Sure. Sure. He's okay. Aren't you, Cat? Poor old Cat. Poor slob. Poor slob without a name. The way I see it I don't have the right to give him one. We don't belong to each other. We just took up by the river one day. I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I'm not sure where that is, but I know what it's like. It's like Tiffany's.
We're just a couple of no name slobs. We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us. We don't even belong to each other.
It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I'll give you two.
But I am mad about Jose. I honestly think I'd give up smoking if he asked me.
You could always tell what kind of a person a man thinks you are by the earrings he gives you. I must say, the mind reels.
There are certain shades of limelight that can ruin a girl's complexion.
But oh golly! Gee damn!
You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.