Rita Hayworth And Shawshank Redemption Quotes

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.

It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living, or get busy dying.

oh shit it's shit

I don't have to listen to rumors about a man when I can judge him for myself.

They say The Pacific has no memory. That's where I want to live the rest of my life. A warm place with no memory.

I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

I hope.

I hope he died of intestinal cancer in a part of the world where morphine is as of yet undiscovered.

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild.

It always comes down to two choices; Get busy living, or get busy dying.

Andy was the part of me they could never lock up, the part of me that will rejoice when the gates finally open for me and I walk out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of mad-money in my pocket. That part of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and scared the rest of me is. I guess it's just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used it better. -Red

Anyway, as the old barrelhouse song says, My God, how the money rolled in. Norton must have subscribed to the old Puritan notion that the best way to figure out which folks God favours is by checking their bank acounts.

They found him guilty, and brother, if Maine had the death penalty, he would have done the airdance before that spring's crocuses poked their heads out of the dirt.

I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and rolling up the muddy bottom.

It goes back to what I said about Andy wearing his freedom like an invisibility coat, about how he never really developed a prison mentality. His eyes never got that dull look.

What was right with him he’d only give you a little at a time. What was wrong with him he kept bottled up inside.

Because guys like us, Red, we know there's a third choice. An alternative to staying simon-pure and bathing in the filth and the slime. It's the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off the walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of the two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you judge how well you are doing by how well you sleep at night...and what your dreams are like.

You balance off your walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you.

I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

When you take away a man’s freedom and teach him to live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability to think in dimensions.

I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid. I’d like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t expressed in words, and it makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a grey place dares to dream. It was as if some beautiful bird had flapped into our drab little cage and made these walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.

I asked him once what the posters meant to him, and he gave me a peculiar, surprised sort of look. “Why, they mean the same thing to me as they do to most cons, I guess,” he said. “Freedom.

At first you can't stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you accept them... and then, as your body and your mind ad your spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them.

It's amazing how many men remember him that way, and amazing how many men were on that work-crew when Andy Dufresne faced down Byron Hadley. I thought there were nine or ten of us, but by 1955 there must have been two hundred of us, maybe more... if you believed what you heard.

—Diablos, ni siquiera tengo un título de bachiller. —Ya lo sé —dijo—. Pero no es una hoja de papel lo que hace a un hombre. Ni la cárcel lo que le deshace.

Todo se reduce a dos posibilidades: o te consagras a vivir o te dedicas a morir.

What it comes down to, Red, is some people refuse to get their hands dirty at all. That’s called sainthood, and the pigeons land on your shoulders and crap all over your shirt.

There was a goofy sort of feeling that if the Dead Sox could come to life, then maybe anybody could do it.

But it isn’t just a piece of paper that makes a man. And it isn’t just prison that breaks one, either.

Cuatro tragos al año... sólo actúa así alguien a quien la bebida le ha pegado muy fuerte... con fuerza suficiente para hacerle sangrar.

Te conceden la vida, te permiten vivir, y eso es precisamente lo que te impiden, lo que te quitan, o te quitan al menos todo cuanto en la vida merece la pena.

Either get busy living, or get busy dying..." ~ Red, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.

Claro que recuerdo el nombre. Zihuatanejo. Un nombre así es demasiado bello para olvidarlo. Estoy nerviosísimo; tan nervioso que casi no puedo sostener el lápiz en mi mano temblorosa. Creo que es el nerviosismo que sólo un hombre libre puede sentir, un hombre libre que inicia un largo viaje cuyo final es incierto. Tengo la esperanza de que Andy esté allá. Tengo la esperanza de poder cruzar la frontera. Tengo la esperanza de encontrar a mi amigo y estrecharle la mano. Tengo la esperanza de que el Pacífico sea tan azul como en mis sueños. Tengo esperanza.

—Zihuatanejo —lo dijo pronunciando la palabra con una lentitud musical—. Allá abajo, en México. Es un pequeño lugar que queda a unos treinta kilómetros de Playa Azul. Unos ciento sesenta kilómetros al noroeste de Acapulco, en la costa del Pacífico. ¿Sabes lo que dicen los mexicanos del Pacífico? Le dije que no lo sabía. —Dicen que no tiene memoria. Y precisamente por eso. Red, quiero acabar allí mis días. En un lugar cálido y sin memoria.

I was beginning to enjoy his quiet, low-key style. When you've spent ten years in stir, as I had then, you can get awfully tired of the bellowers and the braggarts and the loud-mouths. Yes, I think it would be fair to say I liked Andy from the first”.

It's the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off your walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you judge how well you're doing by how well you sleep at night...and what your dreams are like.

It's the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off your walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you judge how well you're doing by how well you sleep at night, and what your dreams are like”.

Didn’t you ever feel that way about a picture, Red? That you could almost step right through it?” I said I’d never really thought of it that way. “Maybe someday you’ll see what I mean,” he said, and he was right. Years later I saw exactly what he meant… and when I did, the first thing I thought of was Normaden, and about how he’d said it was always cold in Andy’s cell.

You may remember the old question, the one that’s supposed to define your outlook on life when you answer it. For Byron Hadley the answer would always be half empty, the glass is half empty. Forever and ever, amen. If you gave him a cool drink of apple cider, he’d think about vinegar. If you told him his wife had always been faithful to him, he’d tell you it was because she was so damn ugly.

Así que, bueno, si me pides una respuesta clara a la pregunta de si intento hablarte de un hombre o de la leyenda que fue creciendo alrededor de ese hombre como lo hace la perla alrededor de un granito de arena, tendría que decirte que la respuesta está en algún punto intermedio entre hombre y leyenda. Lo único que sé a ciencia cierta es que Andy Dufresne no era como yo ni como ningún otro individuo que yo haya conocido desde que estoy en la cárcel. Entró en la cárcel con quinientos dólares en su puerta trasera, pero aquel sesudo hijo de perra logró no sé cómo entrar también con algo más. Un sentido de su propia valía, quizás, o la certeza de que al final ganaría él... o quizá fuera sólo el sentido de la libertad, dentro incluso de estos muros grises malditos. Era una especie de luz interior que llevaba consigo a todas partes. Sólo una vez le vi perder esa luz, y también eso forma parte de esta historia.

Hay otros como yo, otros que recuerdan a Andy. Estamos contentísimos de que se escapara, aunque también un poco tristes. Algunos pájaros no están destinados a que los enjaulen, eso es todo. Tienen las plumas demasiado brillantes, su canto es demasiado dulce y libre. Así que, o les dejas irse, o, cuando abres la jaula para darles de comer, se las arreglan para escapar volando. Y la parte de ti que en el fondo creía que era un error tenerlos cautivos se alboroza, pese al hecho de que el lugar en que vives sea mucho más lóbrego y triste tras su partida.

Querido Red: Si estás leyendo esto es que estás libre. Sea como sea, estás libre. Y, si has llegado hasta aquí, estarás dispuesto a llegar un poco más lejos. Creo que recuerdas el nombre del pueblo, ¿no? Podría emplear a un buen hombre que me ayude a poner mi proyecto en marcha. Entretanto, tómate una copa a mi salud... y piénsatelo. Estaré pendiente de tu llegada. Recuerda que la esperanza es una buena cosa, Red, tal vez lo mejor del mundo, y lo bueno jamás muere. Espero que esta carta te encuentre, y que te encuentre bien. Tu amigo, PETER STEVENS

Le recuerdo sentado tras su mesa de la biblioteca repasando pacientemente el contrato de préstamo párrafo por párrafo con un carcelero que quería comprar un automóvil DeSoto usado, explicándole al tipo con todo detalle los pros y los contras del contrato, explicándole que era posible comprar a crédito sin que te clavaran demasiado, sacándole de las sociedades financieras que, en aquellos tiempos, eran poco mejores que usureros. Cuando terminó, el carcelero hizo ademán de tenderle la mano... y en seguida la retiró. Por un momento, había olvidado que estaba tratando con una mascota y no con un hombre.

—Cuando llega la hora de la verdad, en realidad sólo existen dos tipos de hombres en el mundo —dijo Andy, protegiendo una cerilla con ambas manos ahuecadas y encendiendo un cigarrillo—. Supongamos, Red, que hubiera una casa llena de pinturas y esculturas extrañas y de bellos objetos antiguos. Y supongamos que el propietario de la casa se enterara de que un huracán espantoso avanzaba precisamente en aquella dirección. Uno de los dos tipos de hombres a que me refiero, sencillamente espera que suceda lo mejor. El huracán puede cambiar de curso, se dice a sí mismo. Ningún huracán bien pensante se atrevería jamás a destruir todos esos Rembrandts, mis dos caballos de Degas, mis Grant Wood y mis Benton. Además, Dios no lo permitiría. Y si de todos modos ocurriera lo peor, están asegurados. Ése es un tipo de hombre. El otro sencillamente supone que el huracán arrasará la casa sin más. Si el centro meteorológico anuncia que el huracán ha cambiado de curso, este individuo cree que volverá a cambiar para arrasar su casa. Este segundo tipo de individuo sabe que no existe mal alguno en esperar lo mejor, siempre que estés preparado para lo peor. Yo también encendí un cigarrillo. —¿Me estás diciendo que estás preparado para la eventualidad? —Sí. Estoy preparado para el huracán.

Only Andy didn’t drink. I already told you about his drinking habit. He sat hunkered down in the shade, hands dangling between his knees, watching us and smiling a little. It’s amazing how many men remember him that way, and amazing how many men were on that work-crew when Andy Dufresne faced down Byron Hadley. I thought there were nine or ten of us, but by 1955 there must have been two hundred of us, maybe more… if you believed what you heard. So yeah—if you asked me to give you a flat-out answer to the question of whether I’m trying to tell you about a man or a legend that got made up around the man, like a pearl around a little piece of grit—I’d have to say that the answer lies somewhere in between.

Le había dicho que se paseaba por el patio como si estuviera en una fiesta. Yo no lo habría expresado así, pero entiendo lo que quería decir. Tiene relación con lo que dije de que Andy llevaba su libertad como un abrigo invisible y con lo que dije de que nunca llegó a tener en realidad una mentalidad carcelaria. Nunca llegó a tener esa mirada obtusa. Nunca llegó a caminar como caminan los hombres cuando termina la jornada y han de volver a sus celdas para otra noche interminable... encorvados, aturdidos. Andy caminaba erguido y con paso vivo siempre, como quien se dirige a casa, donde le aguardan una buena cena hogareña y una buena mujer, y no la bazofia insípida de verduras pastosas, puré de patatas grumoso y una o dos tajadas de ese material cartilaginoso y grasiento que casi todos los presos llaman «carne de enigma»... eso y una foto de Raquel Welch en la pared.

although Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption might have been inspiring.

Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. —Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption

They give you life, and that’s what they take—all of it that counts, anyway.

They say it has no memory. And that’s where I want to finish out my life, Red. In a warm place that has no memory.

one wit suggested that Andy had poured himself out through the keyhole. the suggestion earned the guy four days in solitary.

A real knee-slapper was old Mert, and I hope he died of intestinal cancer in a part of the world where morphine is as of yet undiscovered.

In prison every con’s a nigger and you have to get used to the idea if you intend to survive men like Hadley and Greg Stammas, who really would kill you just as soon as look at you.

I look after my own ass first. I have to. It’s cracked already,

I’ll hand you a pretty cynical axiom: the amount of expert financial help an individual or company needs rises in direct proportion to how many people that person or business is screwing.