Martha: I hope that was an empty bottle, George! You can't afford to waste good liquor, not on your salary.
Martha: I swear, if you existed, I'd divorce you.
George: So, where are these people, this good looking young professor and his slim hipped wife? What did they do? Go home and get some sleep first?
George: And please keep your clothes on, too. There aren't many more sickening sights in this world than you with a few drinks in you and your skirt up over your head. Or "your heads", I should say.
George: You take the trouble to construct a civilization, to build a society based on the principles of... of principle. You make government and art and realise that they are, must be, both the same. You bring things to the saddest of all points, to the point where there is something to lose. Then, all at once, through all the music, through all the sensible sounds of men building, attempting, comes the Dies Irae. And what is it? What does the trumpet sound? Up yours.
Martha: I looked at you tonight and you weren't there... And I'm gonna howl it out, and I'm not gonna give a damn what I do and I'm gonna make the biggest god-damn explosion you've ever heard.
George: Try and I'll beat you at your own game.
Martha: Is that a threat George, huh?
George: It's a threat, Martha.
Martha: You're gonna get it, baby.
George: Be careful Martha. I'll rip you to pieces.
Martha: You're not man enough. You haven't the guts.
George: Total war.
Martha: Total.
George: Martha, will you show her where we keep the, uh, euphemism?
George: Martha, in my mind you're buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it's much quieter.
George: Good. Better. Best. Bested.
Nick: I'm tired, I've been drinking since nine o'clock, my wife is vomiting, there's been a lot of screaming going on around here.
Martha: Look, sweetheart, I can drink you under any goddamn table you want, so don't worry about me.
Martha: A drowning man takes down those nearest.
