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.

Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.

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

Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

oh shit it's shit

Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.

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.

These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That's institutionalized.

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.

I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way. The

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.

Dirty deeds done dirt cheap.’ – AC/DC

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.

I hope I can make or across the border. I hope the pacific is as blue as it is in my dreams. I hope I get to see my friend. I hope...

I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really. You get busy living, or get busy dying.” —Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption

I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way.

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.

Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies!

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.

The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry.

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.

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.

She was a Florida snowbird archetype, about eighty, permed to perfection, and as darkly tanned as a cordovan shoe. She looked at me, looked away, then did a double take. “I know you,” she said. “You’re Stephen King. You write those scary stories. That’s all right, some people like them, but not me. I like uplifting stories, like that Shawshank Redemption.” “I wrote that too,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said, and went on her way.

I find I’m so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. 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...

I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really. Get busy livin' or get busy dyin

(You) either get busy livin' or get busy dyin'.

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

That's how, on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred the plate-factory roof in 1950 ending up sitting in a row at ten o'clock on a spring morning, drinking Black Label beer supplied by the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank Prison. That beer was piss-warm, but it was still the best I ever had in my life. We sat and drank it and felt the sun on our shoulders, and not even the expression of half-amusement, half-contempt on Hadley's face - as if he was watching apes drink beer instead of men - could spoil it. It lasted twenty minutes, that beer-break, and for those twenty minutes we felt like free men. We could have been drinking beer and tarring the roof of one of our own houses.

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.

But, no, really, I had it this time. One of my first Salon essays was about confronting my debt, which had gotten so out of control I had to borrow money from my parents. That was a low moment, but it came with a boost of integrity. A free tax attorney helped me calculate the amount I owed the IRS - $40,000 - and put me on a payment plan. My commitment was seven years, which made me feel like the guy in Shawshank Redemption, tunneling out of prison with a spoon.

Watch Shawshank Redemption. ‘Expertly done’ would be the review. Not a foot wrong. Classy. I just wish this had not extended even to the immaculate hairdos of all the inmates. When will a director tell a hair person to STOP tidying everyone up—it’s an awful reflex action.

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.

I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.

Get busy live'n, or get busy die'n

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.

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”.

I have trouble sleepin' at night. I have bad dreams like I'm falling. I wake up scared. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember where I am... I guess I'm too old for that sort of nonsense any more. I don't like it here. I'm tired of being afraid all the time. I've decided not to stay. I doubt they'll kick up any fuss. Not for an old crook like me.

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.

In The Shawshank Redemption, there's a short scene between Andy and Red that reveals the difference in their points of view. After almost twenty years in Shawshank Prison, Red is cynical because, in his eyes, the concept of hope is simply a four-letter word. His spirit has been so crushed by the prison system that he angrily declares to Andy, 'Hope is a dangerous thing. Drives a man insane. It's got no place here. Better get used to the idea.' And it is Red's emotional journey that leads him to the understanding that 'hope is a good thing.' The film ends on a note of hope, with Red breaking his parole and riding the bus to meet Andy in Mexico: 'I hope I can make it across the border. 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.

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.

Overlooking the Pacific Ocean reminded me of Andy Dufresne the fictional character that Stephen King brought to life in his triumphant tale – Shaw-Shank Redemption. My visual memory recalled the words ‘I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams’ I can still hear Morgan Freeman whispering these words in my head. Sometimes in life we get to see a past event coincide with what is happening in the moment; leaving you wondering ‘how in the hell did that happen?’ I realized that all the things that I had experienced up to this very moment as I looked out over the Pacific Ocean served a purpose. Did I understand each one? Not even close. I only saw the harmony, the magic, stuff we feel: things we cannot touch – only the heart knows this space.

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.

الخلاص من شاوشانك" "رسالة بروكس" عزيزي فيلاس، لا أستطيع أن أصدق كيف تتحرك الأشياء بسرعة خارج السجن رأيت سيارة مرة واحدة عندما كنت طفلاً ، ولكن الآن إنّهم في كل مكان. حصلت على عفو إفراج مشروط لي و أعيش الان في هذا البيت الذي في منتصف الطريق يسمى "بروير" و بدأت العمل في محلات البقالة. انها عمل شاق لكنني أحاول التأقلم، ولكن يداي تتعب معظم الوقت. لا أعتقد أن مدير المتجر يحبني كثيرا. في بعض الأحيان بعد العمل، أذهب إلى الحديقة و أقوم بإطعام الطيور. وأظل اقوم بالتفكير لدي مشكلة في النوم في الليل. لدي أحلام سيئة مثل السقوط أثناء النوم فاستيقظ خائفا. أحيانا يأخذني بعض التفكير بأن أتذكر أين أنا. ربما يجب أن أحصل على بندقية وسرقة محل البقالة. قد أطلق النار على مديري ، كنوع من المكافأة لنفسي. أعتقد أني كبير في السن على فعل هكذا هراء. أنا لا أحب أي من الاشياء السابقة ، لقد تعبت من الخوف طوال الوقت ، لقد قررت عدم البقاء. أشك أن موتي سيحدث أي ضجة. ليس لمحتال كبير مثلي. ملاحظة: "تيل هيوود" أنا آسف لأنني وضعت سكين في حلقك ، لا تكن لي الضغينة بروكس

Rance gave them both a Shawshank glare, no redemption included

I was tormented by a sadist psychopathic teacher in high school for three years. Every day he would stalk me, call me to his office and chastise me for hours on end on some newly invented offences, so much so that when I watched Shawshank Redemption I thought it was vanilla.

While American high schools work to let every flower bloom, French students experience education as The Shawshank Redemption.

Seriously. What’s with the face?” Jordan asked. “You’re scaring my cabernets with that scowl.” “I’m just working through some stuff,” he said vaguely. Jordan raised an eyebrow, studying him. “Prison stuff?” “More like post-prison stuff. Nothing we need to talk about.” The last thing he needed his super-perfect twin sister with her super-perfect FBI boyfriend knowing was that he was in another dispute, of sorts, with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He was cranky enough about the situation without Jordan laying into him about it. He’d left prison several weeks ago and was supposed to be moving on with his life, yet the vestiges of the place still clung to him. Like bad BO. He picked up four of the wine bottles Jordan had unpacked. “Where do you want these?” She pointed. “In the empty bin over there, with the other cabernets.” She looked over when Kyle came back to the bar. “So what kind of post-prison stuff?” Now he was getting suspicious. “What’s with the twenty questions?” “Sue me for trying to open a dialogue here. Geez. I’ve just been a little worried about you, since I’ve heard that it can sometimes be difficult for ex-inmates to reenter normal life.” Kyle shot her a look as he grabbed more wine bottles. “Where, exactly, did you hear that? Siblings of Ex-Cons Anonymous?” Jordan glared. “Yes, we have weekly meetings at the YMCA,” she retorted. Then she waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know, it’s just…something I saw on TV this past weekend.” Ah. Kyle suddenly had a sneaking suspicion about the cause of his sister’s concern. “Jordo…by any chance were you watching The Shawshank Redemption again?” “Pfft. No.” She saw his knowing expression and caved. “Fine. I was flipping through the channels and it was on TNT. You try turning that movie off.” She looked at him matter-of-factly. “It’s very compelling.

So that one night after the Bumble rando blew me off and I was emotionally ravaged, practically kneeling on the ground, arms out in the Scott Stapp/Jesus position a la Andy Dufresne on the poster of Shawshank Redemption, I thought to myself, ‘Am I going to fall the fuck apart every single time some guy I meet doesn’t end up being the one?

I guess it comes down to a simple choice. Get busy living or get busy dying.

although Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption might have been inspiring.

making our way through a theme movie night (we’d picked out four films in which the ending is probably the main character’s dying hallucination: Taxi Driver, Minority Report, The Shawshank Redemption, and Mrs. Doubtfire). In

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.