You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phoney stuff in the movies, and nine times out of ten they're mean bastards at heart.

All I want is a gentleman. I'm sick to bloody death of bastards.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

There was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with everybody wanting to beat not only cancer itself, but also the other people in the room. Like, I realize that this is irrational, but when they tell you that you have, say, a 20 percent chance of living five years, the math kicks in and you figure that's one in five . . . so you look around and think, as any healthy person would: I gotta outlast four of these bastards.

If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember.

You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phoney stuff in the movies and nine times out of ten they're mean bastards at heart.

I tried to drown my sorrows but the bastards learned how to swim and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.

All I want is a gentleman. I'm sick to bloody death of bastards.