“[H]e was such a terrific actor, and that was such a terrific character that he played. And it was a joy to be with him. We used to laugh together because we ran out of reaction shots. They were always – when everything had been done and the children were finished, they would turn the camera around and we’d have to do various reaction shots of amazement or sadness and things. And we used to say we’d got to about number 200-and-something and we’d run out of knowing what to do when the camera came around on us. But he was a joy.” — Maggie Smith on Alan Rickman [x]
“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“You called her a liar?”
“You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?”
Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, “Have a biscuit, Potter.” “Have - what?”
“Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. “And sit down.”
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.