Frankie And Johnny Quotes

Una tipa que sonaba a borracha perdida cantaba ''Frankie and Johnny'' en versión marinera, con una voz que ni el whisky había logrado mejorar.

For there has never been a story nearly as tragic as the one of Frankenstein, except for that of Johnny Heart and his Francesca Valentine.

He died at forty-two. I was there to collect his talent. I was there at the hospital deathbed of my beloved Billie Holiday, just forty-four, her liver destroyed by drinking; I was there inside the hotel room of Charlie Parker, my singular jazz saxophonist, who died in his midthirties, but whose body was so ravaged by drugs the coroners thought he was sixty. Tommy Dorsey, the bandleader, choked in his sleep when he was fifty-one, too deep in pills to awaken. Johnny Allen Hendrix (you called him Jimi) swallowed a handful of barbiturates and expired. He was twenty-seven. It is not new, this idea that a purer art awaits you in a substance. But it is naive. I existed before the first grapes were fermented. Before the first whiskey was distilled. Be it opium or absinthe, marijuana or heroin, cocaine or ecstasy or whatever will follow, you may alter your state, but you will not alter this truth: I am Music. I am here inside you. Why would I hide behind a powder or a vapor? Do you think me so petty?

ohnny Heart loved Francesca Valentine the way no one had ever loved anyone, and his love for her was so deep, that it consumed him. There's nothing left in that attic now, but a statue of them entwined with each other—that's all that's left to say that they were together once. But if you were to pull open the secret door in the attic, the door that no one knew about, you would find Johnny's hidden gallery—paintings and sketchings—all of Francesca Valentine. He loved her so much, he spent nearly every waking moment drawing or painting her. It was an obsession and he just couldn't quit. Johnny never wanted to be away from her. He never showed these painting or portraits to Francesca, in fear they weren't good enough. He kept trying to capture her just right. She'd never really know how beautiful she was to him. But if you were to look at the portraits you could see the love he had for this one girl, how deeply he romanticized her. And you'll know—because you'll be able to feel it—how hard it was for him to let her go. It was an impossibility. One that Frankie agreed with, too. She couldn't let go either. But holding on so tightly to each other, and feeling what they could never have, never keep, it destroyed them both, and she became one with her monster. It's Frankie and Johnny. For always.   And never.

Where does the life of the boy end and the life as a legend begin? Most likely for Al Capone, it happened somewhere between working for Johnny Torrio and working for Frankie Yale, and his marriage to the pretty Irish girl who said to anyone who would listen that he broke her heart but she loved him anyway.