelve summers.

And what are those things that look like dragons and sound like dragons?” he asked facetiously. “I believe they’re called dragons, boss.” “Thank you, Ashe.” He sighed heavily and dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair.

Clay found himself wondering what the Council of Courts etiquette was regarding vomiting your breakfast onto your boots. He suddenly wished he were elsewhere, anywhere—or better yet, someone else entirely. A simple man doing simple things. A cobbler, maybe. Cobblers rarely, if ever, made enemies of vengeful immortals, or so he figured.

But then Rose pointed toward the woman’s feet. “You dropped your ear,” she said. And Astra—who’d been an empress, then a goddess, and whose dark sorcery now threatened to snuff out every soul in Grandual—looked down. Like an idiot.

Lucky,” said Gabriel. Clay glanced at him sidelong. “I’m not sure that word means what you think it means.

It was a kobold’s hovel, and that meant shithole.

EAMES: Now, in the dream, I can impersonate Browning and suggest the concepts to Fischer's conscious mind... EAMES: (draws a diagram) Then we take Fischer down another level and his own subconscious feeds it right back to him. ARTHUR: (impressed) So he gives himself the idea. EAMES: Precisely. That's the only way to make it stick. It has to seem self-generated. ARTHUR: Eames, I'm impressed. EAMES: Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur.

There is nothing, I think, so wasteful—or so pointlessly tragic—as a battle that should never have been fought in the first place.

Despite this, his prejudice against helmets remained unchanged. You had your pride, Ganelon had told him once, or you had nothing.

Eventually everything connects.

Another lie. But lies, as her uncle Bran was fond of saying, were like a cup of Kaskar whiskey: If you’re in for one, you’re in for a dozen.

We were giants, once.

Don’t be a corpse, Clay prayed under his breath. Please, don’t be a corpse. Moog had been a staunch enemy of necromancy his entire life, but when you left lonely old wizards in ancient towers for too long, it stood to reason they’d start meddling with dark and unfathomable powers sooner or later.

The ship, which appeared to belong to another band, was just passing by for a look. She was bigger than the Old Glory, but not by much. The words Lucky Seven had been painted on her belly, but the seven had been crossed out, as had the six below it. The word five was scrawled underneath, but Clay only spotted four people at the rail and wondered silently if the ship was due for another paint job.

The gesture was, for the most part, greatly appreciated—except by a minotaur who stared at his helping in open disgust. “What is this, beef? I can’t eat this! Have you got a salad or something?” “No, I haven’t got a fucking salad,” said Roderick. The minotaur stared flatly between the bars of his cage. “Be a lot cooler if you did.

… a woman cuts, hacks, slashes, and strikes – a whirling storm of fire and steel. Born in shadow, her destiny eclipsed by the brightest of stars. What else can she be but a comet, burning bright enough to draw every eye as she streaks toward some unfathomable fate?

What's that, honey? What was I doing while Uncle Gabe was dueling a god with all of civilization at stake? Why, I was wrestling in the muck with an exceptionally tenacious cow.

Clay smiled like a man who’d won first place in a “Whose Life Sucks the Most” contest.

A man needs food, beer, and a pot to piss in.

ARTHUR: How do we get out once we've made the plant? (to Cobb) I hope you've got something a little more elegant than shooting me in the head like last time. Arthur tilts back in his chair. Yusuf turns to Cobb. COBB: A kick. ARIADNE: What's a kick? Eames slips his foot under Arthur's chair leg. TIPS it- Arthur's legs SHOOT UP INSTINCTIVELY for balance- EAMES: That, Ariadne, would be a kick. COBB: That feeling of falling which snaps you awake. We use that to jolt ourselves awake once we're done.

Episodic memories get stored in the hippocampus as our stories—our interpretation of events with our emotional responses attached to them. These are memories that are tied to serious emotional reactions. If something happened in your life that was really significant to you, the emotions tied to that memory become attached like cat hair or static cling. So when we have an emotional response in the future, the amygdala immediately pulls this EAM file in order to decide how to respond. What fires together, wires together.

Does he have ears like a bunny, too?” “He does, yes.” For once the druin didn’t bridle at the association. “But his are droopy, because he is very old.” Cura found a smirk and slapped it on. “You know what else droops when it gets old?” “What?” Wren chirped. “Yes, please,” said Freecloud dryly. “Tell my five-year-old daughter what else droops when it gets old.” “Oh … um …” Cura wilted under the druin’s glare. “Flowers?

SAITO: Care for a lift, Mr. Cobb? COBB: (jumping in) What brings you to Mombasa, Mr. Saito? SAITO: I have to protect my investment. Eames stands on pavement. The car pulls up. Cobb beckons from the rear window. Eames looks at Saito. Back to Cobb. EAMES: This your idea of losing a tail? COBB: (shrugs) Different tail.

A pinecone?” “Ha! Can you imagine? All this at stake and I give you a pinecone?” Moog’s cackle died in silence, and everyone simply stared until he went on. “Okay, yes, it’s a pinecone. But it’s a magic pinecone.

Sounds better than being a king," said Matrick. Kit nodded. "It was - until a plague tore through the village and killed every man, woman, and child in the tribe. I was left alone to do whatever gods do once all who believe in them are dust.

The ghoul cracked a smile like a coffin’s lid sliding ajar. “I’m glad you found me, too,” he said. “It will be my honour to tell your story. It has been vastly entertaining thus far. I do hope it has a happy ending, though.” “It won’t,” Matrick murmured. “It will,” Gabe assured them. “It might,” Clay said.

EAMES: There's a man here. Yusuf. He formulates his own versions of the compound. COBB: Let's go see him. EAMES: Once you've lost your tail. (Cobb reacts) Back by the bar, blue tie. Came in about two minutes after we did. COBB: Cobol Engineering? EAMES: They pretty much own Mombasa. Cobb glances over the balcony. COBB: Run interference. We'll meet downstairs in half an hour. EAMES: Back here? COBB: Last place they'd expect. Eames downs his drink. Rises. Walks over to the Businessman. EAMES: Freddy! The Businessman looks up, awkward. EAMES: Freddy Simmonds, it is you! Cobb nonchalantly SLIPS over the balcony DROPPING HARD into the midst of the crowd on the street below. EAMES: (looks harder) Oh. No, it isn't. The Businessman looks past Eames but Cobb has vanished.

EAMES: Word is, you're not welcome in these parts. COBB: Yeah? EAMES: There's a price on your head from Cobol Engineering. Pretty big one, actually. COBB: You wouldn't sell me out. Eames looks at Cobb, offended. EAMES: 'Course I would. COBB: (smiles) Not when you hear what I'm selling. A ramshackle balcony overlooking a busy street. Eames pours. COBB: Inception. Eames' glass stops halfway to his mouth. COBB: Don't bother telling me it's impossible. EAMES: It's perfectly possible. Just bloody difficult. COBB: That's what I keep saying to Arthur. EAMES: Arthur? You're still working with that stick-in-the-mud? COBB: He's a good point man. EAMES: The best. But he has no imagination. If you're going to perform inception, you need imagination. COBB: You've done it before? EAMES: Yes and no. We tried it. Got the idea in place, but it didn't take. COBB: You didn't plant it deep enough? EAMES: It's not just about depth. You need the simplest version of the idea-the one that will grow naturally in the subject's mind. Subtle art.