Theater Thug Quotes

The streets of Prague were a fantasia scarcely touched by the twenty-first century—or the twentieth or nineteenth, for that matter. It was a city of alchemists and dreamers, its medieval cobbles once trod by golems, mystics, invading armies. Tall houses glowed goldenrod and carmine and eggshell blue, embellished with Rococo plasterwork and capped in roofs of uniform red. Baroque cupolas were the soft green of antique copper, and Gothic steeples stood ready to impale fallen angels. The wind carried the memory of magic, revolution, violins, and the cobbled lanes meandered like creeks. Thugs wore Motzart wigs and pushed chamber music on street corners, and marionettes hung in windows, making the whole city seem like a theater with unseen puppeteers crouched behind velvet.

It infuriates him, this killing, this death. Infuriating that this is what we’re known for now, drug cartels and slaughter. This my city of Avenida 16 Septembre, the Victoria Theater, cobblestone streets, the bullring, La Central, La Fogata, more bookstores than El Paso, the university, the ballet, garapiñados, pan dulce, the mission, the plaza, the Kentucky Bar, Fred’s—now it’s known for these idiotic thugs. And my country, Mexico—the land of writers and poets—of Octavio Paz, Juan Rulfo, Carlos Fuentes, Elena Garro, Jorge Volpi, Rosario Castellanos, Luis Urrea, Elmer Mendoza, Alfonso Reyes—the land of painters and sculptors—Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Gabriel Orozco, Pablo O’Higgins, Juan Soriano, Francisco Goitia—of dancers like Guillermina Bravo, Gloria and Nellie Campobello, Josefina Lavalle, Ana Mérida, and composers—Carlos Chávez, Silvestre Revueltas, Agustín Lara, Blas Galindo—architects—Luis Barragán, Juan O’Gorman, Tatiana Bilbao, Michel Rojkind, Pedro Vásquez—wonderful filmmakers—Fernando de Fuentes, Alejandro Iñárritu, Luis Buñuel, Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro—actors like Dolores del Río, “La Doña” María Félix, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, Salma Hayek—now the names are “famous” narcos—no more than sociopathic murderers whose sole contribution to the culture has been the narcocorridas sung by no-talent sycophants. Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestoned streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. And for what? So North Americans can get high.

Empowered by the Enabling Law, Hitler launched a political blitzkrieg, destroying what remained of German democracy. He began by abolishing local assemblies and replacing provincial governors with Nazis. He sent SA thugs to brutalize political opponents and, when necessary, cart them off to newly opened concentration camps. He disposed of the unions by declaring May 1, 1933, a paid national holiday, then occupying union offices throughout the country on May 2. He purged the civil service of disloyal elements and issued a decree banning Jews from the professions. He placed theater, music, and radio productions under the control of Joseph Goebbels and barred unsympathetic journalists from doing their jobs. To ensure order, he consolidated political, intelligence, and police functions in a new organization, the Gestapo.

It’s depressing at times, but I try to keep a sense of perspective. Sweet F.A. will never be more than a bunch of thugs and vandals, high in nuisance value, but politically irrelevant. I’ve seen them on TV, marching around their “training camps” in designer camouflage, or sitting in lecture theaters, watching recorded speeches by their guru, Jack Kelly, or (oblivious to the irony) messages of “international solidarity” from similar organizations in Europe and North America.

restaurant, nicknamed "The Municipal Crib" for the number of city officials who dallied there. Margaritte and the owner of Marchand's, Pierre, had contacted Fremont Older after Rolf had raised the tariff for each ninety-day liquor license renewal to $10,000. They offered to testify before a grand jury. And so the war began. We settled in for The Dictator, featuring the emerging legend in American theater, John Barrymore. The door opened behind us and the light from the hallway caught my attention. A tree-stump of a man moved next to Adam Rolf, close enough that I could hear his labored breathing. "Annalisa, I'm not sure you've ever met Mr. John Kelly," Rolf said. The broken-nosed thug plunged into the seat next to Rolf, looking as though meat packers had stuffed him into his tuxedo. "Mr. Kelly here represents our interests along the waterfront. I'm about to announce his candidacy for a supervisor's seat next election." "Miss Passarella," he growled with whiskey breath. "Mr. Kelly. Excuse my ignorance, but are you the one they call Shanghai Kelly?" "We try not to use that nickname," Rolf laughed. I was gratefully distracted when Barrymore arrived on stage to a thunderous reception. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Rolf click open his pocket watch and offer a peek to Kelly, who smiled. The seemingly innocuous gesture disturbed me greatly. The room seemed to tilt and the chair wavered beneath me. The end could not come soon enough.