Anthony Minghella

Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.

I once traveled with a guide who was taking me to Faya. He didn't speak for nine hours. At the end of it he pointed at the horizon and said, "Faya!" That was a good day.

Why are people always so happy when they collide with someone from the same place? What happened in Montreal when you passed a man in the street? Did you invite him to live with you?

There is no God... but I hope someone looks after you.

Szerelem means love. And the story, well, there's this Hungarian count. He's a wanderer. He's a fool. And for years he's on some kind of a quest for… who knows what. And then one day, he falls under the spell of a mysterious English woman. A harpy, who beats him, and hits him, he becomes her slave, and he sews her clothes, and worships…

Stop it! Stop it! You're always beating me!

Let me tell you about winds. There is a, a whirlwind from southern Morrocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. And there is the... the ghibli, from Tunis...

- the ghibli, which rolls and rolls and rolls and produces a... a rather strange nervous condition. And then there is the... the harmattan, a red wind, which mariners call the sea of darkness. And red sand from this wind has flown as far as the south coast of England, apparently producing... showers so dense that they were mistaken for blood.

No, it's all true. Herodotus, your friend. He writes about it. And he writes about... a, a wind, the simoon, which a nation thought was so evil they declared war on it and marched out against it. In full battle dress. Their swords raised.

I once heard of a captain who wore a patch over a good eye. The men fought harder for him.

There was a Prince, who was dying, and he was carried up the tower at Pisa so he could die with a view of the Tuscan Hills. Am I that Prince?

My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We are the real countries. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.

You speak so many bloody languages, and you never want to talk.

Of course, you idiot. I always wear it; I've always worn it; I've always loved you.

I wanted to meet the man who could write such a long paper with so few adjectives.

Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?

A woman should never learn to sew, and if she can she shouldn't admit to it.

If I could just go back… if I could rub everything out… starting with myself.

Don't you just take the past and put it in a room in a basement and lock the door and never go in there? That's what I do. And then you meet someone special and all you want to do is to toss them the key and say, "Open up, step inside," but you can't because it's dark. There's demons, and if anybody saw how ugly it is… I keep wanting to do that: fling the door open, just let light in and clean everything out.

And that's the irony, Marge. I loved you. You may was well know it, Marge: I loved you. I don't know... maybe it's grotesque of me to say this now, so just write it on a piece of paper or something and put it in your purse for a rainy day. 'Tom loves me.' 'Tom loves me.'

I know. I'm lost, too. I'm going to be stuck in the basement, aren't I, that's my, that's my… terrible, and alone, and dark, and I've lied about who I am, and where I am, and now no-one will ever find me.

I always thought it would be better to be a fake somebody than a real nobody.

Oh sure, no, no, it's too dangerous for you to take on. Oh, no, no, we're brothers. Hey. And then you do this sordid thing with Marge. Fucking her on the boat while we all have to listen. Which was excruciating! And you follow your cock around like a - and now you're getting married! No, I'm bewildered, forgive me. You're lying to Marge and then you're getting married to her. You're knocking up Silvana. You're ruining everybody. You wanna play the sax, you wanna play the drums. What is it, Dickie? What do you actually play?

That scent you're wearing... I bought that for you, not Dickie. The thing about Dickie... so many things... That day when he was late coming back from Rome? I tried to tell you this. He was with another girl. I'm not talking about Meredith, either. Another girl who we met in a bar. He couldn't be faithful for five minutes. So when he makes a promise, it doesn't mean what it means when you make a promise, or I make a promise. He has so many realities, Dickie, and he believes them all. He lies, he lies, and that's his... and half the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it!

Every piece of this is man's bullshit. They call this war "a cloud over the land" but they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say "Shit, it's rainin'!"

Number one - shut this door, it's freezing. Number two - shut that door, it's freezing. I'm laying on my back, with my fingers poked in my ears trying to shut out who's got a bag of diamonds and who's carrying a tray. If you want to get three feet up a bull's ass, listen to what sweethearts whisper to each other. Now, if you're going to wimble wimble all night, I'm going to sleep in with him.

Every piece of this is man's bullshit. They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say 'Shit, it's raining!'

Just so you know - you're not eating inside. Number one: they hang people round here for taking in deserters. Number two: even if they gave out prizes you'd still eat outside.

We got our own story. Called Black Cove Farm: a catastrophe. I can spell it, too. Learned it the same place you did, in the school room. One of the first words they taught me. "Ruby Thewes, you are a c-a-t-a-s-t-r-o-p-h-e!"

Dear Mr. Inman, I began by counting the days, then the months. I don't count on anything anymore except the hope that you will return, and the silent fear that in the years since we saw each other, this war, this awful war, will have changed us both beyond all reckoning.

I can talk about farming in Latin. I can read French. I can lace up a corset, God knows. I can name the principal rivers in Europe, just don't ask me to name one stream in this county! I can embroider but I can't darn! I can arrange cut flowers but I can't grow them! If a thing has a function, if I might do something with it, then it wasn't considered suitable!

What we have lost will never be returned to us. The land will not heal - too much blood. All we can do is learn from the past and make peace with it.

What if you are killed and I'll never see you again? You said after a few years I would barely remember your name. Oh, Inman, it is more than three years, and I remember your name.

When I came with my father to the town of Cold Mountain, I was so shy of how I looked, so out of place. But did you know how happy I was to escape from Charleston, from a world of slaves and corsets and cotton?

I'm still waiting, as I promised I would. But I find myself alone and at the end of my wits - too embarrassed to keep taking from those who can least afford to give.

Since you've left, time has been measured out in bitter chapters. Last fall, my poor father died. Our farm at Black Cove is abandoned. Every house in these mountains touched by tragedy. Each day the dread of - learning who has fallen - who will not return from this terrible war. And no word from you. Are you alive?

After so long, I know I must learn to survive on my own and accept you will not return. And yet I cannot. I cannot.

Yesterday, I saw you walkin' back to me - or thought I did. I found myself crouching over Sally Swanger's well, like a madwoman staring into its secrets. Was it you I saw walking home to me or was it your ghost?

I looked once more down Sally's well, and this time there was nothin' there to haunt me. Just clouds. Clouds, and then... sun.