“Love needs room to grow. Like a rose. Or a tumor.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool
“Sarcasm will make your tits fall off.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “We've been rehearsing a classic from antiquity, Green Eggs and Hamlet, the story of a young prince of Denmark who goes mad, drowns his girlfriend, and in his remorse, forces spoiled breakfast on all whom he meets.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “It turns out that one can perpetrate all manner of heinous villainy under a cloak of courtesy and good cheer. . .a man will forfeit all sensible self-interest if he finds you affable enough to share your company over a flagon of ale.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair..” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “Will there be heinous fuckery, Pocket?” Heinous Fuckery, most foul!” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “A hundred brilliant witticisms died suffocating on the captain's heavy glove. Thus muted, I pumped my codpiece at the duke and tried to force a fart, but my bum tumpet could find no note.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “I'm beginning to wonder," said Kent, sitting down now on an overturned wooden tub. "Who do I serve? Why am I here?" You are here, because, in the expanding ethical ambiguity of our situation, you are steadfast in your righteousness. It is to you, our banished friend, that we all turn—a light amid the dark dealings of family and politics. You are the moral backbone on which the rest of us hang our bloody bits. Without you we are merely wiggly masses of desire writhing in our own devious bile." Really?" asked the old knight. Aye," said I. I'm not sure I want to keep company with you lot, then.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “Advice, then, young yeoman: When referring to the king's middle daughter, state that she is fair, speculate that she is pious, but unless you'd like to spend your watch looking for the box where your head is kept, resist the urge to wax ignorant on her naughty bits." I don't know what that means, sir." -Yeoman Speak not of Regan's shaggacity, son" [...] -Pocket” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “[Yeoman, later] Y'know, the Duchess Regan is living here at the tower now? I took your advice about not talking about her boffnacity [footnote], even with the duke dead and all, can't be too careful. Although, I caught sight of her in a dressing gown one day she was up on the parapet outside her solar. Fine flanks on that princess, despite the danger of death and all for sayin' so, sir." [Pocket} Aye, the lady is fair, and her gadonk as fine as frog fur [...]" footnote: Boffnacity: an expression of shagnatiousness, fit. from the Latin boffusnatious” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “Soon a whole guild of low-priced shrine keepers around Europe named their own pope - Boldface the Relatively Shameless, Discount Pope of Prague. The price war was on [...] The Retail Pope would offer cheesy bacon toppings on the Host with communion and the Discount Pope would counter with topless nun night for midnight mass.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn't it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer's bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know there's no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent?" "Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves.” “Perhaps there is a reason that there is no fool piece on the chessboard. What action, a fool? What strategy, a fool? What use, a fool? Ah, but a fool resides in a deck of cards, a joker, sometimes two. Of no worth, of course. No real purpose. The appearance of a trump, but none of the power: Simply an instrument of chance. Only a dealer may give value to the joker.” ― Christopher Moore, Fool “I'm feeling full of tiny princes, bustling to get out into the world and start plotting against one another.” ― Christopher Moore, The Serpent of Venice: A Novel “Shylock repointed his twitching, accusatory digit at his daughter. “You do not say such things in my house. You—you—you—you—” “Run along, love, it appears that Papa’s been stricken with an apoplexy of the second person.” ― Christopher Moore, The Serpent of Venice: A Novel “True, I am drunk, and small, and damp, but mistake not my moistness for weakness, although there's an argument to be made for that, as well.” ― Christopher Moore, The Serpent of Venice: A Novel Chorus: And so, from the anointed pen of yon modern bard, comes a re-telling of the Merchant of Venice, Othello, and Cask of Amontillado, what doth pretend to amuse with glad tidings! Iago: Tis truly spoken, the knave Moore has again made sporting use of the fool Pocket. Bassanio: Ha!, but a jest, he has made loutish amusement of Will’s Venetian comedy. Jessica: The jester doth make rude jest. Pocket: Well I am a flippin’ tosser, ain’t I? This is a hero’s tale, ain’t it? There is a might bit of swashing my buckles. Antonio: Yet, does not the cast a fool’s play make? Speaking in English accents among the noble Venetians? Drool: Except for a line or two in f***ing French. Desdemona: And borrowed of a scene from black Edgar’s murderous mason. Othello: A moor? Michael Cassio: Black as in gothic my lord general. Iago: To what fool’s purpose is this black motley of high drama and comedy mixed? Pocket: The black fool, that moniker is mine! Shylock: If I am pleased, will I not laugh? Emilia: The dark harlequin was roughly used, and wrongly. Iago: Tis truly spoke, untrue wife, and by a mossy beast more akin to a cold Scottish lake. Bianca: The lust lizard? Portia: Spoilest thou not the knave’s raucous intrigue! Othello: Indeed, wanton wench (where’s your knickers?), the green eyed monster what craves the hand that feeds it. Jessica: The fool a puzzling hero makes, and who doest love himself overly much. Pocket: Not all English are wankers! Lorenzo: Indeed, and rightly said, for like Denmark’s melancholy regent, Fortunado was by Britain’s dreamy shade accosted. Chorus: There’s always a bloody ghost! ― Christopher Moore, The Serpent of Venice: A Novel
