The forest of Compiegne. Look at it. Like a kind grandmother dozing in her rocking chair. Old trees practicing curtsies in the wind because they still think Louis XIV is king.

When Chaplin found a voice to say what was on his mind, he was like a child of eight writing lyrics for Beethoven's Ninth.

God save me from myself.

You know, that stuff about pink elephants, that's the bunk. It's little animals. Little tiny turkeys in straw hats. Midget monkeys coming through the keyholes.

Money makes even bastards legitimate.

The ultimate trick is to convince, persuade. Every single person out there is an idiot, but collectively they're a genius.

What critics call dirty in our pictures, they call lusty in foreign films.