The Fourth Stall Quotes

Be careful what you wish for because for every wish there’s a demented magical unicorn out there looking to impale someone right in their face.

...the reality of late summer and early autumn when Adelaide, more than any place on earth, and as simply as pouring tea from a pot, pours fourth from a lavish cornucopia into gardens and parks and markets and arcade stalls a cascade of carnations and grapes and melons, guavas and Michaelmas daisies and tomatoes, zinnias and belladonna lilies and tuberoses, lavender and quinces and cumquats and pomegranates, roses and roses and roses.

theater is for sissies,

A friend is like an eagle with no wings because they’ll both get eaten by a giant spaghetti noodle.

Maybe once in hundred years there is a revolution that frees the poor. I read this in one of those all textbook pages people in tea stalls used to wrap greasy samosas with. See, only four men in history have led that successful revolutions to free the slaves and kill their masters, this page said: Alexander the Great. Abraham Lincoln in America. Mao of your country. And a fourth man. It may have been Hitler, I can’t remember. But I don’t think a fifth name is getting added to the list anytime soon. An Indian revolution? No, sir. It won’t happen. People in this country are still waiting for the war of their freedom to come from somewhere else – from the jungles, from the mountains, from China, from Pakistan. That will never happen. Every man must make his own Benaras. – Balram Halwai

my mom and those weird ladies she hung out with who wore tracksuits all the time and sat around the kitchen talking about calories and exercises while eating all of the double chocolate chip cookies they’d just baked.

In most companies, no one really notices you until they need you. And even then, when someone wanders into your office or IMs you and finds that you’re gone, they just assume you’re doing something constructive. Sitting in some horrible, pointless meeting. Stealing office supplies. Weeping gently in a bathroom stall on the fourth floor. Once you’ve established yourself as reasonably competent, you can pretty much come and go as you please. And

It’s our bad luck to have teachers in this world, but since we’re stuck with them, the best we can do is hope to get a brand-new one instead of a mean old fart. New teachers don’t know the rules, so you can get away with things the old-timers would squash you for. That was my theory. So I was feeling pretty excited to start fifth grade, since I was getting a rookie teacher—a guy named Mr. Terupt. Right away, I put him to the test. If the bathroom pass is free, all you have to do is take it and go. This year, the bathrooms were right across the hall. It’s always been an easy way to get out of doing work. I can be really sneaky like that. I take the pass all the time and the teachers never notice. And like I said, Mr. Terupt was a rookie, so I knew he wasn’t going to catch me. Once you’re in the bathroom, it’s mess-around time. All the other teachers on our floor were women, so you didn’t have to worry about them barging in on you. Grab the bars to the stalls and swing. Try to touch your feet to the ceiling. Swing hard. If someone’s in the stall, it’s really funny to swing and kick his door in, especially if he’s a younger kid. If you scare him bad enough, he might pee on himself a little. That’s funny. Or if your buddy’s using the urinal, you can push him from behind and flush it at the same time. Then he might get a little wet. That’s pretty funny, too. Some kids like to plug the toilets with big wads of toilet paper, but I don’t suggest you try doing that. You can get in big trouble. My older brother told me his friend got caught and he had to scrub the toilets with a toothbrush. He said the principal made him brush his teeth with that toothbrush afterward, too. Mrs. Williams is pretty tough, but I don’t think she’d give out that kind of punishment. I don’t want to find out, either. When I came back into the classroom after my fourth or fifth trip, Mr. Terupt looked at me and said, “Boy, Peter, I’m gonna have to call you Mr. Peebody, or better yet, Peter the Pee-er. You do more peein’ than a dog walking by a mile of fire hydrants.

On the first day, he’d completed the stucco walls for a small structure the size of his stallion’s box stall, and the other Sorias had been pleased. On the second day, he’d torn free a section of abandoned railroad and melted it into a beautifully intricate metal gate, and the other Sorias had been pleased. On the third day, he’d fired one thousand ceramic tiles with the heat of his own belief and installed a roof made of them, and the other Sorias had been pleased. On the fourth day, the Virgin had appeared again, this time surrounded by owls; he’d carved a statue of her in this state to place inside the Shrine, and the other Sorias had been pleased. On the fifth day, he’d made a rich pigment from some sky that had gotten too close to him and used it to paint the Shrine’s exterior turquoise, and the other Sorias had been pleased. On the sixth day, he’d held up a passenger train, robbed the passengers, killed the sheriff on board, and used the sheriff’s femurs to fashion a cross for the top of the shrine. The Sorias had not been pleased.

My intention, this time, was to transfer a play to the screen while keeping its theatrical character. It was in some senses a matter of walking, invisibly, around the stage and catching the different aspects and nuances in the play, the urgency and the facial expressions that escape a spectator who cannot follow them in detail from a seat in the stalls. Apart from that, I had noticed how effective a play becomes when you have a bird's-eye view from it, for example from the flies, that is to say from the viewpoint of a voyeur. The Audience is enclosed with the characters in a room lacking its fourth wall and listens to them on equal terms, without the element of my story conferred on scenes of intimacy by the whimsical shape of a keyhole.” “L'aigle à deux têtes is not History. It is a story, an invented story lived out by imaginary heroes, and I should never have dared venture into the realistic world of cinema without being able to rely on the help of Christian Bérard. He has a genius for situating whatever he touches, for giving it a depth in time and space and an appearance of truth that are literally inimitable.” (...) “A drama of this kind would be unacceptable, and almost impossible to tell, unless it was interpreted by superb actors who could instill grandeur and life into it. Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, applauded evening after evening in their parts in the play, surpass themselves on the screen and give of themselves, as I suggested above, everything that they cannot give us on the stage.” “George Auric's music and the Strauss waltzes at the krantz ball make up the liquid in this drama of love and death is immersed.” (...) “In L'aigle à deux têtes, I wanted to make a theatrical film.” (...) “I know the faults of the film, but unfortunately the expense of the medium and the constraints of time that it imposes on us, prevent us from correcting our faults, Cinematography costs too much.” (...) “In Les parents terribles (1948), what I determined to do was the opposite of what I did in L'aigle à deux têtes; to de-theatricalize a play, to film it in chronological order and to catch the characters by surprise from the indiscreet angle of the camera. In short, I wanted to watch a family through the keyhole instead of observing its life from a seat in the stalls.

Browsing among the stalls, the sisters feasted on hand-sized pork pies, leek pasties, apples and pears, and to the girls’ delight, “gingerbread husbands.” The gingerbread had been pressed into wooden man-shaped molds, baked and gilded. The baker at the stall assured them that every unmarried maiden must eat a gingerbread husband for luck, if she wanted to catch the real thing someday. A laughing mock argument sprang up between Amelia and the baker as she flatly refused one for herself, saying she had no wish to marry. “But of course you do!” the baker declared with a sly grin. “It’s what every woman hopes for.” Amelia smiled and passed the gingerbread men to her sisters. “How much for three, sir?” “A farthing each.” He attempted to hand her a fourth. “And this for no charge. It would be a sad waste for a lovely blue-eyed lady to go without a husband.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia protested. “Thank you, but I don’t—” A new voice came from behind her. “She’ll take it.” Discomfiture and pleasure seethed low in her body, and Amelia saw a dark masculine hand reaching out, dropping a silver piece into the baker’s upturned palm. Hearing her sisters’ giggling exclamations, Amelia turned and looked up into a pair of bright hazel eyes. “You need the luck,” Cam Rohan said, pushing the gingerbread husband into her reluctant hands. “Have some.” She obeyed, deliberately biting off the head, and he laughed.

Even my grandma could get this one, and she thinks that baseball is some sort of satanic ritual invented in 1812 by Communist kangaroos to help an alien tribe of sea creatures called Trout Mask Replicas build the ancient pyramids.” I

There ain’t no place like Chattahoochee for making a lady feel like a carpetbagger.

She left and Cece said, “I love you.” “Do you?” After today I wasn’t so sure. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I only get up at the butt-crack of dawn so I can pretend we’re having breakfast together at our lockers. I don’t even have a seven o’clock class, you know. I dropped it after the first day.” “What!” “Then I have to haul ass down three flights of stairs to pass you in the hall between third and fourth period. And I stall around outside the restroom by the art studio so I can watch you walking down the hall. I’m late to algebra every day. I love the way you move, by the way.

Critical race theory sprang up in the 1970s, as a number of lawyers, activists, and legal scholars across the country realized, more or less simultaneously, that the heady advances of the civil rights era of the 1960s had stalled and, in many respects, were being rolled back.

The baker at the stall assured them that every unmarried maiden must eat a gingerbread husband for luck, if she wanted to catch the real thing someday. A laughing mock argument sprang up between Amelia and the baker as she flatly refused one for herself, saying she had no wish to marry. “But of course you do!” the baker declared with a sly grin. “It’s what every woman hopes for.” Amelia smiled and passed the gingerbread men to her sisters. “How much for three, sir?” “A farthing each.” He attempted to hand her a fourth. “And this for no charge. It would be a sad waste for a lovely blue-eyed lady to go without a husband.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia protested. “Thank you, but I don’t—” A new voice came from behind her. “She’ll take it.” Discomfiture and pleasure seethed low in her body, and Amelia saw a dark masculine hand reaching out, dropping a silver piece into the baker’s upturned palm. Hearing her sisters’ giggling exclamations, Amelia turned and looked up into a pair of bright hazel eyes. “You need the luck,” Cam Rohan said, pushing the gingerbread husband into her reluctant hands. “Have some.” She obeyed, deliberately biting off the head, and he laughed. Her mouth was filled with the rich flavor of molasses and the melting chewiness of gingerbread on her tongue. Glancing at Rohan, she thought he should have had at least one or two flaws, some irregularity of skin or structure … but his complexion was as smooth as dark honey, and the lines of his features were razor-perfect. As he bent his head toward her, the perishing sun struck brilliant spangles in the dark waves of his hair. Managing to swallow the gingerbread, Amelia mumbled, “I don’t believe in luck.” Rohan smiled. “Or husbands, apparently.” “Not for myself, no. But for others—” “It doesn’t matter. You’ll marry anyway.

It ain’t over until somebody gets eaten alive by a swarm of flying lamp shades.

I could just see Mr. Fields at the dinner table with his family. He’d blow his shrill whistle and then scream, “Pass me the peas!” Then as his wife’s shaking hands passed the bowl of peas, he’d blow his whistle again and scream, “Hustle, hustle, hustle!” and cause her to drop the bowl. Then he’d get really mad and shout, “Okay, no slacking allowed here! Drop and give me fifteen push-ups, Mrs. Fields!

FOURTH STALL

If you ever see a clown somewhere other than at a circus, rodeo, or party, then either run away or kill it immediately.