Witold: I'm afraid of the dark. All the dark cavities. This toad is all about its slippery moisture.
Fuchs: A crooked mouth and a dark cavity encroaked with the sparrow in a sphere of toady-sparrowy-Catherettery.
Witold: I'm shocked!
Fuchs: A few more days with you and I'll win the Nobel Prize in thrillerettery.
Fuchs: You're getting deep, like Sartre or Stendahl...
Witold: Anything relating to her can only be loving.
Fuchs: That happens when a writer hangs a cat?
Witold: And even if she can't guess who did it, she'll still be ashamed of the cat, which is her cat... our cat. That wasn't the real murder! How could this beauty, so perfect and out of reach, unite with me through lying?
Léon: The phenomenality of grass blades, of smallest flowers; a sort of streaming in purest poetry.