

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

Hana: [reads Almásy's note on the firecracker] "Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire." For the heart is an organ of fire.I love that. I believe that. K? Who is K?
Almásy: K is for Katharine.

Katharine Clifton: Will we be alright?
Almásy: Yes. Yes, absolutely.
Katharine Clifton: "Yes" is a comfort. "Absolutely" is not.

Hana: There's a man downstairs. He brought us eggs. He might stay.
Almásy: Why? Can he lay eggs?
Hana: He's Canadian.
Almásy: 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?

Almásy: There is no God... but I hope someone looks after you.
Madox: Just in case you're interested, it's called the suprasternal notch. Come and visit us in Dorset when all this nonsense is over.
[Heads away but turns back]
Madox: You'll never come to Dorset.

Almásy: What do you love?
Katharine Clifton: What do I love?
Almásy: Say everything.
Katharine Clifton: Hm, let's see... Water. Fish in it. And hedgehogs; I love hedgehogs.
Almásy: And what else?
Katharine Clifton: Marmite - I'm addicted. And baths. But not
with other people. Islands. Your handwriting. I could go on all day.
Almásy: Go on all day.
Katharine Clifton: My husband.
Almásy: What do you hate most?
Katharine Clifton: A lie. What do you hate most?
Almásy: Ownership. Being owned. When you leave, you should forget me.
[she adopts a look of disgust, pushes him gently away to get out of the tub, picks up her tattered dress and leaves]

Katharine Clifton: This - what is this?
Almásy: It's a folk song.
Katharine Clifton: Arabic.
Almásy: No, no. It's Hungarian. My daijka sang it to me when I was a child growing up in Budapest.
Katharine Clifton: It's beautiful. What's it about?
Almásy: 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...
[Katharine starts hitting him]
Almásy: Stop it! Stop it! You're always beating me!
Katharine Clifton: Bastard! You bastard, I believed you! You should be my slave.
