The Joker: Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you. I mean, what happened? Did, did your balls drop off? Hm? You see, a guy like me... Gambol: Freak! [mobsters laugh] The Joker: [ignoring] A guy like me... Look, listen. I know why you choose to have your little... [clears throat] The Joker: ...group therapy sessions in broad daylight. I know why you're afraid to go out at night... The Batman. See, Batman has shown Gotham your true colors, unfortunately. Dent? He's just the beginning. [indicates Lau on the video phone] The Joker: And as for the television's so-called "plan?" Batman has no "jurisdiction." He'll find him and make him squeal! I know the squealers when I see them, and... [He indicates Lau again, who hurriedly turns off the picture]
Annie Cantrell: [voice over] Those were not welcome days. We buried sons, brothers, mothers, fathers, fiancés. Clocks ticked, but time did not pass. The sun rose and the sun set, but the shadows remained. When once there was sound, now there was silence. What once was whole, now was shattered.
Who are you and how did you get in here?
Where do I come into all of this? Am I just some animal or dog?' And that started them off govoreeting real loud and throwing slovos at me. So I creeched louder still, creeching: 'Am I just to be like a clockwork orange?' -Alex, A Clockwork Orange
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you? Sean: October 21st, 1975. Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date? Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history. Will: Yeah, sure. Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets. Will: You got tickets? Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance. Will: Yeah, yeah. Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman. Will: Yeah, I've seen... Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know? Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way! Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people... Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game! Sean: Yeah! Will: Did you rush the field? Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there. Will: What? Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife. Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run? Sean: Oh, yeah. Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met? Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
[first lines] Narrator: He was growing into middle age, and was living then in a bungalow on Woodland Avenue. He installed himself in a rocking chair and smoked a cigar down in the evenings as his wife wiped her pink hands on an apron and reported happily on their two children. His children knew his legs, the sting of his mustache against their cheeks. They didn't know how their father made his living, or why they so often moved. They didn't even know their father's name. He was listed in the city directory as Thomas Howard. And he went everywhere unrecognized and lunched with Kansas City shopkeepers and merchants, calling himself a cattleman or a commodities investor, someone rich and leisured who had the common touch. He had two incompletely healed bullet holes in his chest and another in his thigh. He was missing the nub of his left middle finger and was cautious, lest that mutilation be seen. He also had a condition that was referred to as "granulated eyelids" and it caused him to blink more than usual as if he found creation slightly more than he could accept. Rooms seemed hotter when he was in them. Rains fell straighter. Clocks slowed. Sounds were amplified. He considered himself a Southern loyalist and guerrilla in a Civil War that never ended. He regretted neither his robberies, nor the seventeen murders that he laid claim to. He had seen another summer under in Kansas City, Missouri and on September 5th in the year 1881, he was thirty-four-years-old.
Pick a tree. I'll carve our initials into it.
The Joker: [the Joker interrupts a meeting between Lau and Gotham's criminals] Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha oh hee hee ha ah ooh hee ha ha. And I thought my jokes were bad. Gambol: Give me one reason why I shouldn't have my boy here pull your head off. The Joker: How about a magic trick? [pulls out a pencil] The Joker: I'm gonna make this pencil disappear. [slams Gambol's thug's head into pencil] The Joker: Ta-da! It's... it's gone. Oh and about the suit. It wasn't cheap. You oughta know: you bought it. [Gambol gets up in anger] The Chechen: Sit. I want to hear proposition. The Joker: Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you. I mean what happened? Did... did your balls drop off? Hmm? You see a guy like me... Gambol: [interrupts] A freak. The Joker: A guy... like me... Look, listen. I know why you choose to have your little group therapy sessions here in broad daylight. I know why you're afraid to go out at night; the Batman. You see, Batman has shown Gotham your true colors unfortunately. Dent, he's just the beginning. And, and as for the television's so-called plan? Batman has no jurisdiction. He'll find him, and make him squeal. I know the squealers when I see them and... [points at Lau] The Chechen: What do you propose? The Joker: It's simple: We, uh, kill the Batman. [everyone laughs] Salvatore Maroni: If it's so simple, why haven't you done it already? The Joker: If you're good at something, never do it for free. The Chechen: How much you want? The Joker: Uh... half. [everyone laughs again] Gambol: You're crazy. The Joker: I'm not. No, I'm not. If we don't deal with this now, soon little uh, Gambol here won't be able to get a nickel for his grandma. Gambol: Enough from the clown! The Joker: [reveals the inside of his jacket, which has five hand grenades with the pins attached to a thread tied to the Joker's finger] Ah-ta-ta-ta-ta! Let's not "blow" this out of proportion. Gambol: You think you can steal from us and just walk away? The Joker: Yeah. Gambol: I'm puttin' the word out: 500 hundred grand for this clown dead. A million alive so I can teach him some manners first. The Joker: Alright, so listen. Why don't you give me a call when you want to start taking things a little more seriously? Here's my card. [leaves joker card on the table and walks away]
Don't ever get your speedometer confused with your clock, like I did once, because the faster you go, the later you think you are.
Time in itself, absolutely, does not exist; it is always relative to some observer or some object. Without a clock I say 'I do not know the time' . Without matter time itself is unknowable. Time is a function of matter; and matter therefore is the clock that makes infinity real.
I object to being told that I am saving daylight when my reason tells me that I am doing nothing of the kind... At the back of the Daylight Saving scheme, I detect the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy, and wise in spite of themselves.
Clockers
Saxton smelled really good and had a handshake that was firm.
There was a sudden stillness like the gap between ticks on a clock, but the next tick never coming.
I was alive when the Dead Sea was just a lake that was feeling a little poorly. -Magnus Bane
Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?
Like I, of all people, didn't know better than to lead a total stranger to the point where they could hurt me most, knowing how easily they'd be able to find their way back to it.
You know, Qhuinn's an interesting character.
The inability to open up to hope is what blocks trust, and blocked trust is the reason for blighted dreams.
The Clock on the Morning Lenape Building Must Clocks be circles? Time is not a circle. Suppose the Mother of All Minutes started right here, on the sidewalk in front of the Morning Lenape Building, and the parade of minutes that followed--each of them, say, one inch long-- headed out that way, down Bridge Street. Where would Now be? This minute? Out past the moon? Jupiter? The nearest star? Who came up with minutes, anyway? Who needs them? Name one good thing a minute's ever done. They shorten fun and measure misery. Get rid of them, I say. Down with minutes! And while you're at it--take hours with you too. Don't get me started on them. Clocks--that's the problem. Every clock is a nest of minutes and hours. Clocks strap us into their shape. Instead of heading for the nearest star, all we do is corkscrew. Clocks lock us into minutes, make Ferris wheel riders of us all, lug us round and round from number to number, dice the time of our lives into tiny bits until the bits are all we know and the only question we care to ask is
Day is just a collection of hours.
The male who'd just arrived laughed as he embraced Qhuinn.
And it was because of their long history that he searched for something to say, something that would get them back to where they had been. All that came to him was...I miss you. I miss you so fucking bad it hurts, but I don't know how to find you even though you're right in front of me.
America's intellectual community has never been very bright. Or honest. They're all sheep, following whatever the intellectual fashion of the decade happens to be. Demanding that everyone follow their dicta in lockstep. Everyone has to be open-minded and tolerant of the things they believe, but God forbid they should ever concede, even for a moment, that someone who disagrees with them might have some fingerhold of truth.
The thread of will-they-or-won't-they was the real driver of every word and glance and shift of body. So...this was a date, Blay thought. A subtextual negotiation slipcovered in talk of books read and music enjoyed.
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