Withnail and I: The Screenplay

Those with the money are eccentric. Those without, insane.

We are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.

I don't advise a haircut, man. All hairdressers are in the employment of the government. Hairs are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos, and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight.

We've gone on holiday by mistake

BALLS! We want the finest wines available to humanity. We want them HERE, and we want them NOW.

Dostoyevsky described hell as perhaps nothing more than a room with a chair in it. This room has several chairs. A young man sits in one.

Withnail: This is ridiculous. Look at me, I'm 30 in a month and I've got a sole flapping off my shoe. Marwood: It'll get better, it has to. Withnail: Easy for you to say, luvvie, you've had an audition. Why can't I have an audition? It's ridiculous. I've been to drama school. I'm good looking. I tell you, I've a fuck sight more talent that half the rubbish that gets on television. Why can't I get on television? Marwood: Well, I don't know. It'll happen. Withnail: Will it? That's what you say. The only programme I'm likely to get on is the fucking news.

You have done something to your brain. You have made it high. If I lay 10 mls of diazepam on you, it will do something else to your brain. You will make it low. Why trust one drug and not the other?