Quotes of movie “I’m Thinking of Ending Things“
Sometimes the thought is closer to the truth, to reality, than an action.
You can say anything, you can do anything, but you can’t fake a thought.
it’s not going anywhere. I’ve known this for a while now.
Maybe it’s human nature to keep going in the face of this knowledge.
The alternative requires too much energy. Decisiveness.
People stay in unhealthy relationships because it’s easier.
Basic physics. An object in motion tends to stay in motion.
People tend to stay in relationships past their expiration date.
It’s Newton’s first law of emotion.
Everything has to die. That’s the truth.
One likes to think that there is always hope.
That you can live above death.
And it’s a uniquely human fantasy that things will get better,
born perhaps of the uniquely
human understanding that things will not.
There’s no way to know for certain.
But I suspect humans are the only animals
that know the inevitability of their own deaths.
Other animals live in the present.
Humans cannot, so they invented hope.
I suppose all farmhouses are alike.
Like all happy families.
I’m not sure Tolstoy got that one right.
Happiness in a family is as nuanced as unhappiness.
I’m looking forward to when it gets very bad
and I don’t have to remember that I can’t remember!
The luck of the draw, really.
The genetic lottery, as they say.
But to do as well as Jake did
with no special talent or abilities…
That’s much more impressive.
It’s tragic how few people possess their souls before they die.
“Nothing is more rare in any man,” Says Emerson, “Than an act of his own.”
And it’s quite true.
Most people are other people.
Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions.
Their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.
People like to think of themselves as points moving through time.
But I think it’s probably the opposite.
and time passes through us,
blowing like cold wind,
stealing our heat,
leaving us chapped and frozen.
I feel like I was that wind tonight.
Blowing through Jake’s parents.
Seeing them as they were, seeing them as they will be.
Seeing them after they’re gone.
When only I’m left.
Only the wind.
It’s despicable how we label people
and categorize them and dismiss them.
I look at the kids
I see at school every day.
I see the ones who are ostracized. They’re…
different. They’re out of step.
And I see the lives they’ll have because of that.
Sometimes I see them years later, in town, at the supermarket.
I can tell that they still carry that stuff around with them.
Like a millstone.
Like an oozing wound.
I don’t think we know how to be human anymore.
Our society, our culture, people.
Whatever all this is.
Any of us.
“The spectacle cannot be understood as a mere visual deception produced by mass media technologies.
It is a worldview that has actually been materialized.”
Watch the world through this glass, pre-interpreted for us.
And it infects our brains. We become it.
Like a virus.
Everything is tinged.
Colored by mood, by emotion, by past experience.
There is no objective reality.
You know there’s no color in the universe, right?
Only in the brain.
Just electromagnetic frequencies, the brain tinges them.
Color is the deeds of light.
It’s the deeds and suffering.
Time is another thing that exists only in the brain.
Older and older.
Or so it seems.
Sometimes I feel…
I’m much younger
than I actually am, like still a kid inside,
until I pass a mirror.
How can you admire a person for their age?
It’s like admiring a certain point in a stream.
it’s more fun.
More attractive, hopeful.
Almost all groundbreaking work in science and the arts
is done by young people.
Old people are the ash heap of youth.
Coming home is terrible
whether the dogs lick your face or not
whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you
Coming home is terrible lonely
so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure
back with you have just come from with fondness
because everything’s worse once you’re home
You think of the vermin clingling to the grass stalks
long hours on the road，roadside assistance and ice creams
and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds
and silence with longing，because you did not want to return
Coming home is just awful
And the home-style silence and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise
Clouds, such as they are, are in fud suspect
and made from a different material than those you left behind
You youself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered ill-met by moonlight
unhappy to be back,slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty, worn
You return home, moon-landed, foreign
The Earth’s gravitation pull an effort now redoubled
dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders
etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead
You return home deepened
a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days
one might as well, at a time
Well anyway, you’re back
The sun goes up and down like a tired whore
The weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older
Nothing moves,but the shifting tides of salt in your body
Your vision blears
You carry your weather with you
the big, blue whale, a skeletal darkness
You come back with X-ray vision
your eyes have become a hunger
You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone
Everything you see now
All of it
There’s only one question to resolve.
I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid.
The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing.
Now is the time for the answer.
Just one question, one question to answer.