A young Parisian woman meets a middle-aged American businessman who demands their clandestine relationship be based only on sex.

Paul: Go, get the butter.
[alone at his dead wife's bedside during her wake]
Paul: Our marriage was nothing more than a foxhole for you. And all it took for you to get out was a 10 cent razor and a tub full of water. You cheap, goddamn, fucking, godforsaken whore, I hope you rot in hell. You're worse than the dirtiest street pig anybody could ever find anywhere, and you know why? You know why? Because you lied. You lied to me and I trusted you.
[gradually starts losing his composure]
Paul: You lied and you knew you were lying. Go on, tell me you didn't lie. Haven't you got anything to say about that? You can think up something, can't you? Go on, tell me something! Go on, smile, you cunt!
[starts crying noticeably]
Paul: Go on, tell me... tell me something sweet. Smile at me and say I just misunderstood. Go on, tell me. You pig-fucker... you goddamn, fucking, pig-fucking liar.
Paul: Even if a husband lives 200 hundred fucking years, he'll never discover his wife's true nature. I may be able to understand the secrets of the universe, but... I'll never understand the truth about you. Never.
Jeanne: Let's drink a toast to our life in the hotel.
Paul: No fuck all that! Hey listen! Let's drink a toast to our life in the country.
Jeanne: You're a nature lover? You didn't tell me that.
Paul: Oh, for christ sake... I'm nature boy. Can't you see me with the cows and the chickenshit all over me? Huh?
Jeanne: Oh, that's right. To the cows!
Paul: Cow.
Jeanne: I will be your cow too.
Paul: I get to milk you twice a day. How about that?
Paul: Anyway, to make a long, dull story even duller, I come from a time when a guy like me used to come into a joint like this and pick up a young chick like you and... call her a 'bimbo'.
Jeanne: What are we doing here?
Paul: Let's just say we're taking a flying fuck at a rolling donut.
Paul: It's me again.
Jeanne: It's over.
Paul: That's right. It's over and then it begins again.
Jeanne: What begins again? I don't understand anything anymore.
Paul: There's nothing to understand. We left the apartment, and now we begin and love all the rest of it.
Jeanne: The rest of it?
Paul: Yeah, listen. I'm 45. I'm a widower. I own a little hotel. It's kind of a dump, but not completely a flop house. Then I used to live on my luck and I got married, and my wife killed herself.
[first lines]
Paul: [with his hands over his ears at the overwhelming sound of a passing train] Fucking GOD!
Paul: You know in 15 years, you're going to be playing soccer with your tits. What do you think of that?
[alone at his dead wife's bedside during her wake]
Paul: [sobbing] Rosa... I'm sorry, I... I just - I can't stand it to see these goddamn things on your face!
[peels off her fake eyelashes]
Paul: You never wore make-up... this fucking shit.
[wipes off her lipstick with a flower petal]
Paul: I'm gonna take this off your mouth, this - this lipstick...
[falls over her, sobbing uncontrollably]
Paul: Rosa - oh GOD! I'm sorry! I - I don't know why you did it! I'd do it too, if I knew how... I just *don't know how*... I have to... have to find a way...
Jeanne: Why do you hate women?
Paul: Because either they always pretend to know who I am, or they pretend I don't know who they are, and that's very boring.
Paul: [as Jeanne passes her hands over his pants] That's your happiness and my hap-penis.
Jeanne: [in French; subtitled] Olympia is the personification of domestic virtue: faithful, economic and racist.
Paul: [drunk] Beauty of mine, sit before me. Let me peruse you and remember you... always like this.
Paul: [as a frustrated Jeanne reaches down his pants in the dance hall] Listen, that's not a subway strap, that's me cock!
Paul: You ran through Africa and Asia and Indonesia, and now I found you... and I love you. I want to know your name.
Jeanne: Jeanne.
[she shoots him]
Paul: I'm going to get yoooooooou! Bimboooooo!
Jeanne: Love is not pop.
[Paul and Jeanne are talking in bed about Jeanne's past experiences with men]
Paul: You started grabbing his joint?
Jeanne: Your crazy!
Paul: Well, he touched you, didn't he?
Jeanne: I never let him! Never!
Paul: Ugh! Liar, liar, pants on fire, nose as long as a telephone wire.
[slight pause]
Paul: You mean to tell me he didn't touch you? Look at me straight in the face and say, 'He didn't touch me.'
Jeanne: No, he touched me, but the way he did it.
Paul: Aha! The *way* he did it.
Paul: I could dance forever! Oh, my hemorrhoid.
Paul: Well, first you have to take a hot bath and if you don't you're gonna get pneumonia. Right?... and then you know what happens? You get pneumonia... and then you know what happens? You die! And then, you know what happens then when you die? I get to fuck the dead rat!
[Jeanne is telling Paul about her first love]
Jeanne: I fell in love with him when I first heard him play piano.
Paul: You mean the first time he got inside your knickers.
Jeanne: He was a child prodigy; he was playing with both hands.
Paul: I bet he was!
Paul: I'm awfully sorry to intrude, but I was so... struck with your beauty that I thought perhaps I could offer you a glass of champagne. Is this seat taken?
Jeanne: No.
Marcel: [In French, lifting himself on a pole] This is my secret. 30 times every morning.
Paul: [in English, starting to leave] Really, Marcello, I really don't know what she saw in you.
Paul: [to Jeanne, while preparing to sodomize her] I'll show you this family's secrets!
Jeanne: It's better not knowing anything.
Paul: [puts on her father's military hat and salutes] How do you like your hero? Over easy or sunny side up?
Paul: I'll save the asshole for you.
Tom - un cinéaste, le fiancé de Jeanne: [in French; subtitled] How did you find it?
Jeanne: [in French] By chance.
Tom - un cinéaste, le fiancé de Jeanne: [in French] We'll change everything.
Jeanne: [in French] Everything! We'll turn chance into destiny.
Paul: [opens the door and sees his dead wife laying on a bed of purple flowers in a dark bedroom lit only by a dim table lamp]
Paul: You look ridiculous in that make-up. Like the caricature of a whore...
[last lines]
Jeanne: [about Paul, in French] I don't know his name...
Jeanne: Why don't you go back in America?
Paul: I don't know, bad memories, I guess.
Paul: [Paul roughs up a john] Get the fuck out of here! FAGGOT!

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