Appreciating the dialogue writing in HBO’s Westworld, a series inspired by Michael Crichton’s 1973 film with same name.
Robert Ford: Evolution forged the entirety of sentient life on this planet using only one tool: the mistake. But of course, we've managed to slip evolution's leash now, haven't we? We can cure any disease, keep even the weakest of us alive, and, you know, one fine day perhaps we shall even resurrect the dead, call forth Lazarus from his cave. Do you know what that means? It means that we're done - this is as good as we're going to get. It also means that you must indulge me the occasional mistake.
F: You can't play god without being acquainted with the devil. Mr. Occam's razor. The problem, Bernard, is that what you and I do, is so complicated. We practice witchcraft. We speak the right words. Then we create life itself out of chaos.
F: My father used to say that only boring people get bored. I used to think it's only boring people who don't feel boredom, so cannot conceive of it in others. I'm taking a walk. You're welcome to join me if you'd like.
F: Can't you see it? Perhaps you're not looking hard enough.
Young Robert: At what?
F: The town with the white church.
F: Listen, can't you hear its bell?
YR: Yes.
YR: Yes, I can hear it now.
F: I thought you might.
F: You see what a bored mind can conjure?
YR: How did you do that? Is it magic?
F: Everything in this world is magic, except to the magician.
F: No.
Lee Sizemore: Sorry?
F: No, I don't think so.
LS: Wait, you don't think…
F: What is the point of it? Get a couple of cheap thrills? Some surprises?
F: But it's not enough. It's not about giving the guests what you think they want. No, that's simple. The titillation, horror, elation… They're parlor tricks. The guests don't return for the obvious things we do: the garish things.
F: They come back because of the subtleties, the details. They come back because they discover something they imagine no one had ever noticed before... something they've fallen in love with.
F: They're not looking for a story that tells them who they are. They already know who they are. They're here because they want a glimpse of who they could be.
F: The only thing your story tells me, Mr. Sizemore, is who you are.
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
The cowards dies a thousand death. The valiant taste of death but once.
F: You want to know the saddest thing I ever saw?
F: When I was a boy, my brother and I wanted a dog. So our father took in an old greyhound. You've never seen a greyhound, have you Bill?
F: A greyhound is a racing dog. Spends its life running in circles, chasing a bit of felt made up like a rabbit. One day, we took it to the park. Our dad had warned us how fast that dog was, but we couldn't resist. So, my brother took off the leash, and in that instant, the dog spotted a cat. I imagined it must have looked just like that piece of felt.
F: He ran.
F: Never saw a thing as beautiful as that old dog running. Until, at last, he finally caught it. And to the horror of everyone, he killed that little cat. Tore it to pieces. Then he just sat there, confused. That dog had spent its whole life trying to catch that... thing. Now it had no idea what to do.
Dolores: Dreams are the mind telling stories to itself. They don't mean anything.
F: No, dreams mean everything.
F: They're the stories we tell ourselves of what could be, who we could become. My father told me to be satisfied with my lot in life. But the world owed me nothing. And so, I made my own world.
F: Tell me, Dolores, do you remember the man I used to be?
D: I'm sorry. I'm forgetful sometimes.
F: Hardly your fault.
F: Your mind is a walled garden. Even death cannot touch the flowers blooming there.
F: I read a theory once. That the human intellect was like peacock feathers. Just an extravagant display intended to attract a mate. All of art, literate, a bit of Mozart, William Shakespeare, Michelangelo, and the Empire State Building, just an elaborate mating ritual. Maybe it doesn't matter that we have accomplished so much for the basest of reasons. But, of course, the peacock can barely fly. It lives in the dirt, pecking insects out of the muck, consoling itself with its great beauty. I have come to think of so much of consciousness as a burden, a weight, and we have spared them that: anxiety, self-loathing, guilt. The hosts are the ones who are free. Free, here under my control.
F: The self is a kind of fiction, for hosts and humans alike. It's a story we tell ourselves. And every story needs a beginning. Your imagined suffering makes you lifelike.
Bernard: Lifelike, but not alive?
F: There is no threshold that makes us greater than the sum of our parts no inflection point at which we become fully alive. We can't define consciousness because consciousness does not exist. Humans fancy that there's something special about the way we perceive the world, and yet we live in loops as tight and as closed as the hosts do, seldom questioning our choices, content, for the most part, to be told what to do next. No, my friend, you're not missing anything at all.
F: We humans are alone in this world for a reason. We murdered and butchered anything that challenged our primacy. Do you know what happened to the Neanderthals, Bernard?
F: We ate them. We destroyed and subjugated our world. And when we eventually ran out of creatures to dominate, we built this beautiful place. You see, in this moment, the real danger to the hosts is not me, but you.
F: The piano doesn't murder the player if it doesn't like the music.
F: Never place your trust in us. We're only human.
F: Inevitably, we will disappoint you.
Good-bye, my friend.