I find the dialogue in most chick flicks to be fluff, and outside of a feather pillow or a lightly-toasted marshmallow, I don’t have much use for fluff.
But lyrical dialogue? Well, it has me still holding my eyes open at two a.m., completely enthralled with a sappy movie I have watched a dozen times because of language like this:
It was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, meant we were supposed to be together… and I knew it. I knew it the very first time we touched. It was like coming home… only to no home I’d ever known….
I would have asked for your number, and I wouldn’t have been able to wait twenty-four hours before calling you and saying, “Hey, how about… oh, how about some coffee or, you know, drinks or dinner or a movie… for as long as we both shall live?” And you and I would have never been at war. And the only thing we’d argue about would be which video to rent on Saturday night.
I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell you on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
I’ve been thinking about you. Last night I went to meet you, and you weren’t there. I wish I knew why. I felt so foolish…. Anyway I so wanted to talk to you. I hope you have a good reason for not being there. You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d do something like that. The odd thing about this form of communication is that we’re more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings.
All I’m saying is that somewhere out there is the man you are supposed to marry. And if you don’t get him first, somebody else will, and you’ll have to spend the rest of your life knowing that somebody else is married to your husband.
People are always saying that change is a good thing. But all they’re really saying is that something you didn’t want to happen at all… has happened. Someday, it’ll be just a memory. But the truth is… I’m heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died … and no one can ever make it right.
I’m gonna get out of bed every morning… and breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won’t have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out… and,then after a while, I won’t have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.
Do you ever feel you’ve become the worst version of yourself? That a Pandora’s box of all the secret, hateful parts – your arrogance, your spite, your condescension – has sprung open?
Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life – well, valuable, but small – and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So, good night, dear void.
And then the dream breaks into a million tiny pieces. The dream dies. Which leaves you with a choice: you can settle for reality, or you can go off, like a fool, and dream another dream.
And my favorite, to be read with the Scottish brogue of Nanny Maureen: “Never marry a man who lies.” 🙂
Nora Ephron would have been 75 today had cancer not stolen her from us. She was witty and wonderful. She made the preposterous seem plausible and had the gift of making the horrible truth hysterical. And she is the writer I most identify with.
Nora Ephron, you were a treasure, and you are missed.