Notting.hill Quotes

There is a law written in the darkest of the Books of Life, and it is this: If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.

Adventures happen on dull days, and not on sunny ones. When the chord of monotony is stretched most tight, then it breaks with a sound like song.

Individually, men may present a more or less rational appearance, eating, sleeping, and scheming. But humanity a a whole is changeful, mystical, fickle, delightful. Men are men, but Man is a woman.

There’s something very comforting about watching a Hugh Grant movie. You know no one’s head will be blown off in the first three minutes, no one will be tortured, and the worst thing that might happen is seeing a lanky Welshman eating mayonnaise in his underpants

Happiness isn't happiness without a violin-playing goat.

Be careful how you suggest things to me. For there is in me a madness which goes beyond martyrdom, the madness of an utterly idle man.

To each man one soul only is given; to each soul only is given a little power - the power at some moments to outgrow and swallow up the stars.

Whoopsidaisies!

The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. And one of the games to which it is most attached is called "Keep to-morrow dark," and which is also named (by the rustics in Shropshire, I have no doubt) "Cheat the Prophet." The players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that the clever men have to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. They then go and do something else. That is all. For a race of simple tastes, however, it is great fun.

Oh God, my stomach must have won a medal- it's doing a lap of honour now.

The Classic Notting Hill junkie, i.e; Armani underwear, Pink’s shirt and Burberry belt tourniquets

Never take drugs before Marmalade

He was your usual man when it came to romance, which is to say he couldn’t recite Baa Baa Black Sheep when sober, whereas when drunk, sixteen cantos of Byron’s Don Juan was par for the course.

He is a man, I think," he said, "who cares for nothing but a joke. He is a dangerous man." Lambert laughed in the act of lifting some macaroni to his mouth. "Dangerous!" he said. "You don't know little Quin, sir!" "Every man is dangerous," said the old man, without moving, "Who cares only for one thing. I was once dangerous myself.

Many clever men like you have trusted to civilization. Many clever Babylonians, many clever Egyptians, many clever men at the end of Rome. Can you tell me, in a world that is flagrant with the failures of civilisation, what there is particularly immortal about yours?

But humanity as a whole is changeful, mystical, fickle, delightful. Men are men, but Man is a woman.

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

He discovered the fact that all romantics know—that adventures happen on dull days, and not on sunny ones. When the chord of monotony is stretched most tight, then it breaks with a sound like song.

The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up.

They stoned the false prophets, it is said; but they could have stoned true prophets with a greater and juster enjoyment.

Don't forget... I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her

The more I think about things, the more I see no rhyme or reason in life. no one knows why some things work out and some things don't. Why some of us are lucky and some of us get...

I have never been to St. John's Wood. I dare not. I should be afraid of the innumerable night of fir trees, afraid to come upon a blood red cup and the beating of the wings of the Eagle.

In the beginning of the twentieth century you could not see the ground for clever men. They were so common that a stupid man was quite exceptional, and when they found him, they followed him in crowds down the street and treasured him up and gave him some high post in the State.

just as when we see a pig in a litter larger than the other pigs, we know that by an unalterable law of the Inscrutable it will some day be larger than an elephant,—just as we know, when we see weeds and dandelions growing more and more thickly in a garden, that they must, in spite of all our efforts, grow taller than the chimney-pots and swallow the house from sight, so we know and reverently acknowledge, that when any power in human politics has shown for any period of time any considerable activity, it will go on until it reaches to the sky.

You irritate me sublimely. What can it be in me? Is it the relic of a moral sense?

Every man is dangerous," said the old man without moving, "who cares only for one thing.

Adam Wayne, the conqueror, with his face flung back and his mane like a lion's, stood with his great sword point upwards, the red raiment of his office flapping around him like the red wings of an archangel. And the King saw, he knew not how, something new and overwhelming. The great green trees and the great red robes swung together in the wind. The preposterous masquerade, born of his own mockery, towered over him and embraced the world. This was the normal, this was sanity, this was nature, and he himself, with his rationality, and his detachment and his black frock-coat, he was the exception and the accident - a blot of black upon a world of crimson and gold.

I hope that's a good thing,' I said, thinking he might say I reminded him of a film star- then we'd actually have something in common. I was hoping for Anne Hathaway or Julia Roberts, and not the obvious Vivien Leigh. Even Angelina Jolie would have done, though I'd never quite forgiven her for stealing Brad's heart. Talking of Brad, was Sean starting to resemble him too? No, he could never be a Brad, a Matthew McConaughey maybe at a push, but never a Brad Pitt.

When you say you want all peoples to unite, you really mean that you want all peoples to unite to learn the tricks of your people. If the Bedouin Arab does not know how to read, some English missionary or schoolmaster must be sent to teach him to read, but no one ever says, 'This schoolmaster does not know how to ride on a camel; let us pay a Bedouin to teach him.' You say your civilisation will include all talents. Will it? Do you really mean to say that at the moment when the Esquimaux has learnt to vote for a County Council, you will have learnt to spear a walrus? I recur to the example I gave. In Nicaragua we had a way of catching wild horses—by lassooing the fore feet—which was supposed to be the best in South America. If you are going to include all the talents, go and do it. If not, permit me to say what I have always said, that something went from the world when Nicaragua was civilised.

Then the small man suddenly ran after them and said: "I want to get my haircut. I say, do you know a little shop anywhere where they cut hair properly? I keep on having my hair cut, but it keeps on growing again." One of the tall men looked at him with the air of a pained naturalist.

As they drove on the quiet A3320 towards Notting Hill, Doris spoke. “He won’t, you know. He won’t pay the ransom.” Wolfe offered her a reassuring smile, but inside his stomach housed a million butterflies. Shamefully, he passed wind again, the words of his captive disconcerting him on his journey to Shepherd’s Bush.

On 20 August in Notting Hill, west London, a group of teddy boys – young rock-and-roll-loving white men who wore creeper shoes and suits – set upon the streets with the sole objective of attacking black people. They called themselves the ‘nigger hunters’. That night, their violent spree put five black men in hospital.23

you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.

When you say you want all peoples to unite, you really mean that you want all peoples to unite to learn the tricks of your people.

I'm just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her

Up on the stage people appeared to be dying left right and centre, and for most of the performance I had quite felt like leaping up there and joining them.

The human race, to which so many of my readers belong...

Don't you believe people when they tell you that people sought for a sign, and believed in miracles because they were ignorant. They did it because they were wise, filthily, vilely wise—too wise to eat or sleep or put on their boots with patience.

All revolutions are doctrinal—such as the French one, or the one that introduced Christianity. For it stands to common sense that you cannot upset all existing things, customs, and compromises, unless you believe in something outside them, something positive and divine.

You know what I did last night? I watched every love confession scene I could find, and every single one of them reminded me of you. All of them. Notting Hill. Crazy Rich Asians. Ten Things I Hate About You—Ben, I cried watching the end of the Kissing Booth sequel, because for me, it’s always you. You’re the point of every story.

And it did certainly appear that the prophets had put the people (engaged in the old game of Cheat the Prophet) in a quite unprecedented difficulty. It seemed really hard to do anything without fulfilling some of their prophecies. But there was, nevertheless, in the eyes of labourers in the streets, of peasants in the fields, of sailors and children, and especially women, a strange look that kept the wise men in a perfect fever of doubt. They could not fathom the motionless mirth in their eyes. They still had something up their sleeve; they were still playing the game of Cheat the Prophet. Then the wise men grew like wild things, and swayed hither and thither, crying, "What can it be? What can it be? What will London be like a century hence? Is there anything we have not thought of? Houses upside down--more hygienic, perhaps? Men walking on hands--make feet flexible, don't you know? Moon ... motor-cars ... no heads...." And so they swayed and wondered until they died and were buried nicely.

Freedom of speech means practically, in our modern civilisation, that we must only talk about unimportant things. We must not talk about religion, for that is illiberal; we must not talk about bread and cheese, for that is talking shop; we must not talk about death, for that is depressing; we must not talk about birth, for that is indelicate. It

My fear of getting hurt or making a fool of myself is always greater than my desire to ask the girl out. There’s been so many girls over the years that I’ve loved from afar, but never actually asked out. I just can’t do it and I know it’s ridiculous because worst case scenario they say no, but for some reason the thought of rejection terrifies me enough to not do it.

summit of Notting Hill, across the street from the faded elegance of St. John’s Church. Once Dawn had loved this Victorian house with its pale yellow stucco, its superbly proportioned rooms and beautiful appointments, and for a moment she mourned the passing of such an innocent pleasure. Tonight the windows were dark as she turned into the drive, the blank panes mirroring her car lights. She had managed to beat Karl home, then; she would have a few minutes’ respite. Turning off the engine, she reached for her parcels, then paused, squeezing her eyes shut.

I decided to begin with romantic films specifically mentioned by Rosie. There were four: Casablanca, The Bridges of Madison County, When Harry Met Sally, and An Affair to Remember. I added To Kill a Mockingbird and The Big Country for Gregory Peck, whom Rosie had cited as the sexiest man ever. It took a full week to watch all six, including time for pausing the DVD player and taking notes. The films were incredibly useful but also highly challenging. The emotional dynamics were so complex! I persevered, drawing on movies recommended by Claudia about male-female relationships with both happy and unhappy outcomes. I watched Hitch, Gone with the Wind, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Annie Hall, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and Fatal Attraction. Claudia also suggested I watch As Good as It Gets, “just for fun.” Although her advice was to use it as an example of what not to do, I was impressed that the Jack Nicholson character handled a jacket problem with more finesse than I had. It was also encouraging that, despite serious social incompetence, a significant difference in age between him and the Helen Hunt character, probable multiple psychiatric disorders, and a level of intolerance far more severe than mine, he succeeded in winning the love of the woman in the end. An excellent choice by Claudia.

Magic? Scarlett, successful relationships require give and take, love and understanding, not special somethings and a magic wand.

The players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that clever men have to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. They then go and do something else. That is all. For a race of simple tastes, however, it is great fun. —G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill

He had to so sublime an extent that great quality of royalty—an almost imbecile unconsciousness of everybody, that people went after him as they do after kings—to see what would be the first thing or person he would take notice of.

You politicians are such ingrained demagogues that even when you have a despotism you think of nothing but public opinion.

She believed pop culture was paramount. She idolised Andy Warhol, and didn’t hesitate walking into the cinephile mecca Kim’s Video on St Marks and requesting Notting Hill from the clerk, who openly eye-rolled.

The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children’s games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. And one of the games to which it is most attached is called “Keep to-morrow dark,” and which is also named (by the rustics in Shropshire, I have no doubt) “Cheat the Prophet.” The players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that the clever men have to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. They then go and do something else. That is all.

If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.

I had no idea how much nonsense it was, but nonsense it all is.

A young man may keep himself from vice by continually thinking of disease. He may keep himself from it also by continually thinking of the Virgin Mary. There may be question about which method is the more reasonable, or even about which is the more efficient. But surely there can be no question about which is the more wholesome.

The word "pillar-box" is unpoetical. But the thing pillar-box is not unpoetical; it is the place to which friends and lovers commit their messages, conscious that when they have done so they are sacred, and not to be touched, not only by others, but even (religious touch!) by themselves. That red turret is one of the last of the temples.

Deb snorted. "Men are about as complicated as goldfish." Figures. Every goldfish I'd ever had died.

I want something more in my life. Something real.

Zar mislite kako se ja nemam pravo boriti za Notting Hill, Vi, čija se engleska vlada tako često borila za budalaštine? Ako, kao što Vaši bogati prijatelji tvrde, nema bogova, a nebo iznad nas je mračno, za što bi se drugo čovjek trebao boriti, nego za mjesto koje je bilo rajski vrt njegovog djetinjstva i kratki raj njegove prve ljubavi? Ako ni hramovi, niti sveta pisma nisu sveta, što je sveto ako čovjekova vlastita mladost nije sveta?

Nebunii sunt întotdeauna serioși; înnebunesc din lipsă de umor.

Un singur suflet i s-a dat fiecărui om, iar fiecărui suflet un dram de putere - puterea ca în unele momente să se înalțe și să cuprindă stelele.

L'ultima scena del tenero Notting Hill offre una descrizione inedita della felicità: Julia Robrts con la testa appoggiata sulle ginocchia di Hugh Grent che legge un libro. Incredibile: si può aver Julia Roberts sulle ginocchia e leggere un libro. Anzi, a volte si può averla proprio perché si è capaci di leggere un libro. Quindi leggere un libro non è sempre: a) un lavoro forzato, b) un passatempo da sfigati, c) una pericolosa malattia sociale, come invece crede la maggior parte dei maschi giovani (e meno giovani) del Paese. La scoperta è stata accolta con stupore da vasti settori del pubblico, gli stessi che a metà del film non avevano riso a una battuta su Henry James per il semplice motivo che ignoravano chi fosse. All'uscita un ragazzino non si era ancora ripreso dallo shock; "Hai visto Hugh Grent? Leg-ge-va!" diceva a un amico, con la voce imbarazzata di chi sta rivelando un atto erotico. Sono momenti duri per gli ultimi seguaci di Gutemberg: l'orco Bill Gates ha dichiarato di voler abolire la carta entro la fine del prossimo decennio. E l'han pure applaudito, anziché tirargli una playstation in testa. Anche per questo, grazie allo sceneggiatore di Notting Hill, Richard Curtis, lo stesso che in Quattro matrimoni e un funerale fece conoscere il genio poetico di W.H. Auden. Ha fatto più lui per la famosa "cultura" che tanti nostri cineasti finanziati dallo Stato e ignorati dal pubblico.

Agora, há uma lei escrita no mais escuro dos Livros da Vida, e é esta: Se você olhar para algo novecentas e noventa e nove vezes, você está perfeitamente seguro, se você olhar pela milésima vez, você está sob o terrível perigo de vê-lo pela primeira vez.

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.” —Notting Hill

As I sat on the sofa in the borrowed flat in Notting Hill, a place that, although it was not mine, was the only place I had, my love and fear were the only things I truly possessed. I held on to them, for they seemed then to be as real as material objects.

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.

That’s what life is. Moment to moment encapsulated right in that very second. There is no past and there is no future. It’s in the breath, the focus, the intention to just be.

My heart has just sunk. Whatever this is, and believe me I know it’s epic, it can’t ever truly be anything. I have nothing to promise and nothing to give. Anything less than that would be a travesty for a man as exceptional as this one.

I’m so glad I met you,” I whisper into the shadowy haze. His arms tighten a notch. “I’m never letting you go.

I’d spent so long forgetting to live, keeping below the radar, that I’d long forgotten there could be a spark in the veins that pushed you from one moment to the next with only a heartbeat between. Life was simply a heartbeat. Love the silence between.

What is wrong with the modern world will not be righted by attributing the whole disease to each of its symptoms in turn; first to the tavern and then to the cinema and then to the reporter's room. The evil of journalism is not in the journalists. It is not in the poor men on the lower level of the profession, but in the rich men at the top of the profession; or rather in the rich men who are too much on top of the profession even to belong to it. The trouble with newspapers is the Newspaper Trust, as the trouble might be with a Wheat Trust, without involving a vilification of all the people who grow wheat. It is the American plutocracy and not the American press. What is the matter with the modern world is not modern headlines or modern films or modern machinery. What is the matter with the modern world is the modern world; and the cure will come from another.

progress" is simply a comparative of which we have not settled the superlative.

The end of her story was the beginning of ours. Clio sold her pink town house in Notting Hill and bought a similar—but significantly cheaper—house in the countryside. She did not sell any of her trainers.

I was born, like other men, in a spot of the earth which I loved because I had played boys' games there, and fallen in love, and talked with my friends through nights that were nights of the gods. And I feel the riddle. These little gardens where we told our lives. These streets where we brought our dead. Why should they be commonplace?

Suppose I am God," said the voice, "and suppose I made the world in idleness. Suppose the stars, that you think eternal, are only the idiot fireworks of an everlasting schoolboy. Suppose the sun and the moon, to which you sing alternately, are only the two eyes of one vast and sneering giant, opened alternately in a never-ending wink. Suppose the trees, in my eyes, are as foolish as enormous toad-stools. Suppose Socrates and Charlemagne are only to me beasts, made funnier by walking on their hind legs. Suppose I am God, and having made things, laugh at them." "And suppose I am man," answered the other, " And suppose that I give the answer that shatters even a laugh. Suppose I do not laugh back at you, do not blaspheme you, do not curse you. But suppose, standing up straight under the sky, with every power of my being, thank you for the fools' paradise you have made. Suppose I praise you, with a literal pain of ecstasy, for the jest that has brought me so terrible a joy. If we have taken the child's games, and given them the seriousness of a crusade, if we have drenched your grotesque Dutch garden with the blood of martyrs, we have turned a nursery into a temple. I ask you, in the name of heaven, who wins?

I watched Hitch, Gone with the Wind, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Annie Hall, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and Fatal Attraction. Claudia also suggested I watch As Good as It Gets,

Giacché, che cosa è mai uno stato dove non si sogni?

Smiles make a difference in life. They cost nothing and they can make a big difference to your day.

The very first detective fiction, written by Edgar Allan Poe, may have been set in Paris, but the book usually described as the first detective novel was Charles Warren Adams’s The Notting Hill Mystery, republished recently by the British Library.

By the time they arrive at Notting Hill, whatever rogue aspect of personality has been driving this morning’s expedition seems to have decamped, leaving her feeling purposeless and confused.

Right now, I feel it. Life. I can feel what living is. It’s in one moment to the next. One breath that leads to another. One touch, one sigh, one glance, creating a perfect moment that is imprinted forever.

Men are men, but Man is a woman.

I’m just—I’m so bad at this. How am I so bad at this? You know what I did last night? I watched every love confession scene I could find, and every single one of them reminded me of you. All of them. Notting Hill. Crazy Rich Asians. Ten Things I Hate About You— Ben, I cried watching the end of the Kissing Booth sequel, because for me, it’s always you. You’re the point of every story.