Tintin Quotes

Hooray! Hooray! The end of the world has been postponed!

Billions of bilious blue blistering barnacles!

I wanted adventures. I wanted to go up the Nung river to the heart of darkness in Cambodia. I wanted to ride out into a desert on camelback, sand and dunes in every direction, eat whole roasted lamb with my fingers. I wanted to kick snow off my boots in a Mafiya nightclub in Russia. I wanted to play with automatic weapons in Phnom Penh, recapture the past in a small oyster village in France, step into a seedy neon-lit pulqueria in rural Mexico. I wanted to run roadblocks in the middle of the night, blowing past angry militia with a handful of hurled Marlboro packs, experience fear, excitement, wonder. I wanted kicks – the kind of melodramatic thrills and chills I’d yearned for since childhood, the kind of adventure I’d found as a little boy in the pages of my Tintin comic books. I wanted to see the world – and I wanted the world to be just like the movies

Tintin! Are you dead? Say yes or no but answer me!

Thomson: "Just our luck! The one time we manage to catch the culprits they turn out to be innocent! It's really too bad of them!" Thompson: "You'd think they'd done it on purpose!

Doctor Simons? This is Thomson... No, without a ‘P’, as in Venezuela...

If! If! You can get 'round anything with 'if'.

I wanted kicks – the kind of melodramatic thrills and chills I’d yearned for since childhood, the kind of adventure I’d found as a little boy in the pages of my Tintin comic books.

It may be prodigious, but it's all Greek to me!

Reading and loving a novel written by a bastard is not to absolve him in any way, to share his convictions or connive with him, it’s to recognize his talent, not his morals or his ideals. I have no wish to shake Hergé’s hand, but I love Tintin. And after all, are you yourself above reproof?

Je croyais que la vie me donnerait une chance, me réserverait quelques surprises. Tintin. Les surprises sont pour les riches. La vie des pauvres est prévisible, on peut la raconter à l'avance.

I loved him in the way young people are mad for those they wish to resemble.

Greg Broadmore's fertile and twisted imagination has conjoined multiple genres, memories, and a sharp sense of pulp, colonialist nostalgia/parody in this lavish, fully realized, imaginative tour-de-force. It's Jules Verne meets Fritz Lang meets Tintin. It's beyond Steampunk. It's clearly an insatiable passion for the talismans of a bygone civilization and it's slavish addiction to the early industrial age in all it's filigreed, ignorant glory. Greg has raised the bar.

My books are a subject of much discussion. They pour from shelves onto tables, chairs and the floor, and Chaz observes that I haven’t read many of them and I never will. You just never know. One day I may — need is the word I use — to read Finnegans Wake, the Icelandic sagas, Churchill’s history of the Second World War, the complete Tintin in French, 47 novels by Simenon, and By Love Possessed.

Ille mi par esse deo videtur ille, si fas est, superare divos, qui sedens adversus identitem te spectat et audit dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te, Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus flamma demanat, sonitu suopte tintinant aures gemina, teguntur lumina nocte. otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est; otio exsultas nimiumque gestis; otium et reges prius et beatas perdidit urbes.

Either they fall down, or they make me look like Tintin," Ben complained. "It's all right for Fritz - he's the same shape as those plastic blokes in the window.

That was the day I knew. It was as if Rolls met Royce, Black met Decker, Oliver met Stan, TinTin met Snowy, Marks met Spencer... he was to me what Patracolus was to Achilles, Hylas to Hercules, Enkidoe to Gilgamesh, Jonathan to David, Bosie to Oscar Wilde, Rimbaud to Verlaine. He was my Billy Budd, all the holy multitude of Thebes, Jasjoe mixed with Tadzio...

The Tintin look-alike who had sauntered into that California café, who said to her “Sound like a plan?” whose memories of lobster summers and sledding winters seemed like they’d come straight out of an American film at Cinema Metropole, soothed her.

Whenever the sadness got too much, I would hire a rickshaw and go to the Upper Bazaar. Those little rickshaw trips to the market and back, shopping for lipsticks and imitation Gucci bags and wind-chimes and what not, are some of my happiest memories today. You know, one day, during one of those trips, I sold all my well-thumbed copies of ‘Inside Outside’ to the Tibetan guy who ran the old book store on Netaji Road for seventy rupees, six Tintins and a disarming smile. And all of a sudden, that moment, standing at the corner of Netaji road, I found out who I was.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Rather a baguette rat than a cheeeseburger rat

I know that afternoon was one of the best afternoons I will ever have. Not because it was my birthday, but because it was an end to one of the best adventures a brand new ten-year-old could ever have, and the beginning of a whole set of new adventures that I bet even Tintin never had! And it was all thanks to a boy who came and sat at the back of the class, and who let me be his friend.

Fresh start. Day two, socks around my ankles, way down, two Maori boys approached me before I could get to my desk. Probelm solved. That day and in the many enjoyable ones that followed, my classmates asked me dozen of questions about America, while detailing essential subjects for a New Zealand boy in 1976, including lollies, meat pies and chips, cricket and rugby, ABBA and Tintin comic books, and why their relatives with tattoos on their face did that funy dance while sticking out their tounges.

So: Then what? He had known people—he knew people—who were, technically, much better artists than he was. They were better draftsmen, they had better senses of composition and color, they were more disciplined. But they didn’t have any ideas. An artist, as much as a writer or composer, needed themes, needed ideas. And for a long time, he simply didn’t have any. He tried to draw only black people, but a lot of people drew black people, and he didn’t feel he had anything new to add. He drew hustlers for a while, but that too grew dull. He drew his female relatives, but found himself coming back to the black problem. He began a series of scenes from Tintin books, with the characters portrayed realistically, as humans, but it soon felt too ironic and hollow, and he stopped.

Phostle

Sharko felt like he was working his way through one of those old adventures of Tintin, Cigars of the Pharaoh, with fat Rastapopoulos sitting there before him. It bordered on the absurd.

Time is a the reason. Patience is the course.

Tin-Tin in your rattle skin Dumbed and worn down - Flushed pink-salmon suffering.

Khomeini and Khamenei were everywhere; on giant billboards at the roadside, as vast lurid murals on concrete apartment blocks and, less impressively, on sagging vinyl banners outside schools and mosques. With their almost identical appearance and surnames they reminded me of an Islamic Thomson and Thompson, the hapless detectives of the Tintin books. But that, I feared, was where the similarity ended.

It sounds a little porfessional, the prostitute of Sweden

David always pronounced the name to rhyme with Snowy, Tintin’s faithful terrier, but his northern colleagues, like Mick Ronson, pronounced the Bow part to rhyme with plow.

Chinese terrorist and used by Japan as an excuse to invade Manchuria and set up the puppet state of Manchukuo which they then controlled. It is details like this in the story that elevate Tintin from simply being a children's comic book to something a little more sophisticated.