“My dear fellow, who will let you?"
"That's not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”

“On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.”

“The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me.”

“There!" Apollo pointed. "Long Island, dead ahead. Let's slow down, dear. 'Dead' is only an expression.”

“And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.”

“And stop pointing that beard at me, it might go off!”

“Now could you please ask these idiots to stop pointing their bullets at me? It's terribly wasteful.”

“TF: At which point did you stop being celibate, why and who with?
M: I don't see how anyone would benefit from seeing that kind of information in print. Least of all me.”

“Everywhere I've turned somebody has wanted to sacrifice me for my good—only they were the ones who benefited. And now we start on the old sacrificial merry-go-round. At what point do we stop?”

“If I haven't made my point clear, let me just spell it out: don't.”