The more he denounced his own time, the more complacent he became.

Pregúntale a tu piel si ella te dejará escapar. Mientras tanto, recuerda dónde besaste y qué zapatos llevabas. 

Martha: Well, aren't you going to apologize?

George: Wasn't my fault — the road should've been straight.

Martha: Not that! For making her throw up.

George: I did not make her throw up.

Martha: You most certainly did.

George: I did not.

Honey: [still drunk] No, now, no…

Martha: Well, who do you think did? Sexy, back there? You think he made his own wife sick?

George: Well, you make me sick.

Martha: That's different.

(Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?)