Favorite Four Weddings and a Funeral Quotes
Another wedding invitation. And a list. Lovely.Charles
Scarlotta! Fabulous dress. The ecclesiastical purple and the pagan orange symbolizing the mystical symbiosis in marriage between the heathen and Christian traditions?Gareth
Charles: There I was, standing there in the church, and for the first time in my whole life I realized I totally and utterly loved one person. And it wasn't the person next to me in the veil. It's the person standing opposite me now... in the rain.
Carrie: Is it still raining? I hadn't noticed.
Charles: Any idea who the girl in the black hat is?
Fiona: The name's Carrie.
Fiona: Used to work at Vogue. Lives in America now. Only gets out with very glamorous people. Quite out of your league.
Charles: Well, that's a relief. Thanks.
Charles: We were buying her a wedding dress.
David: Pathetic excuse. Who's she marrying?
Charles: Some total penis.
David: What is it about penises that they get such great wives?
Tom: Splendid, I thought. What did you think?
Bernard: I, thought, splendid! What did you think?
Tom: Splendid, I thought.
Matthew: Gareth used to prefer funerals to weddings. He said it was easier to get enthusiastic about a ceremony one had an outside chance of eventually being involved in. In order to prepare this speech, I rang a few people, to get a general picture of how Gareth was regarded by those who met him. Fat seems to be a word people most connected with him. Terribly rude also rang a lot of bells. So very fat and very rude seems to have been a stranger's viewpoint. On the other hand, some of you have been kind enough to ring me to tell me that you loved him, which I know he'd be thrilled to hear. You remember his fabulous hospitality... his strange experimental cooking. The recipe for "Duck Ã la Banana" fortunately goes with him to his grave. Most of all, you tell me of his enormous capacity for joy. When joyful, when joyful for highly vocal drunkenness. But joyful is how I hope you'll remember him. Not stuck in a box in a church. Pick your favorite of his waistcoats and remember him that way. The most splendid, replete, big-hearted, weak-hearted as it turned out, and jolly bugger most of us ever met. As for me, you may ask how I'll remember him, what I thought of him. Unfortunately there I run out of words. Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own feelings to the words of another splendid bugger: W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say: "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin... let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead, Scribbling on the sky the message: He is Dead. Put crepe bows 'round the necks of public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East, my West. My working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I thought love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now, put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good."