Michael Caine Monologues

It took him half an hour to fall.

Danny's only a man. But he break wind at both ends simultaneous - which is more, I reckon, than any god can do.

Detriments you call us? Detriments? Well I want to remind you it was "detriments" like us that built this bloody Empire and the Izzat of the bloody Raj, 'ats on!

And old Danny fell. Round and round and round and round, like a penny whirligig. Twenty thousand miles and it took him half an hour to fall before he struck the rocks. But do you know what they did to Peachy? They crucified, him, sah, between two pine trees. As Peachy's hands will show.

Put poor Peachy who had never done them any harm. He howled there and he screamed, but he didn't die. And one day they come and they took him down and they said it was a miracle he wasn't dead and then they set him down and they let him go. And Peachy come home, in about, a year. And the mountains they tried to fall on old Peachy, but he was quite safe because Daniel walked before him. And Daniel never let go of Peachy's hand and Peachy never let go of Daniel's head.

You knew Danny, sir. Oh, yes, you knew, most Worshipful Brother.

Daniel Dravot, Esquire. Well, he became king of Kafiristan, with a crown on his head and that's all there is to tell. I'll be on my way now sir, I've got urgent business in the south, I have to meet a man in Marwar Junction.

Home to what? A porters uniform outside a restaurant, attainin' tips from belching civilians for closing cab doors on them and their blowsy women?

Now, the problem is, how to divide five Afghans from three mules and have two Englishmen left over.

I told you; give me a drink. It was all settled right here in this office. Remember? Danny and Me signed a contract, and you witnessed it. You stood over there. I stood there, and Daniel stood here. Remember?

The same - and not the same, who sat besides you in the first class carriage, on the train to Marwar Junction, three summers and a thousand years ago.

They're savages here, one and all. Leave 'em to go back to slaughterin' babes, and playin' stickball with each other's heads, and pissin' on their neighbors.

Keep looking at me. It helps to keep my soul from flying off.

I have urgent business to the South.

Sir, I resent the accusation of blackmail. It is blackmail to obtain money by threats of publishing information in a newspaper. But what blackmail is there in accepting a small retainer for keeping it out of a newspaper?

By telling the editor what I know about his sister, and a certain government official in these parts.

These here make the jewels in the Tower of London look like… cheap family heirlooms.

There's a bigger one. Why, Danny, we only have to fill our pockets and walk out of here to be millionaires. And all of it... all... would make us the two richest men in England.

And now, if you will take us to this Ootah bloke, we will begin his education.

You know what? When I look back on my little life and the birds I've known, and think of all the things they've done for me and the little I've done for them, you'd think I've had the best of it along the line. But what have I got out of it? I've got a bob or two, some decent clothes, a car, I've got me health back and I ain't attached. But I ain't got me peace of mind - and if you ain't got that, you ain't got nothing. I dunno. It seems to me if they ain't got you one way they've got you another. So what's the answer? That's what I keep asking myself - what's it all about? Know what I mean?

My understanding of women only goes as far as the pleasure. When it comes to the pain I'm like any other bloke - I don't want to know.

Make a married woman laugh and you're halfway there.

What I loved once and what I love now are two different things.

I've never told her that I love her - except at those times when you've got to say something for appearance's sake.

Mind you, she came over quite beautified for a while, particularly during the early months. And I told her: I said "Blimey, girl, you ain't as ugly as I thought".

She's got a little ginger moustache. But I find I'm quite willing to overlook the odd blemish in a woman, providing she's got something to make up for it. Well, that's what we're all here for, innit - to help each other out in this life.

I don't want no bird's respect - I wouldn't know what to do with it.

Well, what harm can it do? Old Harry will never know. And even if he did, he shouldn't begrudge me - or her, come to that. And it'll round off the tea nicely.

If you lose a bird you can always replace her. But with a child it's different.

I've told you before to be careful where you put your legs.

Children, don't know their parents ordeals. Sure, they know certain details, striking elements. And they know what they need to know to be on one side or the other. They don't know that I trembled the first time I ever saw you on stage. All the orchestra behind my back were laughing at my falling in love. And my unexpected fragility. They don't know that you sold of your mother's jewellery in order to help me with my second piece. When everyone else was turning me down calling me presumptuous inelegant musician. They don't know that you too, and you were right that you thought I was a presumptuous, inelegant musician at that time. And you cried so hard. Not because you sold you mother's jewellery but because you sold your mother. They don't know that we were together. You and I. Despite all the exhaustion, and the pain, and hardship. Melanie. They must never know that you and I despite everything liked to think of ourselves as a simple song.

I'm wondering what happens to your memory over time. I can't remember my family. I don't remember their faces or how they talked. Last night I was watching Lena while she was asleep. And I was thinking about all the thousands of little things that I done for her as her father. And I done them deliberately so that she would remember them. When she grows up. But in time. She won't remember a single thing.

Well, because it's so vulnerable. You eliminate one person. And all of a sudden. The whole world changes. Like in a marriage.

You were right. Music is all I understand.

We only ever told each other the good things.

Well, he once said intellectuals had no taste. And from that moment on, I did everything I could not to become an intellectual. And I succeeded.

Levity is an irresistible temptation.

I don't know what the problem is. But I'm not going to try and cheer you up by lying. Or talk about things I never knew about.

You won't fool me. I know you can't levitate.

I waited till visiting hours to come and see you. They don't know, Melanie. The children don't know their parents ordeals. Sure, they know certain details, striking elements. And they know what they need to know to be on one side or the other. They don't know that I trembled the first time I ever saw you on stage. And that the orchestra behind my back was laughing at my falling in love. And my unexpected fragility. They don't know that you sold of your mother's jewellery in order to help me with my second piece, when everyone else was turning me down, calling me a presumptuous, inelegant musician. I think they don't know that you too, and you were right that you thought I was a presumptuous, inelegant musician at that time. And you cried so hard. Not because you sold you mother's jewellery, but because you sold your mother. They don't know that we were together, you and I, despite all the exhaustion, and the pain, and the hardship. Melanie, they must never know that you and I, despite everything, liked to think of ourselves as "A Simple Song."Look at me.

Because levity is also a perversion.

In other parts of the world young men leave home and travel far and wide in search of a promising future. Their journeys are often fueled by dreams of triumphing over evil, finding a great love, or the hopes of fortunes easily made. Here in St. Cloud's not even the decision to get off the train is easily made, for it requires an earlier, more difficult decision - add a child to your life, or leave one behind. The only reason people journey here is for the orphanage.

I came as a physician to the abandoned children and unhappily pregnant women. I had hoped to become a hero. But in St. Cloud's there was no such position. In the lonely, sordid world of lost children, there were no heroes to be found. And so I became the caretaker of many, father of none. Well, in a way, there was one. His name was Homer Wells.

My Dear Homer: I thought you were over you adolescence - the first time in our lives when we imagine we have something terrible to hide from those who love us. Do you think it's not obvious to us what's happened to you? You've fallen in love, haven't you? By the way, whatever you're up to can't be too good for your heart. Then again, it's the sort of condition that could be made worse by worrying about it, so don't worry about it.

Homer, here in St. Cloud's, I have been given the opportunity of playing God or leaving practically everything up to chance. Men and women of conscience should sieze those moments when it's possible to play God. There won't be many. Do I interfere when absolutely helpless women tell me they simply can't have an abortion - that they simply must go through with having another and yet another orphan? I do not. I do not even recommend. I just give them what they want. You are my work of art, Homer. Everything else has been just a job. I don't know if you have a work of art in you, but I know what your job is: you're a doctor.

You're going to replace me, Homer. The board of trustees is looking for my replacement.

"Sorry"? I'm not sorry. Not for anything I've done. I'm not even sorry that I love you.

I think we may have lost him to the world.

She died of secrecy. She died of... ignorance. Homer, did you expect to be responsible for their children, you have to give them the right to decide whether or not to have children. Wouldn't you agree?

First pregnancy?

I presume you'd prefer handling the delivery?

You know how to help women. How can you not feel obligated to help them when they can't get help anywhere else?

What else could I have shown you, Homer? The only thing I can teach you is what I know. In any life, you have to be of use.

Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige"."

Now you're looking for the secret. But you won't find it because of course, you're not really looking. You don't really want to work it out. You want to be fooled.

You're a magician, not a wizard.