Criminals thrive on the indulgence of society's understanding.
Demons do not have a sense of loyalty or conviction, right? All they have are principles.
— Would you take it?
— I'd take it.
— Would you wear it?
— Why would I not?
— That's my question. My wife was wearing it the night she was shot. And... I lie awake at night. At four in the fucking morning and I blame myself to her dead. I pushed some people too far.
— You want me to tell you this jewel is cursed. And then her death won't all be your fault.
— If I believed in priests, I would confess and ask for forgiveness. But all I have is you, Madame Boswell. I have a son. I have a business. I need to get some sleep.
— It is cursed. I feel its curse burning through my hand.
C'est pas ma faute,
Et quand je donne ma langue au chat,
Je vois les autres,
Tout prets a se jeter sur moi.
C'est pas ma faute a moi,
Si j entends tout autour de moi:
Hello, helli, t'es A.
Moi Lolita...
Your life is the fruit of your own doing. You have no one to blame but yourself.
— I'm sorry, Walt.
— It's not your fault. Which injuries are you apologizing for, specifically?
— Specifically? Whichever ones still hurt.
— Half of those were self-inflicted.
— Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused by the Queen Regent of regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?
— No.
— Did your wife, the Lady Sansa?
— Not that I know of.
— How would you say he died, then?
— Choked on his pigeon pie.
— So you would blame the bakers?
— Or the pigeons. Just leave me out of it.