Amélie

Dufayel's attempts to meddle are intolerable! If Amélie chooses to live in a dream and remain an introverted young woman, she has an absolute right to mess up her life!

Love. The only bug she hadn't caught!

Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's.

A good prompter in each cellar window whispering cutting retorts would mean shy people had the last laugh. At least you'll never be a vegetable.

You mean, she'd rather imagine herself relating to someone who's absent than build relationships with those around her?

Exactly. It's the mystery.

Times are hard for dreamers.

To a kid, time always drags. Suddenly you're fifty. All that's left of your childhood... fits in a rusty little box, a little rusty box.

Amelie doesn't have a boyfriend. She tried once or twice, but the results were a let-down. Instead, she cultivates a taste for small pleasures. Plunging her hand deep into a sack of grain. Cracking creme brulee with a teaspoon. And skimming stones on the Canal St. Martin.

Amélie hands a beggar some money:
— Sorry madam, I don't work on Sundays.

— So sad! A young, pretty princess for once.
— Would it be less sad if she were old and ugly?

By and large, the men I like are mentally unsound.

The fool looks at a finger that points at the sky.

All women want to sleep on a man's shoulder. All of them.

After all these years, the only person I still can't capture is the girl with the glass of water. She's in the middle, yet she's on the outside.

— Was that prenuptial or post-coital smooching?
— Is your bullshit congenital?