

Marwood: 13 million Londoners have to wake up to this. And murder and All-Bran and rape.


Withnail: I've some extremely distressing news. My God! It's a nightmare. I tell you it's a nightmare. We've just run out of wine. What are we gonna do about it?
Marwood: I feel dreadful. I feel really dreadful.
Withnail: So do I. So does everybody. Look at my tongue. It's wearing a yellow sock.


Withnail: Have you got some soup? Why don't I get any soup?
Marwood: It's coffee.
Withnail: [sniffs] Why don't you use a cup like any other human being?
Marwood: Why don't you wash up occasionally like any other human being?
Withnail: How dare you? How dare you? how dare you call me inhumane?


Withnail: Sinew in nicotine base. Keep back. Keep back. The entire sink's gone rotten.
Marwood: There's something floating up.
Withnail: Fork it! What is it? What have you found?
Marwood: Matter.
Withnail: Matter? Where's it coming from?
Withnail: This is ridiculous. Look at me. I'm 30 in a month and I've got a sole flapping off my shoe.
Withnail: What should we do?
Marwood: Get out of here for a while, into the countryside, rejuvenate.
Withnail: Rejuvenate? I'm in a park and I'm practically dead. What good's the countryside?
[Marwood, off] Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day. And for once I am inclined to believe that Withnail is right. We are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell, making an enemy of our own future. What we need is harmony. Fresh air and stuff like that.
Withnail: We can't go on like this! I'm a trained actor reduced to the state of a bum! Look at us. Nothing that reasonable members of society demand as their rights. No fridges, no televisions, no phones.
Marwood: I wouldn't drink that if I were you.
Withnail: Why not?
Marwood: Because I don't advise it. Even the wankers on the site wouldn't drink that. That's worse than meths.
Withnail: Nonsense. This is far superior to meths. Wankers don't drink it because they can't afford it. [gasps] Have you got any more? [chuckles] Liar. What's in your tool box?
Marwood: We have nothing. Sit down.
Withnail: Liar. You've got antifreeze.
Marwood: You bloody fool. You should never mix your drinks.
[Withnail laughing hysterically, vomiting]
Withnail: What's that appalling smell?
Marwood: Perfume on my boots. I had to scrub them with essence of petunia.
Marwood: If my father was loaded I'd ask him for some money.
Withnail: If your father was my father you wouldn't get it.


[Man in café]: Ponce.
[Marwood, trembling, off] I could hardly piss straight with fear. A man with three quarters of an inch of brain had taken a dislike to me. What have I done to offend him? I don't consciously offend big men like this, he has a definite imbalance of hormone in him. Get any more masculine than him you'd have to live up a tree.
Danny: As a matter of fact, I'm considering retiring and going into business.
Withnail: Doing what?
Danny: The toy industry. Yeah, my partner's got a really good idea for making dolls. His name's Presuming Ed. His sister gave him the idea. She's got a doll on Christmas what pisses itself.
Marwood: Really?
Danny: Then you gotta change its drawers for it. It's horrible, really but they like that, the little girls. So we're gonna make one that shits itself as well.
Withnail: Shits itself?
Danny: He's an expert. He's building the prototype now.


Danny: Besides, there's nothing invented I couldn't take. If I medicined you, you'd think a brain tumor was a birthday present.
Withnail: I could take double anything you could!
Danny: Very, very foolish words, man.
Marwood: He's right, Withnail.
Monty: I've always been fond of root but I've only started to grow last summer. I happen to think the cauliflower more beautiful than the rose.


Marwood: What's all this? The man's mad!
Withnail: Eccentric.
Marwood: Eccentric? He's insane. Not only that, he's a raving homosexual.


Withnail: Shall I get you a drink, Monty?
Monty: Yes, please, dear boy. You can prepare me a small rhesus negative Bloody Mary.
Withnail: At some point or another I wanna stop and get hold of a child.
Marwood: What do you want a child for?
Withnail: To tutor it in the way of righteousness, and procure some uncontaminated urine. This is a device enabling the drunken driver to operate in absolute safety. You fill this with piss, take this pipe down to the trouser and sellotape this valve to the end of the old chap. Then you get horribly drunk and they can't fucking touch you. According to these instructions, you refuse everything but a urine sample. You undo your valve, and give them a dose of unadulterated child's piss. And they have to give you your keys back. Danny's a genius.
Marwood: Give it a chance. It's gotta warm up.
Withnail: Warm up? We may as well sit around a cigarette.
Withnail: Are you the farmer?
Marwood: Shut up. I'll deal with this. We've gone on holiday by mistake. We're in this cottage here.
Withnail: Are you the farmer?
Marwood: Stop saying that, Withnail. Of course he's the fucking farmer!
Marwood: There's the supper.
Withnail: What are we supposed to do with that?
Marwood: Eat it.
Withnail: Eat it? The fucker's alive!
Marwood: I know that. You've got to kill it. It takes away your appetite looking at it. I think you should strangle it instantly, in case it tries to make friends with us. It's got dreadful beady eyes. They stare you out.
Withnail: Anyway, I loathe those Russian plays. Always full of women staring out of windows, whining about ducks going to Moscow.
Marwood [about the farmer]: Do you think he's happier than us?
Withnail: No.
[Marwood, off]: If the Crow and Crown ever had life, it was dead now. It was like walking into a lung. A sulfur stained and nicotine yellow and fly blown lung. Its landlord was a retired alcoholic with military pretensions and a complexion like the inside of a teapot.


Poacher: These eels are for my pot. Why should I give you something for your pot?
Withnail: What pot?
Marwood: Our cooking pot.


[creaking footsteps] Withnail: He's going into your room. It's you he wants. Offer him yourself. [moans] We mean no harm!
Tea Shop Proprietor: If you don't leave, we'll call the police.
Withnail: Balls! We want the finest wines available to humanity. We want them here, and we want them now!


Withnail: Would it be in bad form to plagiarize a toast?
Monty: It depends entirely on the quality of the wine. In this instance, it most certainly would not.
Withnail: In that case, to a delightful weekend in the country.
Withnail: He sent me out to tell you that the coffee's ready.
Marwood: I couldn't drink it. I have a cramp in the mouth from grinning.
Withnail: Well, stop smiling at him.
Marwood: I can't help it. I'm so uptight with him I can't stop myself.


Marwood: How dare you tell him I'm a "toilet trader?"
Withnail: It was a tactical necessity. If I hadn't told him you were active we would have never got the cottage.
Marwood: I'd never have wanted it. Not with him in it. I never thought he'd come all this way.
Withnail: Monty? He'd go to New York. A calculated risk.
Marwood: What "tactical necessity" and "calculated risk"? This is me, naked, in a corner. And how dare you tell him I love you? And how dare you tell him you rejected me? How dare you tell him that?
Withnail: Sorry about that. I got a bit carried away.


Marwood: Well, I'm off now then.
Withnail: Already? I've got us a bottle open. Confiscated it from Monty's supplies. '53 Margaux, best of the century. I'm sure he wouldn't resent us a parting drink.
Marwood: I can't. I gotta walk to the station. I'll be late.
Withnail: There's always time for a drink.
Marwood: I don't have the time.
Withnail: All right. I'll walk with you through the park. We can drink it on the way.
Withnail: I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. And indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! How like an angel in apprehension. How like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, no, nor women neither. Nor women neither.
Последнее время — а почему, и сам не знаю — я утратил всю свою веселость, забросил все привычные занятия; и, действительно, на душе у меня так тяжело, что эта прекрасная храмина, земля, кажется мне пустынным мысом. Этот несравненнейший полог, воздух, видите ли, эта великолепно раскинутая твердь, эта величественная кровля, выложенная золотым огнем, — всё это кажется мне ни чем иным, как мутным и чумным скоплением паров. Что за мастерское создание — человек! Как благороден разумом! Как беспределен в своих способностях, обличьях и движениях! Как точен и чудесен в действии! Как он похож на ангела глубоким постижением! Как он похож на некоего бога! Краса вселенной! Венец всего живущего! А что для меня эта квинтэссенция праха? Из людей меня не радует ни один, нет, и ни одна.
Подготовила Е. Кузьмина http://cinemotions.blogspot.com/