Quote: BOCK
(looks down again)
You're wasting your time. I've been
impotent for years.

BARBARA
Rubbish.

With a crash of his fist on the desktop, Bock stands; he is
in a drunken rage.

BOCK
(lurches about)
What the hell's wrong with being
impotent? My God, you kids are more
hung up on sex than the Victorians!
I've got a son, twenty-three. I threw
him out of the house last year.
Pietistic little humbug. He preached
universal love and despised everyone.
He had a blanket contempt for the
middle class, even its decencies. He
detested my mother because she had
petit bourgeois pride in her son the
doctor. I cannot tell you how
brutishly he ignored that rather
good old lady. When she died, he
didn't even come to the funeral. He
thought the chapel service an
hypocrisy. His generation didn't
live with lies, he told me. "Everybody
lives with lies," I said. I grabbed
him by his poncho, dragged him the
full length of our seven-room
despicably affluent middle-class
apartment and flung him out. I haven't
seen him since. But do you know what
he said to me as he stood there on
that landing on the verge of tears.
He shrieked at me: "You old fink!
You can't even get it up anymore!"
That was it, you see. That was his
real revolution. It wasn't racism
and the oppressed poor and the war
in Vietnam. The ultimate American
societal sickness was a limp dingus.
Hah!
(he lurches about,
laughing rustily)
My God, if there is a despised and
misunderstood minority in this
country, it's us poor impotent
bastards. Well, I'm impotent and
proud of it! Impotence is beautiful,
baby!
(he raises a militant
fist)
Power to the Impotent! Right on,
baby!

BARBARA
(smiling)
Right on.

BOCK
(stares drunkenly at
her)
When I say impotent, I don't mean
merely limp. Disagreeable as it may
be for a woman, a man may sometimes
lust for other things, something
less transient than an erection,
some sense of permanent worth. That's
what medicine was for me, my reason
for being. When I was thirty-four,
Miss Drummond, I presented a paper
before the annual convention of the
Society of Clinical Investigation
that pioneered the whole goddam field
of immunology. A breakthrough! I'm
in all the textbooks. I happen to be
an eminent man, Miss Drummond. And
you want to know something, Miss
Drummond? I don't give a goddam.
When I say I'm impotent, I mean I've
lost even my desire for work, which
is a hell of a lot more primal a
passion than sex. I've lost my raison
d'etre, my purpose, the only thing I
ever truly loved. It's all rubbish
anyway. Transplants, antibodies, we
manufacture genes, we can produce
birth ectogenetically, we can
practically clone people like carrots,
and half the kids in this ghetto
haven't even been inoculated for
polio! We have assembled the most
enormous medical establishment ever
conceived, and people are sicker
than ever! We cure nothing! We heal
nothing! The whole goddam wretched
world is strangulating in front of
our eyes! That's what I mean when I
say impotent! You don't know what
the hell I'm talking about, do you?

Quote: Whatever can those people be doing down there?
Like a lot of ants.
Surprising the number of human beings are without purpose.
Although it is probable
they're performing some function unknown to themselves.
Everything begins and ends
at exactly the right time
and place.

Quote:Architect: hello Neo.

Neo: Who are you?

Architect: I am the Architect. I created the Matrix I've been waiting for you.
You have many questions, and though the process has altered your consciousness you remain irrevocably human ergo some of my answers you will understand, and some of them you will not.
Concordantly, while your first question may be the most pertinent, you may or may not realize it is also the most irrelevant.

Neo: Why am I here?

Architect: Your life is the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of the matrix. You are the eventuality of an anomaly which despite my sincerest efforts I have been unable to eliminate from what is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains a burden assiduously avoided it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control. Which has led you inexorably....here

Neo: You haven't answered my question.

Architect: Quite right. Interesting...that was quicker than the others.

(TV "Neo"s:
Others [how many others?] what others? answer my question!)

Architect: The matrix is older than you know. I prefer counting from the emergence of one integral anomaly to the emergence of the next, in which case this is the 6th version.

(Tv Neos:
5 ones before me? 4...3..2.. what are you talking about? There are only 2 possible explanations, either no one told me....)
Neo: ...or no one knows.

Architect: Precisely. As you are undoubtedly gathering, the anomaly is systemic--creating fluctuations in even the most simplistic equations.

(Tv Neos:
You can't control me!
I'm gonna smash the wall
I'll fukkin kill you!
etc..)

Neo: Choice. The problem is choice.

Cut to Trinity vs Agent.

Architect: The first Matrix I designed was quite naturally perfect, it was a work of art...flawless, sublime. And triumphed equally only by its monumental failure. The inevitability of its doom is apparent to me now as a consequence of the imperfection inherent in every human being. Thus, I redesigned it based on your history to more accurately reflect the varying grotesqueries of your nature. However, I was again frustrated by failure. I have since come to understand that the answer eluded me because it required a lesser mind, or perhaps a mind less bound by the parameters of perfection. Thus the answer was stumbled upon by another--An intuitive program, initially created to investigate certain aspects of the human psyche. If I am the father of the matrix, she would undoubtedly be its Mother.

Neo: The Oracle.

Architect: Please. As I was saying, she stumbled upon a solution whereby nearly 99% of all test subjects accepted the program, as long as they were given a choice...even if they were only aware of the choice at a near unconscious level. While this answer functioned, it was obviously fundamentally flawed, thus creating the otherwise contradictory systemic anomaly, that if left unchecked might threaten the system itself. Ergo those that refused the program, while a minority, if unchecked would constitute an escalating probability of disaster.

Quote: But didn't I mention the ongoing "wow" is happening right now?
We are all coauthors of this dancing exuberance...
where even our inabilities are having a roast.
We are the authors of ourselves,
coauthoring a gigantic Dostoyevsky novel starring clowns.
This entire thing we're involved with called the world...
is an opportunity to exhibit how exciting alienation can be.
Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time...
by moments flabbergasted to be in each other's presence.
The world is an exam to see if we can rise into the direct experiences.
Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it.
Matter is here as a test for our curiosity.
Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality.
Thomas Mann wrote that he would rather participate in life...
than write a hundred stories.
Giacometti was once run down by a car,
and he recalled falling into a lucid faint,
a sudden exhilaration,
as he realized at last something was happening to him.

(08-01-2011, 08:10 PM)Pack3t SynAck3r Wrote: Lost Highway is my favorite mind boggler. I have seen in 17 times and I still seem to change conclusions on it every time I watch it. My favorite dialogue is as follows
[spoiler]
A MYSTERY MAN, tall, well-dressed and groomed, older than
Fred, approaches him.

MYSTERY MAN
We've met before, haven't we?

FRED
I don't think so. Where was it that you
think we've met?

MYSTERY MAN
At your house. Don't you remember?

FRED
(surprised)
No, no I don't. Are you sure?

MYSTERY MAN
Of course. In fact, I'm there right now.

FRED
(incredulous)
What do you mean? You're where right
now?

MYSTERY MAN
At your house.

FRED
That's absurd.

The Mystery Man reaches into his coat pocket, takes out a
cellular phone and holds it out to Fred.

MYSTERY MAN
Call me.

Fred snickers, like this is a bad joke. The Mystery Man puts
the phone into Fred's hand.

MYSTERY MAN
(CON-T)
Dial your number.

Fred hesitates, puzzled.

MYSTERY MAN
(CON-T)
Go ahead.

Fred shrugs, laughs, dials his number. We HEAR a pick up as
we stay on FRED'S FACE.

PHONE VOICE OF
MYSTERY MAN
I told you I was here.

Fred, still holding the phone, stares at the man standing in
front of him.

FRED
How did you do that?

The Mystery Man points to the phone.

MYSTERY MAN
Ask me.

Fred, mirthful at first, as if it is a party trick of some
kind, suddenly turns serious - it's obvious he's thinking now
of the videotapes. He speaks into the phone.

FRED
(angrily)
How did you get into my house?

PHONE VOICE OF
MYSTERY MAN
You invited me. It's not my habit to go
where I'm not wanted.

Fred looks at the man in front of him, but speaks again into
the phone.

FRED
Who are you?

The man laughs - identical laughs - both over the phone and in person.

PHONE VOICE OF
MYSTERY MAN
Give me my phone back.

The man in front of Fred reaches out his hand for the phone.
Fred hears the line go dead, and he slowly passes the phone
back to the Mystery Man who takes it, folds it, and puts it in his pocket.

MYSTERY MAN
It's been a pleasure talking to you.

[/spoiler]