Eliza Doolittle Quotes

Eliza has no use for the foolish romantic tradition that all women love to be mastered, if not actually bullied and beaten.

A flush works over my cheeks and grows when Rolondo says, “And here I thought I was pointing out the impact of our divergent socio-economic status when faced with potential agent induced incentives.” We both look at each other for a second then laugh again. “Fucking Sociology major,” I mutter. “Henry-muthafucka-Higgins. You gonna Eliza Doolittle me?” “There you go again, trying to get me to do you. Let the dream die, man.

Mañoso grinned. “This is gonna be fun. This here’s gonna be like Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle Does Trenton.

A group of girls with their hair hanging loose over their shoulders, and the most strident voices imaginable, sold flowers at the foot of an equestrian statue, done in bronze by Thornycroft when the Empress was a young woman.

HIGGINS [sitting down beside her] Rubbish! you shall marry an ambassador. You shall marry the Governor-General of India or the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, or somebody who wants a deputy-queen. I'm not going to have my masterpiece thrown away on Freddy. LIZA. You think I like you to say that. But I haven't forgot what you said a minute ago; and I won't be coaxed round as if I was a baby or a puppy. If I can't have kindness, I'll have independence. HIGGINS. Independence? That's middle class blasphemy. We are all dependent on one another, every soul of us on earth. LIZA [rising determinedly] I'll let you see whether I'm dependent on you. If you can preach, I can teach. I'll go and be a teacher. HIGGINS. What'll you teach, in heaven's name? LIZA. What you taught me. I'll teach phonetics. HIGGINS. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Sing me no song, read me no rhyme, don’t waste my time. Show me! Don’t talk of June, don’t talk of fall, don’t talk at all! Show me! —Eliza Doolittle, My Fair Lady

Having settled on the Shavian style of Higgins’s songs, Lerner and Loewe weave two other levels of musical style into the score—just as Rodgers and Loesser wove multiple musical styles into mirrors of class and character. Eliza, the lowly flower seller whom Higgins turns into a lady, could sing with the conventional fire and passion of operetta and musical heroines. The passionate, full-throated sound of her songs—the longing of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly?” the anger of “Just You Wait, ’Enry ‘lggins,” the joy of “I Could Have Danced All Night,” the insistence of “Show Me”—contrasts with the dry wit of Higgins’s talk-songs. This contrast not only gives the score musical variety and color but embodies the essential dramatic conflict between intellect and emotion. The third musical style belongs to Alfred Doolittle, Eliza’s working-class dad, who, like Higgins, is an unconventional moralist—resisting such constraints of middle-class morality as work, sobriety, thrift, and marriage. Lerner and Loewe saw Doolittle as a refugee from the English music hall—literally, since the veteran music-hall performer, Stanley Holloway, created the role. Doolittle’s “With a Little Bit of Luck” and “Get Me to the Church on Time” are bouncy, raucous music-hall numbers, oom-pah marches with conventional major harmonies and not a trace of American syncopation.

When rehearsals for Pygmalion ended at His Majesty's theatre, with Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Jenny's husband's mistress playing Eliza Doolittle, GBS [George Bernard Shaw] wired Winston, "I am reserving two tickets for you for my premiere. Come and bring a friend, if you have one." Churchill wired back. "Impossible to be present for the first performance. Will attend the second, if there is one.

The original house had been replaced by an indoor flower market with an arched iron and glass roof. Eliza Doolittle, as played by Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, would have bought her violets there before moving off to display the worst cockney accent this side of Dick Van Dyke.

suddenly remembered that when I portrayed Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady on Broadway, I unconsciously toed-in, giving the flower girl a slightly pigeon-toed lack of grace in her clumsy boots, then I straightened my feet when she acquired confidence and poise as a “lady.” It made me smile to think I was doing the exact opposite for Mary Poppins.

At that moment, though, she stood there on stage, perched atop a pair of ruby-red heels, looking less like Eliza Doolittle than Dorothy; the girl swept up in the cyclone, lifted out of her black-and-white world and deposited in a Technicolor Oz.