Monty Don Quotes

I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.

You see, I don't belive that libraries should be drab places where people sit in silence, that has been the main reason for our policy of employing wild animals as librarians.

McGough: I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've caught poetry. Mr Bones: Oh really? Well, don't worry, sir - I used to suffer from short stories. McGough: Really? When? Mr Bones: Oh, once upon a time ...

on the phone Bookseller: Hello Ripping Yarns. Customer: Do you have any mohair wool? Bookseller: Sorry, we're not a yarns shop, we're a bookshop. Customer: You're called Ripping Yarns. Bookseller: Yes, that's 'yarns' as in stories. Customer: Well it's a stupid name. Bookseller: It's a Monty Python reference. Customer: So you don't sell wool? Bookseller: No. Customer: Hmf. Ridiculous. Bookseller: ...but we do sell dead parrots. Customer: What? Bookseller: Parrots. Dead. Extinct. Expired. Would you like one? Customer: Erm, no. Bookseller: Ok, well if you change your mind, do call back.

Oh Lord please don't burn us don't kill or toast your flock. Don't put us on the barbecue or simmer us in stock. Don't bake or baste or boil us or stir-fry us in a wok.

When you're chewing on life's gristle Don't grumble, give a whistle And this'll help things turn out for the best... And...always look on the bright side of life... Always look on the light side of life.

A garden is not a place. It's a journey.

You need to see bare branches to know the full astonishing shock of the new leaves come next April. You need the flat, brown emptiness of the mixed borders to measure their summer fullness.

King Arthur: I am your king. Peasant Woman: Well, I didn't vote for you. King Arthur: You don't vote for kings. Peasant Woman: Well, how'd you become king, then? [Angelic music plays... ] King Arthur: The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. That is why I am your king. Dennis the Peasant: Listen. Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. Arthur: Be quiet! Dennis the Peasant: You can't expect to wield supreme power just 'cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!

you been shopping? no i been shopping. well what'd you buy? i bought a piston engine. well how you going to cook it? you don't cook it it's a piston engine! well your not going to eat it raw are you? oh, i never thought of that...

Good," Violet says. "Because I'll expect you to come back over when Monty and I get married." "Monty?" Hadley asks, staring at her. She tries to successfully to recall if she's even seen them speak to each other. "You guys are engaged?" "Not yet," Violet says as she starts walking toward the dinning room. "But you don't look so gobsmacked. I've got a good feeling about it." Hadley falls into step beside her. "That's it? A good feeling?" "That's it," she says. "I think it's meant to be.

Modern life is, for most of us, a kind of serfdom to mortgage, job and the constant assault to consume. Although we have more time and money than ever before, most of us have little sense of control over our own lives. It is all connected to the apathy that means fewer and fewer people vote. Politicians don’t listen to us anyway. Big business has all the power; religious extremism all the fear. But in the garden or allotment we are king or queen. It is our piece of outdoors that lays a real stake to the planet.

I have gone into town to buy a few last things we need for the expedition: Peruvian wasp repellent, toothbrushes, canned peaches, and a fireproof canoe. It will take a while to find the peaches, so don't expect me back until dinnertime. Stephano, Gustav's replacement, will arrive today by taxi. Please make him feel welcome. As you know, it is only two days until the expedition, so please work very hard today. Your giddy uncle, Monty

This is fake, Silas.” Like she’s trying to remind herself of that, like she’s trying to force herself to believe it when I don’t think we’ve ever been fake. Not once have I ever faked anything with her. “But it feels real, doesn’t it?

I don’t know what it is I feel towards Sage … But whatever it is, it’s mine.

I don’t need it to go anywhere. I know how to handle the bitch in you.

Someone told me once," Monty continues, "there is life after you survive." "What does that mean?" I ask. "It means the feeling that you're not so much living your life as just trying to push through it won't last forever. Someday you'll be able to breathe. I don't know what your mind tells you, and I know that no matter what I say you likely won't believe it—can't believe it—but I still want you to hear it. You are so young, and you are so brilliant, and you are so good, Adrian. You're so much more of everything that you think you are.

Inevitably the real garden with a growing family of children will be untidy, messy even, noisy and often destructive. It drives arch control freaks like myself mad. But I hate it when they are not there.2

Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're the Doctor of my dreams With your crinkly hair and your glassy stare And your Machiavellian schemes I know they say that you are very vain And short and fat and pushy But at least you're not insane Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're so chubby and so neat With your funny clothes and your squishy nose You're like a German parakeet All right so people say that you don't care But you've got nicer legs than Hitler And bigger tits than Cher Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here

I need you to help me take the mask off. You’re the only person I know not hiding from the world. You burn for it. This place, it’s eating me alive, turning me into a person I don’t recognize. Show me anarchy, show me something violent.” I shake my head, needing to feel that escape. “Show me all your truths, Rook. And I’ll show you mine.

I’m a big fan of Disney’s animated movies, or at least of most of them. I don’t know what it is, but the songs get stuck in my head. There is a Disney song for every situation you encounter in life. Some people quote The Godfather. Some quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I quote Walt Disney. Those are the true classics.

Don't pay attention to me. I come from another planet. I still see horizons where you see borders.

So how would I do it again if I were to cater for the children in the garden rather than merely tolerate them? I would make places.

You don’t have to step into the light to find happiness. You just need to find the person willing to step into the grey area.

And remember, nobody knows everything. Not even Roy Lancaster.

Be a ghost, Scarlett. Don’t let him see you, ever.

If you don’t learn to accept that you were a victim before you were ever a curse, all you’ll do is continue cutting people who didn’t hurt you.

It would have been much easier to fall in love with literally anyone else. But I don’t want easy. I’ve never wanted easy.

I don’t know what it is I feel towards Sage.” Lightning strikes hard, shaking the ground. “But whatever it is, it’s mine.

Cairo is in a state of becoming… We just don't know what it's becoming yet.

[My list] of unwritten books grows longer every year--which may be a blessed relief to the book-buying public but is a source of real dissatisfaction to me.

In private, you can call all the shots. But to the rest of the world? You’re fucking mine, and I don’t share.

I’m trying, to no avail, to keep her at a distance so I don’t have to admit that she scares me. A man who fears nothing is afraid of all she is. All she makes me want. All she makes me feel.

I’m falling apart, the hinges of my identity are broken, and I have no fucking idea of who I am anymore. I don’t know how to be someone that cares about someone else. I don’t know how to be anything but what my father made me. “I was touch starved, and now you’ve fed me.” I tightened my grip on her hair, our noses rubbing against one another. “Of course I’m fucking hungry for you.

However naturalistic and ‘wild’ it appears, a garden is always an artificial environment made by people for people, so it makes sense to put the considerations of people – rather than plants – first.

it goes back to the garden telling a story. You make up bits and play with them to see if they ring true. Sometimes this works out first time and all is well and good, but as often as not you have to fiddle and reshape until it is right.

Love is the one thing that can exploit your soul to the world, and mine is already damaged enough. I don't get Prince Charming because I'm not the damsel in distress locked away in the lonely tower. I'm the fire breathing dragon guarding the gate

The sons of the torturously wealthy. Ponderosa Springs’ worst nightmare. They are the Black Death of this town. Not because they are popular, but because they have the power to scare people. Legends. Pretentious and they own every single bit of it. I just, I don’t know why they are here.

You’re my best mate, Monty,” he says suddenly. “And I don’t want to ruin that. Especially not now. I didn’t tell you I was ill because I didn’t want to scare you away, and if I didn’t have you—if I hadn’t had you for these past few years, I think I’d have lost my mind. So if things can’t be the same between us, can they at least not be terrible? You’re not permitted to be strange and uncomfortable around me now.” “So long as you don’t go falling in love with me.” I don’t know why I say it. Call it battlements around my helpless heart. Percy looks away from me fast, shoulders curling up. It almost looks like a flinch. But then he says, “I’ll try my best.

An immaculate garden is a hostile place to most wildlife. Beautifully weeded borders, with every fallen leaf and twig gathered and disposed of, hedges kept constantly crisp and grass mown to within a fraction of its life may make a certain sort of gardener glow with pride but will provide little comfort for most of our birds, mammals and insects.

You think your smart little mouth is going to persuade me? Make me angry so I’ll touch you? … “Don’t play coy now, Moon Eyes. I see the way you look at me. I know you wanted to do a lot more than kiss me the other night.” … “Don’t be embarrassed about it. A lot of women want me. The feeling is mutual in this though. I’m dying to see if you fuck as passionately as you perform, but I’m not going to do that.

Whiskey?” Camille cried as she stood on a wharf in Port Adelaide harbor. “You brought us onto a whiskey cargo ship?” Ira spread out his arms. “And rum, love. Don’t forget the rum.” The high tide slowly swallowed the wharf pilings, and the Juggernaut, a whiskey runner, was in the final process of loading. “Listen,” Ira said to both Oscar and Camille, who looked at their escort with doubt. “There couldn’t be a better cargo to ride with than whiskey and rum. You think if there were pots and pans and spoons in there, the captain would take her full chisel to Talladay? People pay a pretty price for liquor, mates, and the ones delivering it make out like bandits.” The Juggernaut wasn’t worth the ten crowns it cost Monty to secure a spot aboard. The schooner didn’t look seaworthy with its chipped paint, barnacle-covered hull, sloppy lines, and patched canvas sail.

Before you start teaching me, there is something you should know.” A smile of my own works its way onto my mouth. I’m about to die, but I don’t care. I don’t care. “Lyra, don’t you dare.” But it’s too late. “Don’t underestimate the girl willing to do anything for what she wants.” I lean back into the empty air behind me, feeling my stomach drop as I descend towards the crashing waves below. My watery eyes make out Thatcher’s form at the cliff’s edge, peering down at me. I win.

BILL MURRAY, Cast Member: Gilda got married and went away. None of us saw her anymore. There was one good thing: Laraine had a party one night, a great party at her house. And I ended up being the disk jockey. She just had forty-fives, and not that many, so you really had to work the music end of it. There was a collection of like the funniest people in the world at this party. Somehow Sam Kinison sticks in my brain. The whole Monty Python group was there, most of us from the show, a lot of other funny people, and Gilda. Gilda showed up and she’d already had cancer and gone into remission and then had it again, I guess. Anyway she was slim. We hadn’t seen her in a long time. And she started doing, “I’ve got to go,” and she was just going to leave, and I was like, “Going to leave?” It felt like she was going to really leave forever. So we started carrying her around, in a way that we could only do with her. We carried her up and down the stairs, around the house, repeatedly, for a long time, until I was exhausted. Then Danny did it for a while. Then I did it again. We just kept carrying her; we did it in teams. We kept carrying her around, but like upside down, every which way—over your shoulder and under your arm, carrying her like luggage. And that went on for more than an hour—maybe an hour and a half—just carrying her around and saying, “She’s leaving! This could be it! Now come on, this could be the last time we see her. Gilda’s leaving, and remember that she was very sick—hello?” We worked all aspects of it, but it started with just, “She’s leaving, I don’t know if you’ve said good-bye to her.” And we said good-bye to the same people ten, twenty times, you know. And because these people were really funny, every person we’d drag her up to would just do like five minutes on her, with Gilda upside down in this sort of tortured position, which she absolutely loved. She was laughing so hard we could have lost her right then and there. It was just one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in my life. I’ll always remember it. It was the last time I saw her.

When was the last contact you had with him?” Oscar asked. Ira took a long swig from his canteen, replaced the cap, and scrunched up his nose. “Five years ago,” he answered, then let out a wet burp. “’Scuse me, love.” Camille grimaced and sipped water from her own canteen. “Then you can’t be sure he’s still in Port Adelaide,” Oscar continued. Ira placed a hunk of salt pork in a pot with a few handfuls of small white beans and water. “Sure I can. Old Monty would’ve sent word if he packed up.” But Ira’s face darkened and his hand covered his stubbled beard. “Course, not if Stella went and told him ‘bout that time in Sydney.” Camille closed her eyes and knitted her fingers to keep them from forming fists. Oscar sat with his head in his large hands, as though he had an unbearable headache. Looking back at Ira, she figured he probably did. “Who is Stella and what happened in Sydney?” she asked. “Monty’s wife and an act I can’t describe with a lady present,” Ira crowed. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” Oscar said under his breath. “Don’t worry, mate. Stella’s conscience is buried so far under her folds of skin, she’s bound never to find it.” Ira stoked the small flames and showed them his toothy grin. “She’s a lot of woman to love, that Stella.” Camille’s eyes watered with shock. “I don’t think you could bluff your way out of that one,” Oscar said. Ira jumped into a crouch, bobbing up and down. “Wait till you see me bluff. It’s like an art.

It’s all right, I got off the ship okay. I’m alive,” he said again. But his voice sounded different now. “I said I’m alive, Camille. Open your eyes and look at me.” Camille’s heart shriveled as her eyelids fluttered open and she saw the ceiling of Monty’s shack. “Camille?” Oscar leaned over her, his calloused hand on her cheek. “Thank God. You’ve been delirious for nearly an hour.” Tears slipped down her cheeks as the truth stung her with renewed vigor. Her father wasn’t alive. He was truly gone. It had been nothing but a hallucination. “Why are you crying? Does something hurt?” Oscar asked, lightly prodding her arms and then checking her head. She was lying on a cot in front of the blazing stove, blankets covering her. They were scratchy and too heavy. She tried to push them away. “No.” Oscar blocked her arms. “Don’t do that.” “Why?” she asked, her throat dry and sore. Oscar looked apprehensive as he tucked the blankets tightly around her arms and neck. “Your clothes were soaked. You were shivering and flush with fever.” “Had to take ‘em off, love,” Ira said, coming to the foot of the cot. “You gave us quite a scare. That lump on the back of your head worked you over something nasty.” Camille stared at Ira, then Oscar. The crushed hope of her father being alive withered under the heat of embarrassment. “You…you removed my dress?” she whispered. Oscar backed away from her, as if he’d just slid his hand over an open flame. “No, no, I didn’t.” She looked to Ira. “Much as I’d been honored, the Irish bastard wouldn’t hear of it. Quite the prude.” Frustrated and head still piercing with pain, Camille felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Well, then, who?” “Nothin’ I ain’t seen before, woman,” Monty grumbled from his seat at the table as he sprinkled tobacco into a pipe. Camille gasped and pressed her lips together. She caught sight of her dress hanging on a rack by the fire.

It is all very well seeking yourself, but not when you find that ultimately you don’t enjoy the company you may end up keeping.

We all have an idealised picture of the garden that we have carried around in our heads from the moment it became ours and which, I guess, is never the same as the growing reality. Over the years that the garden is coming into being that image carries you forward and inspires you, but when things reach maturity, the cold light of reality can be harsh.

I don’t want to have a life without you in it. I don’t want to hear music that you’re not playing. I don’t want a body that hasn’t felt your love.

So Michele and Stefi's friends don't receive regular pocket monty, which is a very Anglo-Saxon, puritan thing, which its obsession with system and clarity, benefits and punishments, its perverse desire to have little children learn to manage given amounts of money over given periods of time.

Fuck reincarnation. This kind of pain? Heartbreak? It was too much to handle in just one lifetime. I don't wanna know how it feels in the next one. I can see it now. I'd probably be a butterfly. I'd land in the palm of his hand after flying the globe. He'd brush me away and the rejection alone would kill me.

But you love that house.’ ‘I do, yes, but it holds so many memories of Monty.’ ‘Isn’t that good?’ I reason. ‘In many ways, yes, it can be of great comfort . . .’ She pauses, then gestures around her. ‘But life isn’t a museum, Nell. I don’t want to live in the past.

How did you come to live in Amsterdam?” I ask her. “Did you study there?” She twists a strand of hair around her fingers, staring out over the rail and across the water. “No, I studied medicine in Algiers, then earned my doctoral degree in Italy. Then spent several years as a ship’s surgeon because I couldn’t find professional work on the continent.” She squints, counting the years backward in her head. “Then I was hired to assist at the Hortus Medicus—the botanical garden in Amsterdam that cultivates medicinal plants from around the world. They’re funded by the university, and most of the physicians do at least some of their training there. I started teaching as a substitute when the male professors were traveling or unwell, and eventually they gave me my own classes and let me do my own research.” “Do you speak Dutch?” I ask. She nods. “And Italian. And Arabic, and some of the Berber dialects, though not fluently.” “And you’re a doctor,” I say, trying to make it a statement rather than a question though the concept still seems outlandish, not because women don’t have the capacity for medical professions, but because I’ve simply never heard of any reaching such a recognized level of achievement. “A real doctor.” She gives me a half smile. “Improbable as it may seem, I am.” “Felicity Primrose Montague!” I exclaim. Monty throws back his head and laughs. Felicity rolls her eyes. “Oh good, now there are two of you.” “You’re incredible,” I say to her. She looks down at her hands, color rising in her cheeks. “That’s very kind, thank you.” “You are!” I say. “You’re a doctor! And a professor! At a university!” “It really is bloody impressive, Fel,” Monty adds. “And a pirate!” I say. “You’re like an adventure-novel heroine! I wish I could introduce you to my fiancée. She’d go mad over you.” “Is she interested in medicine or piracy?” Felicity asks. “Neither in particular,” I say. “But she’s very interested in women who cast off societal expectations and work for change despite the men who endeavor to stand in their way.

Are you around next Sunday?” Mr. Newton encourages. “We’ve business in Southampton this week, but perhaps we might meet up after.” When no one says anything, he prompts with obvious emphasis, “Monty? What do you think?” Henry—Monty—I sincerely have no idea what his name is—looks as though he’s been asked to select a date for his execution. “Must we?” “Don’t,” Mr. Newton says quietly, and they stare at each other for a moment. I can sense some unspoken conversation passing through the air between them. When Henry says nothing more, Mr. Newton turns to me. His smile is truly starting to test the limits of his face. “Brilliant. We’ll see you back here then.” He reaches out a hand to me again and starts to say, “It was so lovely to meet—” But I leap to my feet, strangling the spyglass lenses, and dismiss myself before I am forced to shake hands with a man who is not my brother.

We are gathered here today in the sight of God—oh shit, that part doesn’t really apply.” He consults his envelope again, then asks the crowd. “Does anyone have a pencil?” Again, he catches Felicity’s eye, and she gives him a gesture that clearly says move on. “Right. So. Not God. Sort of God—I don’t think he’d have anything against this, to be honest. But we’re here.” He looks up again from his notes, and seems to see Monty and Percy for the first time. His shoulders relax, and his face breaks into a smile so big his eyes crinkle, like there are no two people on earth he loves more. “To join these two in matrimony. And we don’t give a damn if it’s holy or not.” “Please don’t be crass at my wedding,” Monty says. His dark hair is studded with splashes of color from the wildflower garland. A single stem of yarrow has come free and is dangling down over his ear. “In lieu of scripture,” George says, as though he wasn’t interrupted, “Monty has requested I read an erotic poem.” The assembly laughs and Monty goes fantastically red. He glares at George, mouth puckered mostly to keep himself from smiling. Percy has to turn away to conceal his laughter.

Did you . . . ? Have you just . . . ? Oh my God!” Mr. Newton lets out a breathy laugh. He’s more flushed than Monty, and I feel, for a moment, a bit less like a rotted fish carcass some feral cat deposited on their doorstep. To Percy Newton, I suspect I am at least a fresh fish. “What are you doing here? I mean obviously you’re here to see Monty. This is so . . . my God, I knew you when you were a baby. Though I don’t suppose that really counts, as one can’t truly know a baby; notoriously poor conversationalists, babies. Back then we all called you . . .” He stops, seems to swallow whatever he was about to say, then finishes instead, “Adrian. We called you Adrian because that’s your name—what else would we call you?” He must mistake my general discomfort for confusion, for he says, by way of explanation, “I grew up with your family—with Monty.

So. Henry—” “Jesus, stop, please, don’t.” His face pinches like I’ve just called him something far worse than his own name. “Monty’s fine.” “Oh.” I try to meet his eyes, but look away almost as soon as I do, staring instead at the fraying shoulder of his coat. “I could call you Mr. Montague, if Henry’s too familiar. Perhaps—” “For God’s sake, it’s Monty,” he says firmly. “That’s all I’ve been called for years.” I nod, still not looking at him. “All right then. Monty.” “You’re welcome to take Henry for yourself.” He scrapes at a trail of crumbs fossilized to the tabletop with his fingernail.

Who’s Felicity?” I ask. Monty stills, like a rabbit that’s heard the snap of a twig beneath a hunter’s boot. “What?” “You said your captain sails with Felicity. Who’s she?” “I don’t know. No one.” He looks like he’s going to snatch the pie and make a run for it. I take a step toward the door without meaning to, ready to head him off. “Well, which is it? Who’s Felicity?” “She’s . . .” He tilts his head upward and blows out an exasperated breath. “Damn it, whyyyyy? She’s your sister. That’s the last one of us, I swear,” he adds quickly. I must look stunned, though the news of also having a sister after discovering I have a brother hits less hard. What’s one more? It’s the same logic as finishing off a tin of biscuits when you’ve already eaten half of them, but I try not to dwell on that.

You’re not insane,” he says again. “Then what’s wrong with me?” I ask. “Why do I have these . . . these thoughts?” The word doesn’t feel like enough; it’s too airy, and implies I am capable of telling them apart from reality. “Is it fear?” Felicity asks. “Though I suppose fear is elicited by an immediate threat, and it sounds as though often there isn’t one. Except those created inside your mind. So it’s fear looking for a source? Does that sound right?” I press my fists against my forehead. “It feels like someone is shouting at me all the time, all these lies that I know are lies but I’m so terrified of what will happen if I don’t listen, and then it just gets louder and louder so that I can’t hear anything else over it all and I can’t make them stop.” I look up at Monty. “Does everyone feel this way?

At the altar, the wedding party seems to have recovered their composure—Monty’s face is slightly less red, and George clears his throat, shaking out his sleeves. “All right, next. Next, you will both read the vows you wrote.” “What?” Monty looks from George to Percy. “No, we don’t . . . no. Wait. We said we weren’t doing those! You”—he points an accusatory finger at Percy—“said I didn’t have to write anything, I just had to show up! Did you write something? Oh my God!” He shrieks as Percy reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “You bastard, you wrote something?” “I didn’t want you to stress over it,” Percy says. “Son of a bitch.” “I thought you’d prefer to come up with something on the spot.” “Goddammit, Percy, I’m going to murder you.” “See, that’s perfect.” Percy starts to unfold the paper, but Monty grabs it, crumpling it between their hands. “No no, you don’t get to read your thoughtful shite first! I’ll look like even more of an idiot.” “All right, you go first, then.” Monty takes a deep breath, then another, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time in his life. “What do I have to say?” he asks, looking to George, who shrugs, then back to Percy. “You don’t have to say anything,” Percy replies. “Well, yes, I know that, but then I look like an insensitive twat who didn’t write his own wedding vows, though in my defense,” and here he addresses the crowd, “he told me we weren’t doing these.” Percy unfolds Monty’s fist from around the crumpled vows, then takes his hand. “Just tell me you love me,” he says. “That’s more than enough.

I have absolutely no fucking clue who I am. I’m just a guy, who likes hockey. I don’t have any hobbies, no traits, nothing spectacular about me. I’m just a guy who as my rehab therapist told me, is desperately trying to figure out what I can give to the ones around me.

Went off in one of his pets as soon as he heard you wasn't home," said Ferdy. "Said he'd call on Revesby to answer for his villainy. Good God. I'm dashed if that Greek thing hasn't got after Monty too, Sherry! Very remarkable circumstance, 'pon my soul it is!" "What the devil *is* all this about a dashed Greek?" demanded Sherry. "George was trying to tell me about him, but I'm hanged if I could make head or tail of it! All I know is, I'm not acquainted with any Greeks, and what's more I don't want to be!" "It ain't a thing you're acquainted with, dear old boy. Duke knows what it is. Comes up behind a fellow when he ain't expecting it. Thought it was after me, but it turns out to be Monty. Good thing." "Yes, but what *is* it?" Mr. Tarleton said, with a quiver of amusement in his voice: "I fancy he means Nemesis." "That's it!" Ferdy said, looking at him with respect. "Nemesis! You know him too?" "Well, it's more than I do!" declared Sherry. "What's more, whoever he is, he had nothing to do with my coming to Bath!

How did you find us?” I ask, looking between him and Percy. “When it became apparent you had absconded with a member of Scipio’s crew, I consulted him for information about your partner in crime,” Monty says. “At which point he informed me that the woman you had chosen to hang your hopes upon is a member of the Crown and Cleaver fleet and that any dealings you might have with her were likely to be criminal at best.” “Why did he take Sim on if he knew she was dangerous?” I ask. “I was raised under the Crown and Cleaver,” Ebrahim says from the stairs, and I jump. I had forgotten he was there. “I vouched for her.” “Which of course led to him feeling responsible,” Monty says, “and Scipio feeling responsible, and also Percy and I felt responsible and we were all determined to get you out of whatever trouble you had so determinedly gotten yourself in. Don’t look so surprised. We’d move heaven and earth for you. Unless of course there is any actual heavy lifting involved, in which case, I’ll abstain, but don’t believe that in any way tarnishes the sentiment.

Monty manifests suddenly at my shoulder like an obnoxious ghost, grinning at me in a way that makes me realize how close to my ear Sim was speaking. “I think she likes you,” he says. I roll my eyes. “Just because you and Percy live in unholy matrimony doesn’t mean every same-gendered pair also wants to. And we only kissed once, and that was more an experimentation to see if kissing can be an enjoyable experience for me. And the answer is no, though I’d say she’s the best I’ve had. But the point is moot as I don’t think it’s ever really going to be good because I just don’t seem to desire that sort of relationship with anyone the way everyone else does. But just because she kissed me doesn’t mean she likes me. I once saw you necking a hedgerow.” Monty blinks. “I meant likes as in begrudgingly respects, but my word, how long have you been bottling that up, darling?” “Dear God, you really are the worst.” I stalk past him toward the upper deck, trying my best to ignore his hooked talon of a smile. “Is it too late to be unrescued?

I laugh without thinking. “You sound like Father.” Monty pivots sharply from me, shoulders rising. I swallow. Now that I have something I should apologize for, I don’t make a sound. He rubs a hand over his cheek, like he’s massaging a bruise, then says, his voice peevish,

Monty retrieves a cane lying under his chair and pushes himself up with a wince. He leans heavily on it, but refuses the arm I extend to him. He refuses Felicity’s arm too before realizing she wasn’t offering it as a crutch. “Scissors,” she says, and Monty surrenders them. “Please don’t touch my things.” “Stop having such interesting things,” Monty counters. She scowls at him. “Being an invalid is dull!” “You lack impulse control.” She holds the kitchen door for us both, and as Monty passes, I hear her mutter, “Good Lord, Monty, what have you done to your hair? Did someone attack you with a dull cleaver?

Our Dutch hostess—or rather, the woman we are hoping will host us once we show up on her doorstep—is known to everyone but me. And though I had been warned about Johanna Hoffman’s friendliness and large dogs, there is no way to be truly prepared for either. When the door to her canal house opens, three dogs that look as though they each weigh more than I do spill out, followed by a plump, bright-faced woman in a pink dress that matches the bows around each dog’s neck. When she sees Felicity, she screams. In spite of not having anything in her hands, I swear she somehow still drops a vase. She throws her arms around Felicity, squeezing her so hard she nearly lifts her off the ground. “Felicity Montague, I thought you were dead!” “Not dead,” Felicity says. One of the dogs tries to wedge itself between the two of them, tail wagging so furiously it makes a thumping drumbeat against the door frame. A second snuffles its nose against my palm, trying to flip my hand onto the top of its head in an encouragement to pet. “It’s been years. Years, Felicity, I haven’t heard from you in years.” She takes Felicity’s face in her hands and presses their foreheads together. “Hardly a word since you left! What on earth are you doing here? I can’t believe it!” She releases Felicity just long enough to turn to Monty and throw open her arms to him. “And Harold!” “Henry,” he corrects, the end coming out in a wheeze as she wraps him in a rib-crushing hug. The dog gives up nudging my hand and instead mashes its face into my thigh, leaving a trail of spittle on my trousers. “Of course, Henry!” She lets go of him, turns to me, and says with just as much enthusiasm, “And I don’t know who you are!” And then I too am being hugged. She smells of honey and lavender, which makes the embrace feel like being wrapped in a loaf of warm bread. “This is Adrian,” Felicity says. “Adrian!” Johanna cries. One of the dogs lets out a long woof in harmony and the others take up the call, an off-key, enthusiastic chorus. She releases me, then turns to Felicity again, but Felicity holds up a preemptive hand. “All right, that’s enough. No more hugs.” She brushes an astonishing amount of dog hair off the front of her skirt, then says brusquely, “It’s good to see you, Johanna.” In return, Johanna smacks her on the shoulder. “You tell me you’re going to Rabat with some scholar and then you never come back and I never hear a single word! Why didn’t you write? Come inside, come on, push the dogs out the way, they won’t bite.” As we follow her into the hallway and then the parlor, she’s speaking so fast I can hardly understand her. “Where are you staying? Wherever it is, cancel it; let me put you up here. Was your luggage sent somewhere? I can have one of my staff collect it. We have plenty of room, and I can make up the parlor for you, Harry—” “Henry,” Monty corrects, then corrects himself. “Monty, Jo, I’ve told you to call me Monty.” She waves that away. “I know but it always feels so terribly glib! You were nearly a lord! But I’m happy to set you up down here so you needn’t navigate the stairs on your leg—gosh, what have you done to it? Your lovely Percy isn’t here, is he? Though we’ll have to do something so the dogs don’t jump on you in the night. They usually sleep with Jan and me, but they get squirrely when we have company. One of Jan’s brokers from Antwerp stayed with us last week and he swears he locked the bedroom door, but somehow Seymour still jumped on top of him in the middle of the night. Poor man thought he was being murdered in his bed. Please sit down—the dogs will move if you crowd them.

The Wolf didn’t notice. “What difference does it make if I’m furry or not?” He pointed at Heather, and the look in his eyes made it clear he expected an answer. “Aaaaahhhh,” she said, glancing at Monty. “Weeeellllll. When my mom takes a nap, our cat curls up with her, and my dad doesn’t care. But I don’t think he’d like it if the cat suddenly turned into a man.” “Why?” Simon demanded. “The cat would just be a cat in a different form.” Heather made a funny sound and didn’t answer. Monty quietly cleared his throat before he said, “A form that would be able to have sex with a human female.” “I didn’t want sex!” Simon shouted. “I just wanted my share of the covers.

Forty years of puppetry filled the frame: Monty the Dog from A Stray in the Manger, Danny the Imagination Dragon, Cosmic Starshine, Meow Meow and Rogers, the Inside-Out Man, Judge Goodsense, Flossy Bossypants, Mr. Don’t, Pizzaface, Sister Whimsical, Deuteronomy the Donkey . . .

Alistair is gorgeous in a sinister kind of way. Reckless abandon, turmoil, broken hearts, but you'll never leave him because the way his mouth travels on your body while you’re chained to his bed is enough to make any woman stay.  I didn’t want trouble. I wanted safe.  This opportunity, this school, is my chance to have that one day. A life I don't have

To the Sage Donahue’s of the world. Don’t you dare apologize for becoming what you had to in order to survive. You forged yourself from the flames. Bow to no one.

I don’t want to be perfect if it means I have to live without you.

And I don’t know how to stop them anymore. So, I need you to come back, okay? Please, I just need you to come back. Baby, I need you to save me.

comfort zone to do. So I don’t think you can have both, no.

Just like that, the shadow child learned that you don’t have to step into the light to find happiness. You just need to find the person willing to step into the gray area.

For me love shouldn’t be comfortable. Love should make you uncomfortable, it should challenge you, it should push your limits, make you grow as person and all of those things you have to be out of your comfort zone to do. So I don’t think you can have both, no.

I don’t owe you a fucking thing, Scarlett,

My father took me here once. I was six, and he made me dig a grave, just like you are, but we put my mother inside of it instead. I don’t remember complaining this much about it.

Don’t be an asshole,” he says. “I’m not pissed about you and Sage. I’m pissed that you felt you needed to hide it.

Don’t let me see you with him again, yeah?” I say, allowing her to taste herself for a moment longer before pulling away.

This is a story of personal fascism as opposed to organized fascism. [It] indicates how it is possible for us to have a Gestapo, if the country should go fascist. A character like Monty would qualify brilliantly for the leadership of the Belsen concentration camp. Fascism hates weakness in people; minorities. Monty hates fairies, Negroes, Jews, and foreigners. In the book, Monty murders a fairy. He could have murdered a Negro, a foreigner, or a Jew.” Despite the message being thickly ladled at times, Crossfire’s story was deftly told. Robert Young’s earnest homilies about brotherhood don’t carry half the weight of Robert Mitchum explaining how ugly realities released by the war can’t be neatly tucked away. “The snakes are loose,” he says, like a man who knows how bad it’s going to get. Crossfire shocked everyone, including Schary and Scott, by being a box-office hit. Whether its success was due to a timely message or taut storytelling, no one was sure (although surveys prior to the film’s release suggested little public interest in ethnically themed stories). As the picture reaped humanitarian awards, anti-Communist crusaders moved in on Scott and Dmytryk. Both were branded Red and sent to jail, members of the infamous Hollywood Ten.

Stephen is still having a problem understanding my fascination with Lyra, but I don’t question his desire to keep Coraline Whittaker in his basement even though we were supposed to sell her a year ago.

When I love something, I love it with my entire being. The beating organ in my chest becomes this fiend for the things it likes. The things it needs. I don’t give mild, gentle emotions as others do.

From you?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What are you going to do, kill me in my sleep?” “Don’t flirt with me like that.” I smirk, watching the color of her cheeks turn pink.

Hi.” Sarah says and lifts her hand to wiggle her fingers. She’s grinning, the goofy grin of a woman on some serious painkillers. “Aww, you came to see me.” I can’t move yet. I’m paralyzed with overwhelming relief and love and fear. “They said you were shot.” “Well, I was grazed, really,” Sarah says with a giggle. “It’s just a flesh wound.” “Whatever, Monty Python." I’m left with the woman of my dreams. And she’s whole and healthy and she’s going to be okay. “Hi there, handsome,” she says with that goofy smile. “Hi.” I sit on the bed at her hip and drag my fingers down her flawless cheek. “You just took about ten years off my life.” “It’s only a flesh wound,” she says again in that horrible British accent, making me smile at her. “God, baby,” I inhale deeply and bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. “God, if it had been two inches to the right—” “I know,” she assures me and plunges her fingers in my hair, holding on tight. “I know. But it wasn’t. And I’m okay.” She shifts on the bed and hisses in pain. “But it burns like a mother ducker.” I pull back and grin. “Ducker?” “Auto correct of the mouth. I have to have it turned on because I have a five-year-old.” She smirks. “You’re hot.” “You’re drunk.” “Really good drugs for this flesh wound.” “Your British accent is horrible.” “There’s no need to insult me,” she says with a frown. “I’ve been shot for godsake. You’re supposed to baby me and pamper me and bend to my will.” “I’ve been bending to your will since day one.” “As if.” She rolls her eyes, then closes them and moans softly. “Do you need more medicine?” “Nah.” She smiles, but her eyes are still closed. “I’m just sleepy.” “Sweetheart, I need you to stay awake for a minute, okay?” “Okay.” But she doesn’t open her eyes. I lean in and kiss her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “Wake up, baby.” “Okay,” she repeats and forces her eyes open. “There you are.” “Here I am.” I swallow and look at her perfect lips, then into her amazing eyes. Why have I been such a stubborn ass? Why couldn’t I admit before how much I love her? God, I almost lost her. “I love you, Sarah.” “Wow. These drugs are good. I just dreamed that you said you love me.” I grin again and kiss her cheek. “I did. I love you so much. For those few moments that I thought I might lose you…it was agony, Sarah. I didn’t want another minute to go by without telling you that I love you because I realize how short life can be, and we shouldn’t waste it.” “This is a very serious conversation for someone on hard narcotics,” she says, but she cups my face in her hands and looks deeply into my eyes. “But I love you too, handsome. I love you so much that it hurts, and let me tell you, that’s a lot.” “It sounds like a lot,” I reply and lean my forehead on hers. “Don’t ever scare me like this again.” “Scared me too,” she admits softly. “I just found you.” “You’re stuck with me, baby.” “Good. I love you, too. Both of you.” “Both of us?” “There are two of you right now.” She giggles softly. “And I think I’m going to pass out.” “Go ahead. I have you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.

I crave something more. Depth. Intellect. Profound longing for what we can’t have. Not this deliberate aimlessness. I don’t belong here. I don’t think I ever did. And the worst part is, if not here, then where the fuck am I meant to be?

Hold me to you. Let me hear your heartbeat because yours calms mine. It's going to be annoying, and I don't want to be a bother, but I need to feel like I'm worth it. I need you to remind me I'm worthy of your love, Nico. So just love me harder.

We went on that programme and we’d done our homework, thinking we were going to get into quite a tough theological argument, but it turned out to be virtually a slinging match. We were very surprised by that. I don’t get angry very often but I got incandescent with rage at their attitude and the smugness of it. And it was really the way they played to the audience that got me. We weren’t defeated in argument at all. John was brilliant. What they were trying to do was to sort of smirk at the audience and belittle what we’d done and that seemed so out of touch and so stupid and so mistaken. I mean, how do they think the film was made? That we go in there one night, write the script and the film’s made the next morning? They don’t realise we’d been working on it for two years, we’d studied, that we had an opinion and we had an attitude, but they wouldn’t let us have that. So it was their condescension that really got me irritated.’ Gilliam remembers having never seen Palin quite so pissed off before.

Always write with passion; with your mind and with your heart. Never forget who you are writing for, but don’t write just to get your reader’s approval.

magpies, jays, sparrowhawks, kestrels, all

a little, would have existed to keep animals

Analytic philosophy has spent the last seventy years engaged in two successive revolts. If you didn't know this, don't feel bad -- philosophers engaged in revolt look pretty much exactly like philosophers not engaged in revolt. They go to the office, teach introduction to philosophy, make a few phone calls, have office hours, work on a rough draft, and head home. There's no storming of the parliament building, ripping up of city streets, or lobbing of Molotov cocktails for your revolting philosopher, or, I should say, the philosopher in revolt. "Themes in Contemporary Analytic Philosophy as Reflected in the Work of Monty Python

hearing Monty Tinsman’s name caused Jayson to scowl again. “He also said the woman is a witch in high heels.” Jayson sighed. Another part of this ordeal to deal with. “She’s supposed to be here tomorrow.” He glanced at Jack. “Why don’t you show her around?” He wasn’t hopeful, but he gave it a shot.

I don’t want to leave you empty, Scarlett. Don’t make me leave you empty.