It's time we were told what it's all about. We want to know why we were kidnapped, why we're being kept here, but most important of all, do we get the porters and when? Until we get this information, my dear Mr. Chang, I am very much afraid we cannot permit you to leave this room....
It's astonishing and incredible, but...you're the man...You're still alive, Father Perrault!
When we were on that plane, I was fascinated by the way its shadow followed it. That silly shadow, racing along over mountains and valleys, covering ten times the distance of the plane, and yet always there to greet us with outstretched arms when we landed. And I've been thinking that somehow, you're that plane, and I'm that silly shadow. That all my life, I've been rushing up and down hills, leaping rivers, crashing over obstacles, never dreaming that one day that beautiful thing in flight would land on this earth and into my arms.
Something grand and beautiful, George. Something I've been searching for all my life. The answer to the confusion and bewilderment of a lifetime. I've found it, George, and I can't leave it. You mustn't either.
She's a fragile thing that can only live where fragile things are loved. Take her out of this valley and she'll fade away like an echo.
I saw a man whose life was empty...Oh I know, it was full of this and full of that. But you were accomplishing nothing. You were going nowhere, and you knew it. As a matter of fact, all I saw was a little boy whistling in the dark.
You're absolutely right. And I had to come all the way to a pigeon house in Shangri-La to find the only other person in the world who knew it. May I congratulate you?
You may not know it, but you're all prisoners here who were literally kidnapped and brought here and nobody knows why. Well, I'm not content to be a prisoner. I'm going to find out when we're going to get out of this place. I'll make that Chinese talk if it's the last thing I do.
What else can I think after a tale like that?...I think you've been hypnotized by a lot of loose-brained fanatics.
To put it simply, I should say that our general belief was in moderation. We preach the virtue of avoiding excesses of every kind, even including excess of virtue itself...We find in the valley it makes for greater happiness among the natives. We rule with moderate strictness and in return we are satisfied with moderate obedience. As a result, our people are moderately honest, moderately chaste, and somewhat more than moderately happy.
There can be no crime where there is a sufficiency of everything.
It would not be considered good manners to take a woman that another man wanted.
A little courtesy all around helps to smooth out the most complicated problems.
We do not buy or sell or seek personal fortunes because, well, there is no uncertain future here for which to accumulate it.
In fact, Shangri-La is Father Perrault.
It is quite common here to live to a very ripe old age, climate, diet, and mountain water you might say, but we like to believe it is the absence of struggle in the way we live.
Age is a limit we impose upon ourselves.
Last night, Conway recovered his memory. Kept talking about Shangri-La. Telling a fantastic story about a place in Tibet. Insisted upon returning there at once. Locked him in room, but he escaped us. Jumped ship during night at Singapore. Am leaving ship myself to overtake him, as fearful of his condition. Wrote down details of Conway's story about Shangri-La, which I am forwarding.
During those last ten months, that man has done the most astounding things. Well, he learned how to fly, stole an Army plane and got caught, put into jail and escaped, all in an amazingly short space of time, but this is only the beginning of his adventure. He begged, cajoled, fought, always pushing forward to the Tibetan frontier. Everywhere I went, I heard the most amazing stories of the man's adventures. Positively astounding, till eventually, I trailed him to the most extreme outposts in Tibet. Of course, he had already gone, but his memory, oh, oh... His memory will live with those natives for the rest of their lives. 'The man who was not human,' they called him. They'll never forget the devil-eyed stranger who six times tried to go over a mountain pass that no other human being dared to travel, and six times was forced back by the severest storms. They'll never forget the madman who stole their food and clothing, who they locked up in their barracks but who fought six of their guards to escape. Why, their soldiers are still talking about their pursuit to overtake him and shuddering at the memory. He led them the wildest chase through their own country. And finally, he disappeared over that very mountain pass that they themselves dared not travel. And that, gentlemen, was the last that any known human being saw of Robert Conway.
Yes. Yes, I believe it. I believe it because I want to believe it. Gentlemen, I give you a toast. Here's my hope that Robert Conway will find his Shangri-La. Here's my hope that we all find our Shangri-La.
In these days of wars and rumors of wars - haven't you ever dreamed of a place where there was peace and security, where living was not a struggle but a lasting delight? Of course you have. So has every man since Time began. Always the same dream. Sometimes he calls it Utopia - Sometimes the Fountain of Youth - Sometimes merely "that little chicken farm." One man had such a dream and saw it come true. He was Robert Conway - England's "Man of the East" - soldier, diplomat, public hero.
I am placing in your hands the future and destiny of Shangri-La, for I am going to die. I knew my work was done when I first set eyes upon you. I've waited for you, my son, for a long time. I've sat in this room and seen the faces of newcomers. I've looked into their eyes and heard their voices, always in hope that I might find you. My friend, it is not an arduous task that I bequeath, for our order knows only silken bonds. To be gentle and patient, to care for the riches of the mind, to preside in wisdom while the storm rages without...You, my son, will live through the storm. You will preserve the fragrance of our history and add to it a touch of your own mind. Beyond that, my vision weakens but I see at a great distance a new world stirring in the ruins, stirring clumsily but in hopefulness, seeking its lost and legendary treasures, and they will all be here, my son, hidden behind the mountains in the Valley of the Blue Moon, preserved as by a miracle.
I'll die if I have to stay here another minute...Look at me, Mr. Conway, do I look like an old woman? Is this the skin of an old woman? Look into my eyes. Are these the eyes of an old woman?