I don’t like innuendo in these deafening English whispers.
Explanation:
The Turkish ambassador died during his stay at the abbey
Honest, brave and naive. There is your Englishman. Right there.
If one puts forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices.
I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly; a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet, and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopædias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.
— Why don't I like you?
— Cause you think I'm an asshole. And I'm not really. I'm just British, and, well, you're not.
— I was surprised by the quality of California wines. And their originality. In the Napa Valley, there is interest in experimental methods. To avant-garde methods.
— What's he saying?
— Where I come from, they call it a left-handed compliment. But I don't think they have a name for it in England. It's too embedded in their culture.