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City people. They may know how to street fight but they don't know how to wade through manure.

Melina Marchetta

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Melina Marchetta
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: March 25
Screenwriter
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Carmelina Marchetta
May
Manure
People
Wade
Street
City
Streets
Fight
Cities
Fighting

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Because without our language, we have lost ourselves. Who are we without our words?
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So, like I asked, what’s with the nightie?” “It smells like what I always think mothers smell like,” I tell him honestly, knowing I don’t have to explain. He nods. “My mum has one just the same and you have no idea how disturbing it is that it’s turning me on.
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The gods do make playthings of us ... but it is we mortals who provide them with the tools.
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I don't want to let go, because tonight I'm not looking for anything more than being part of him. Because being part of him isn't just anything. It's kind of everything.
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There's not much you need to know about the world. Except how to use a sword and trust very few.
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I've been passionate about two things in my life. One was Christina Alibrandi. The other is Josephine Alibrandi.
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Just say up on the hill is the meaning of life and someone knew it and they wanted everyone else to enjoy it. So they put a red vinyl sofa up there.
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Everyone had told him to be strong for her, but Finnikin didn't know how to be strong for himself.
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I want to be sitting in front of my computer, where you can press a button to block out your junk mail. These two are my junk mail.
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I'm not interested in those who do me wrong. There's not enough time in the day for them.
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I shrug. I'll probably mention that I'm in love with you. He chuckles. Only you would say that in such a I-think-I'll-wash-my-hair-tonight tone.
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I don't say anything and he casually leans against my desk, picking up the novel that's sitting there. It's bullshit, he tells me, flicking through it. There's no such thing as Atticus Finch. I shrug. It'd be nice if there was, though.
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He knew he should have counted. It was the rule to count to ten in his head before he opened his mouth. It was the rule to count to ten if he wanted to smash a man in the face for saying something he didn't like. It was the rule to count to ten if instinct wasn't needed, but common sense was.
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But grief makes a monster out of us sometimes . . . and sometimes you say and do things to the people you love that you can't forgive yourself for.
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I'm very disturbed to find out that the leader of the Townies has a soul and I'm beginning to develop a bit of a crush on him.
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I recognise Santangelo's dad, who saves police brutality for when he gets to his son.
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It’s Tolstoy, by the way,” I say as I open the door. He turns around. “What?” Shut up, I tell myself. Shut up. “The writer of Anna Karenina. Not Trotsky. Trotsky was a revolutionary who was stabbed with a pickax in Mexico in 1940. But I can understand how the T thing could confuse you.
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We were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors, she told him once. I was paper and she was rock so I lived and she died.
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It's funny how you can forget everything except people loving you. Maybe that's why humans find it so hard getting over love affairs. It's not the pain they're getting over, it's the love.
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People aren’t interested in the truth, Dafar. They’re interested in what keeps them safe. They’re interested in being looked after. They’re interested in a tale being spun... Mighty men have moments of great despair that common people do not want to know about.
Melina Marchetta