I never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in New York. By which I mean they’re dead, because that’s where I suppose condemned souls go in order not to endure the truth of their past lives.
— Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores.
I would have preferred and image of Jesus in the clouds at the end while all those who had something to do with and all who enjoyed watching his crucifiction looked with their mouths hanging open wondering what is in store for them.
— On The Passion of the Christ (via onestarnetflixreviews)