"As his central air system, set to maintain an internal temperature of sixty-eight degrees, drew on generator power and sent a final burst of air through the house, whipping the shattered home into a proper inferno, Carrey began to barter with the cosmos for salvation.
He'd repent, he swore. He'd renounce all earthly delights. If it was fun, he'd avoid it. He'd change his name to Francis, or Simon Peter. And if the cosmos wanted to throw in some special power or skill, like healing the sick or talking to birds, something to distinguish him from others in this new field of endeavor (and also maybe a small group of followers, nothing huge, but dedicated followers), well, all that would be appreciated.
Unnecessary, but appreciated.
"Save me," he prayed, cowering. "Please.

All of life is a series of interlocking games, mainly meaningless, perhaps rigged,” she told Nancy. “Some have rules we know; most have rules we do not. Are we being guided to some higher state? Or just forced from game board to game board for no end at all? The only way to know is to do what the games demand; I did only what the game demanded.

Creo que madurar no significa ser una persona seria, mucho menos aburrida, madurar es poder jugar, tontear, bromear, hacer sonreír como un niño, pero recordando nuestras responsabilidades, aceptar que ya no somos niños, pero sin olvidar que lo fuimos.

It doesn't take care of its sick, doesn't care for its poor. Doesn't protect its children. Abandons its veterans and its elderly. America's very God is a fraud, invented by marauding settlers to justify native genocide, a savage deity blessing a savage people, forgiving the napalming of babies in Vietnam, the starvation of five hundred thousand Iraqis in our own lives. And who at this table lost five seconds even thinking about that? No, we drown that out with our positive personal affirmations. We don't even look after our own. The people who work fifteen hours a day doing our makeup, hair, and wardrobe have to invoice the studios six or seven times before they get paid. They beg while someone siphons interest off their money. And whose fucking idea was a fifteen-hour day in the first place?

Я был в депрессии, когда пытался быть Волшебником страны Оз вместо потного парня за занавеской… Все ходят и спрашивают: почему я в депрессии? Потому что ты пытаешься строить из себя кого-то перед миром, но как только ты отпускаешь это, начинают происходить хорошие вещи.

The modern world was a burning bus speeding toward a cliff with a maniac at the wheel. And he was not apart, but complicit, a hyperactive child making yuk-yuks in his seat, keeping everyone laughing, distracting them from certain doom. Faster, faster, no more room to brake.