Time has changed nothing. Amelie still takes refuge in solitude.
So, my little Amélie, you don't have bones of glass. You can take life's knocks. If you let this chance pass, eventually, your heart will become as dry and brittle as my skeleton. So, go get him, for Pete's sake!
— They look quite happy there.
— They should be. This year they had hare with morels. And waffles with jam for the children.
Hello, Amelie-mellow! A fig and three hazelnuts, as usual?
— Has anyone ever written to you like that?
— No. I'm nobody's little weasel.
Hipolito: — We pass the time of day to forget how time passes.
Gina: — We do it to keep us from talking crap.
— It must be my guardian angel. It's the only explanation. It was as if the phone booth was calling me. It rang and rang.
— Same here. The microwave's calling me.
Failed writer, failed life... I love the word "fail". Failure is human destiny. Failure teaches us that life is but a draft, a long rehearsal for a show that will never play.
Amandine takes Amelie to Notre Dame to light a candle and pray for a baby brother. Three minutes later, heaven sends, alas, not a baby boy, but Marguerite, a tourist from Quebec, bent on ending her life. Amandine Poulain is killed instantly.
— You're gorgeous when you blush. Like a wild flower.
— It's my dyspepsia.