Jack Burton Quotes

And I Jack, the Pumpkin King, have grown so tired of the same old thing...

Mayor: How horrible our Christmas will be! Jack Skellington: *No.* [the Mayor switches to his upset face] Jack Skellington: How *jolly*! Mayor: Oh. How *jolly* our Christmas will be

Indeed. I have often thought that when a man selects one word over another he often reveals far more of himself than he intended.

Here lies the body of Colonel Cornell’s. The rest of the fellow, I fancy, in hell is.

When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: "Have ya paid your dues, Jack?" "Yessir, the check is in the mail."

I was born in Dream Town, but I am also the Pumpkin Queen. I will fight for Jack. I will fight to set things right.

Mr Babbington,' he said, suddenly stopping in his up and down. 'Take your hands out of your pockets. When did you last write home?' Mr Babbington was at an age when almost any question evokes a guilty response, and this was, in fact, a valid accusation. He reddened, and said, 'I don't know, sir.' 'Think, sir, think,' said Jack, his good-tempered face clouding unexpectedly...'Never, mind. Write a handsome letter. Two pages at least. And send it in to me with your daily workings tomorrow. Give your father my compliments and tell him my bankers are Hoares.' For Jack, like most other captains, managed the youngsters' parental allowance for them. 'Hoares,' he repeated absently once or twice, 'my bankers are Hoares,' and a strangled ugly crowing noise made him turn. Young Ricketts was clinging to the fall of the main burton-tackle in an attempt to control himself, but without much success.

When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: "Have ya paid your dues, Jack?" "Yessir, the check is in the mail.

Like I told my last wife, I said, "Honey, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides it's all in the reflexes.

Every time we are faced with a choice, and we are faced with them every minute of every day, we make a decision to follow its course into the future. But what of the abandoned options? Are they like unopened doors? Do alternative futures lie beyond them? How far would we wander from the course we have steered were we to go back and, just once, open Door A instead of Door B?

We all act on what we know, what we see, what we are told and how we feel. The simple fact of the matter is that not a single one of us operates under identical influences. That is why the future is always uncertain.

I wonder if someday Jack and I will have our own pram filled with tiny skeletons and rag dolls. The scuttle of little feet through the house. Skeleton boys tumbling down the spiral stairs; little rag doll girls with their threads coming loose, always needing their fingers and toes stitched back together. A perfectly grim little family.

At the crisp, inky hour of midnight, Jack and I are married atop Spiral Hill in the Death Door's Cemetery. Wind stirs the bone-dry leaves, and Jack takes my soft rag doll hands in his--the coolness of his fingers calming the flutter rippling across my stitched seams.

Vanità scriverà qui riposa il vecchio Jack.

He kisses me again, folding me in his arms--the place I want to stay for a thousand years. When I first discovered Dream Town, I wasn't sure where I belonged, where my true home was. But now I know. Sometimes home is a town, a house with four walls. Other times, it's two hollow eyes in a skull, a skeleton without a heartbeat. It's here---not in Dream Town or Halloween Town---but in Jack's arms. Folded against this hollow, skeleton chest is where I belong. I let the tears stream down my face, I let them bind us together, salt and water and fabric and bone. Woven parts of ourselves that become one.

Jack pulls me back into his arms, as if he could absorb the pain and take it from me. And I know, I would do it all over again: I would leave Dream Town and never return a thousand times just to be here with Jack, to touch his face, to feel his ice-cold lips on mine, to have a life with him in this town. To stand beside him as Pumpkin Queen. This is the life I want. The one I'm willing to sacrifice everything for.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was a cross between Indiana Jones and Captain Jack Sparrow, with perhaps a little piece of the warrior-poet Aragorn from Lord of the Rings thrown in for good measure. Or maybe I should rephrase that; all these swashbuckling film heroes, including probably John Rambo, may well have been loosely based on Burton and his life

My life was a beanstalk and I was Jack, and the foliage was shooting up and up, abundant, impressive, at such speed that I could barely cling on.

Your curiosity will kill you, Dr. Finkelstein once told me. Maybe he was right. But instead of killing me, it's taken the man, the skeleton, I love.

Because right now I am simply a rag doll in a boat with a skeleton whom I love. Madly, Feverishly. Floating through a town where my title doesn't matter. Queen, queen, queen. Where no one knows who I am.

But now I know. Sometimes home is a town, a house with four walls. Other times, it’s two hollow eyes in a skull, a skeleton without a heartbeat. It’s here—not in Dream Town or Halloween Town—but in Jack’s arms.

Because there is nothing quite so wasted as a life unlived. And I intend to live mine. Fully. Unbound by the rules of others. Queen or not, we all deserve these things. Freedom. Hope. A chance to find out who we really are. Jack

He wipes away the tear streaming down my cotton cheekbone to my chin and looks at me like his own chest is about to fracture. And for a moment, I'm certain they should just bury us both here, at the center of the graveyard. Married and died on the same day. Unable to contain the unspeakable, awful, wondrous emotion breaking against our eyelids. The dreadful residents of Halloween Town applaud, tossing tiny dwarf spiders at our feet as we leave the cemetery, and the warmth in my chest feels like bats clamoring for a way out of my rib cage. Trying to break me apart. I am now Sally Skellington. The Pumpkin Queen. And I'm certain I will never again be as happy as I am right now.

The guilt is a double-edged dagger, twisting inside me, breaking threads and tearing me apart. Can the fool of a story also be the hero? Doubtful. But I have loved Jack for too long to let him be fated to a life worse than death. A life spent in a nightmare he can't wake from. I would cross a thousand thresholds into a thousand different worlds for him.

There is an entire orchard. Hidden, tucked away. Rows and rows of magical, uncharted trees. Doorways into old, long forgotten towns. Father Time. Old Man Winter. The Tooth Fairy. Multitudes of worlds, places we never knew existed. I smile, and Jack pulls me to him. A queen, and her king. And I know, with a certainty that is knitted in my linen bones, we will spend a lifetime---Jack and I, side by side---slipping through doorways that lead to other doorways, carved into ancient, gnarled trees. Lands to explore, adventures to be had. But always together. Because there is nothing quite so wasted as a life unlived. And I intend to live mine. Fully. Unbound by the rules of others. Queen or not, we all deserve these things. Freedom. Hope. A chance to find out who we really are.

In St. Patrick Town, we find the stubborn, sprightly residents all awake--the leprechaun I spoke to days before still in search of his lost pot of gold in the glen, rain clouds heavy in the distance, and rainbows gleaming above the treetops. In Valentine's Town, Queen Ruby is bustling through the streets, making sure the chocolatiers are busy crafting their confections of black velvet truffles and cherry macaroons, trying to make up for lost time, while her cupids still flock through town, wild and restless. The rabbits have resumed painting their pastel eggs in Easter Town. The townsfolk in Fourth of July Town are testing new rainbow sparklers and fireworks that explode in the formation of a queen's crown, in honor of the Pumpkin Queen who saved them all from a life of dreamless sleep. In Thanksgiving Town, everyone is preparing for the feast in the coming season, and the elves in Christmas Town have resumed assembling presents and baking powdered-sugar gingerbread cookies. And in Halloween Town, we have just enough time to finish preparations for the holiday: cobwebs woven together, pumpkins carved, and black tar-wax candles lit.

A graveyard. It's the largest cemetery I've ever seen--a place Jack would surely love. A long rectangle of green lawn lined with rows and rows of old, moss-coated and weather-worn gravestones. Rain pounds the earth, and the cold tickle of air against my neck reminds me of the cemetery in Halloween Town. A feeling that exists in every cemetery, it seems. That hint of death. Of sorrow. Of lives brought to an end. But I don't have to go far before I find a small stone structure, an ornate mausoleum with spires along the roofline and a copper door, tarnished green from the rain. A tomb where the dead are placed to rest. I glance up the path, the cemetery glistening in the wet air. I have passed through many realms, all the way into the human world to a city made strangely silent, and now this mausoleum is my way home. My way back to Jack.

And in a moment like that, there was only one thing I could ask myself: What would Jack Burton do? “I’m f-f-f-fine,” I said in a hoarse, hardly understandable voice. “That’s a mouthful, and I’m busy. D-do you maybe have a nickname?

Here’s why: Past performance is not a good predictor of future returns. What does predict investment performance are the fees charged by the investment manager. The higher the fees you pay for investment advice, the lower your investment return. As our friend Jack Bogle likes to say: In the investment business, “You get what you don’t pay for.

A few minutes wasn’t good enough, apparently, for the Jack-in-the-boxes

Jack taps a finger on the broad tree with a perfect heart, painted a buttery pink, carved at the center.

Jack weaves his fingers through mine, grinning curiously, like he's just sprung from a shadow and frightened a ghost back into the dark---one of his favorite pastimes---and we follow the winding path out of the forest, away from the grove of seven trees. I run my fingertips along the dusty pink poppies and vibrant bloodred roses that line the path, and when we finally step free of the dense forest, I peer up at a cloudless sky, shimmering a soft airy pink.

And truthfully, Valentine's Town is unexpectedly charming--in an odd, sideways sort of way. No sooty sky or charcoal buildings teetering in the distance. No rotted skulls or jack-o'-lanterns glowing sinisterly in the dark, no cackling ghouls or demons or grim reapers with hollowed-out eyes watching us from shadowed corners. In fact, there are no dark places at all. Instead, everything is bright and confectioner-sugar-shiny. The air has a pinked, dreamy quality, a subtly sweet tinge, like rosebuds newly bloomed in spring or the first lick of pumpkin-pie filling on a spoon.

Your father even wrote the first theories about daytime dreaming in this library." She smiles at Albert, a look of pride. "He invented daydreams, you know," she says, looking back to me. "A way for humans to dream up wild, unthinkable things right in the middle of the afternoon, without ever needing to go to sleep." I think back to my own daydreams, moments when I'd managed to lose myself in thought, especially in my old life: dreaming of a future with Jack, dreaming of who I might be if I ever escaped Dr. Finkelstein.

A known mistake is better than an unknown truth.

Everything Life places in your path is an opportunity. No matter how difficult. No matter how upsetting. No matter how impenetrable. No matter how you judge it. An opportunity.

The image of Johannes and Jack Philips thrummed for days inside Nella's skull, like a moth with constantly beating wings. Through the force of her own will Nella has made it flightless. She has stupefied it and removed its wings. But it has not disappeared.

Born in 2006 in Burton-on-Trent, England, Jack has always held a passion for motorsport. Initially with an interest in aviation, Jack switched his wings to four wheels after sitting in a rental kart aged 7. His passion grew the more time he spent in the karting environment and over the course of his career he has moved up through Rotax Junior, Rotax Max and now Junior Saloon Cars.

Give your father my compliments and tell him my bankers are Hoares.’ For Jack, like most other captains, managed the youngsters’ parental allowance for them. ‘Hoares,’ he repeated absently once or twice, ‘my bankers are Hoares,’ and a strangled ugly crowing noise made him turn. Young Ricketts was clinging to the fall of the main burton-tackle in an attempt to control himself, but without much success. Jack’s cold glare chilled his mirth, however, and he was able to reply to ‘And you, Mr Ricketts, have you written to your parents recently?’ with an audible ‘No, sir’ that scarcely quavered at all.

I want to be a great poet or I am nothing, Richard! To do that I must truly live. And a man can only truly live when Death is his permanent companion.

but hated her blinkered Catholicism. Charles Darwin had killed God but she and her family, like so many others, still clung to the delusion.

Christmas Town is ruled by a terrible king. His arms are thick as tree trunks. His voice is deep as the mud at the bottom of the lake.” “Ooh,” Mummy Boy said with a shiver. Jack grinned as he strode into the audience. Now he had them. All it took was a little Pumpkin King flair, and at that he had no rival. As he poked the Melting Man in his gooey nose, Jack said, “The Christmas King flies through the night not on a broom but on a cart pulled by horned beasts, and casts a reign of terror upon boys and girls on December twenty-fifth!” He turned to Behemoth and pulled out his long tongue. “He dresses in bloodred garments!” “Who is he, Jack?” the smaller of the witch sisters cried. Both witches clutched their green hands together, enthralled by the idea of a dashingly wicked king who shared their love of flying. “His name,” Jack announced dramatically as he returned to the stage, “is Sandy Claws.