Elizabeth Taylor, wife of the late great Richard Burton, dies age 79.
Martha: I swear, if you existed, I'd divorce you.
Martha: Look, sweetheart, I can drink you under any goddamn table you want, so don't worry about me.
Martha: I hope that was an empty bottle, George! You can't afford to waste good liquor, not on YOUR salary!
Martha: You make me puke.
George: That wasn't a very nice thing to say, Martha.
George: Martha, in my mind you're buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it's much quieter.
George: You take the trouble to construct a civilization, to build a society based on the principles of... of principle. You make government and art and realize that they are, must be, both the same. You bring things to the saddest of all points, to the point where there is something to lose. Then, all at once, through all the music, through all the sensible sounds of men building, attempting, comes the Dies Irae. And what is it? What does the trumpet sound? Up yours.
Martha: George and Martha: Sad, sad, sad.
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