STF Quotes

You can download the entire script here.

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Have you met anyone recently who might loathe the very core of you?
Harold Crick: I just started auditing a woman who told me to get bent.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Well, that sounds like a comedy. Try to develop that.


Kay Eiffel: As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie, he finally felt as if everything was going to be ok. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren’t any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true. And, so it was, a wristwatch saved Harold Crick.


Dr. Jules Hilbert: I’ve devised a test. How exciting is that? Composed of 23 questions which I think might help uncover more truths about this narrator. Now Howard… Harold, these may seem silly but your candor is paramount.
Harold Crick: Harold. Ok.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: So. We know it’s a woman’s voice. The story involves your death. It’s modern. It’s in English and I’m assuming the author has a cursory knowledge of the city.
Harold Crick: Sure.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: O.k. good. Question one. Has anyone recently left any gifts outside your home? Anything. Gum, money, a large wooden horse.
Harold Crick: I’m sorry?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Just answer the question.
Harold Crick: No.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Do you find yourself inclined to solve murder mysteries in large luxurious homes to which you, let me finish, to which you may or may not have been invited?
Harold Crick: No. No, no, no.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Alright. On a scale of one to ten, what would you consider the likelihood you might be assassinated?
Harold Crick: Assassinated?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: One being very unlikely ten being expecting it around every corner.
Harold Crick: I have no idea.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: O.k. let me rephrase.
[takes a deep breath]
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Are you the king of anything?
Harold Crick: Like what?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Anything. King of the lanes at the local bowling alley.
Harold Crick: King of the lanes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: King of the lanes, king of the trolls,
Harold Crick: King of the Trolls?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Yes, uh uh uh a clandestine land found underneath your floor boards.
Harold Crick: No.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Huh?
Harold Crick: No. That’s ridiculous.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Agreed. Let’s start with ridiculous and move backwards. Now, was any part of you at one time part of something else?
Harold Crick: Like do I have someone else’s arms?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Well is it possible at one time that you were made of stone, wood, lye, varied corpse parts? Or, earth made holy by rabbinical elders?
Harold Crick: No. Look, look. I’m sorry, but what do these questions have to do with anything?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Nothing. The only way to find out what story you’re in is to determine what stories you’re not in. Odd as it may seem, I’ve just ruled out half of Greek literature, seven fairy tales, ten Chinese fables, and determined conclusively that you are not King Hamlet, Scout Finch, Miss Marple, Frankenstein’s Monster, or a golem. Hmm? Aren’t you relieved to know you’re not a golem?
Harold Crick: Yes. I am relieved to know that I am not a golem.
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Good. Do you have magical powers?


Dr. Mittag-Leffler: I’m afraid what you’re describing is schizophrenia.
Harold Crick: No, no. It’s not schizophrenia. It’s just a voice in my head. I mean, the voice isn’t telling me to do anything. It’s telling me what I’ve already done… accurately, and with a better vocabulary.
Dr. Mittag-Leffler: Mr. Crick, you have a voice speaking to you.
Harold Crick: No, not TO me. ABOUT me. I’m somehow involved in some sort of story. Like I’m a character in my own life. But the problem is that the voice comes and goes…
Dr. Mittag-Leffler: Mr. Crick, I hate to sound like a broken record, but that’s schizophrenia.


Harold Crick: Am I OK?
Doctor Mercator: [with facial indifference] Well, you’re not dead. On the other hand, it looks like you cracked your head, you broke three bones in your leg and foot, you suffered four broken ribs, fractured your left arm, and severed an artery in your right arm, which should’ve killed you in a matter of minutes, but amazingly, a shard of metal from your watch obstructed the artery, keeping the blood loss low enough to keep you alive… which is pretty cool.
Harold Crick: Wow.


Harold Crick: [after his wall has just been demolished by construction workers] Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey hey hey hey hey hey! What’re you doing?
Construction Worker #1: Holy crap and hell!
Construction Worker #2: What the hell is that?
Construction Worker #1, Construction Worker #2, Construction Worker #3, Construction Worker #4: [repeating after each other] Stop the crane!
Construction Worker #1: Hey!
Harold Crick: Hey, what are you doing?
Construction Worker #1: Us? What are YOU doing?
Harold Crick: I was watching TV!
Construction Worker #1: Well, we’re demolishing this place.
Harold Crick: Are you nuts? I live here!
Construction Worker #1: Is that a TV?
Harold Crick: Yes, that’s a TV! It’s MY TV!
Construction Worker #1: Well, what’s your TV doing in there?
Harold Crick: I said I live here, stupid! It’s where I keep my stuff! My name’s on the goddamn buzzer! Harold Crick, Apartment 2B eighteen ninety-three, McCarthy!
Construction Worker #1: [pause] Did you say eighteen NINETY-three?
Harold Crick: Yes!
Construction Worker #1: [another pause] Oh. Woops.


Kay Eiffel: [typing] The phone rang.
[the telephone in her room rings. She looks at it curiously]
Kay Eiffel: [typing] The phone rang again.
[the phone rings again. Penny moves to answer it]
Kay Eiffel: Don’t touch it!
Kay Eiffel: The phone rang a third time.
[the phone rings again. She leaps up and answers it]


Harold Crick: [Ana has just brought out a huge box totally stuffed with a mess of papers] What’s this?
Ana Pascal: [Very pleased with herself] My tax files and receipts for the last three years.
Harold Crick: [Horrified] You keep your files like this?
Ana Pascal: No. Actually I’m quite fastidious. I put them in this box just to screw with you.


Ana Pascal: [Hurt and annoyed that Harold refuses to just take the cookies and has offered to buy them] Go home Harold.
Harold Crick: Okay.
[starts for the door and realizes he’s dissappointed her]
Harold Crick: Did- You made those cookies for me, didn’t you.
[She looks at him sadly]
Harold Crick: You were just trying to be nice, and I blew it.
[reaches into his briefcase and retrieves the little black book where he’s tracking his comedy vs tragedy tallies, and there are a lot of marks under tragedy. Sadly]
Harold Crick: This may sound like gibberish to you, but I think I’m in a tragedy.


Harold Crick: [runs to Ana the baker with a box of 10 paper bags in it] I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to give you these.
Ana Pascal: Wait, you can give presents, but not receive them? That sounds awfully inconsistent, Mr. Crick.
Harold Crick: Yes, but…
Ana Pascal: Wait, I know, I’ll purchase them! Yeah, I’ll purchase them.
[reaches into her bag to grab her wallet]
Harold Crick: No, no, no, no.
Ana Pascal: [with wallet in hand, stops to actually look at the box] What are they?
Harold Crick: [quietly] Flours.
Ana Pascal: What?
Harold Crick: I brought you flours.
Ana Pascal: [see the sweetness of the gesture, then realizing he’s carried 10 bags of flours] Wait, you carried them all the way here?
Harold Crick: Miss Pascal, I’ve been odd. I know I’ve been odd, and I know that there are many forces at work telling me to bring these down here to you, but I brought these for you because… I want you.
Ana Pascal: [a bit taken aback, and ready to be really offended] Excuse me?
Harold Crick: I want you.
Ana Pascal: You want me?
Harold Crick: In no uncertain terms.
Ana Pascal: [realizing that he’s really not being a creep and just a guy who’s not used to saying what he feels] But isn’t there some… I don’t rule about fraternization…
Harold Crick: Auditor / Auditee protocols, yes, but I don’t care.
Ana Pascal: Why not?
Harold Crick: Because I want you.
Ana Pascal: [contemplates him for a second, and looks back at the box] Can you carry those a little bit further?
Harold Crick: Okay.


Ana Pascal: [to cast-covered Harold] So what happened?
Harold Crick: I stepped in front of a bus.
Ana Pascal: What? Why?
Harold Crick: There was a boy I had to pull out of the way?
Ana Pascal: What?
Harold Crick: There was this boy, I had to…
Ana Pascal: You stepped in front of a bus to save a boy?
Harold Crick: I had to. I didn’t have a choice.


Dr. Jules Hilbert: Because he’s real?
Kay Eiffel: Because it’s a book about a man who doesn’t know he’s about to die. And then dies. But if a man does know he’s about to die and dies anyway. Dies- dies willingly, knowing that he could stop it, then- I mean, isn’t that the type of man who you want to keep alive?


Kay Eiffel: [narrating] This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing.


Harold Crick: Dave, can I pose a somewhat abstract, purely hypothetical question?
Dave: Sure.
Harold Crick: If you knew you were gonna die, possibly soon, what would you do?
Dave: Wow, I don’t know. Am I the richest man in the world?
Harold Crick: No, you’re you.
Dave: Do I have a superpower?
Harold Crick: No, you’re *you*.
Dave: I know I’m me, but do I have a superpower?
Harold Crick: No, why would you have a superpower?
Dave: I don’t know, you said it was hypothetical.
Harold Crick: Fine, yes, you’re really good at math.
Dave: That’s not a power, that’s a skill.
Harold Crick: Okay, you’re good at math and you’re invisible. And you know you’re gonna die.
Dave: Okay, okay. That’s easy, I’d go to space camp.
Harold Crick: Space camp?
Dave: Yeah, it’s in Alabama. It’s where kids go to learn how to become astronauts. I’ve always wanted to go since I was nine.
Harold Crick: You’re invisible and you’d go to space camp?
Dave: I didn’t pick invisible, you picked invisible.
Harold Crick: Aren’t you too old to go to space camp?
Dave: You’re *never* too old to go to space camp, dude.


Harold Crick: You don’t understand that this isn’t a story to me, it’s my life! I want to live!


Kay Eiffel: [narrating] Little did he know that this simple seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death.
Harold Crick: What? What? Hey! HELLOOO! What? Why? Why MY death? HELLO? Excuse me? WHEN?


Kay Eiffel: [narrating] And so he did what countless punk-rock songs had told him to do so many times before: he lived his life.


Ana Pascal: It was a really awful day. I know, I made sure of it. So pick up the cookie, dip it in the milk, and eat it.


Dr. Jules Hilbert: Little did he know. That means there’s something he doesn’t know, which means there’s something you don’t know, did you know that?


Harold Crick: I may already be dead, just not typed.


Dr. Jules Hilbert: Hell Harold, you could just eat nothing but pancakes if you wanted.
Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey, I don’t want to eat nothing but pancakes, I want to live! I mean, who in their right mind in a choice between pancakes and living chooses pancakes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you pause to think, you’d realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life being led… and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.


Kay Eiffel: How many people do you think I’ve killed?
Penny Escher: Kay…
Kay Eiffel: How many?
Penny Escher: I don’t know.
Kay Eiffel: Eight.
Penny Escher: Kay, you need to…
Kay Eiffel: I killed eight people. I counted.
Penny Escher: They were fictional characters, now get up.
Kay Eiffel: Harold Crick isn’t fictional. He isn’t fictional, Penny. Every book I’ve ever written ends with someone dying; every one. Really nice people too. I wrote a book about the school teacher. I killed her the day before summer vacation. How cruel is that? And a civil engineer, Edward, the one I trapped with a heart attack in rush hour. I killed him. I killed! Penny, I killed them all.


Kay Eiffel: [narrating] Harold’s life was filled with moments both significant and mundane, but to Harold, those moments remained entirely indistinguishable.



Professor Hilbert
Harold, I’m sorry. You have to die.


Professor Hilbert
It’s her masterpiece. It’s possibly the most important novel in her already stunning career, and it’s absolutely no good unless you die at the end. I’ve been over it again and again, and I know, I know how hard this is for you to hear.

You’re asking me to knowingly face my death?

Professor Hilbert


Professor Hilbert

I thought you’d, I thought you’d find something.

Professor Hilbert
I’m sorry Harold.

Can’t we just try to see if she can change it?

Professor Hilbert


Professor Hilbert
Harold, in the grand scheme it wouldn’t matter.

Yes it would.

Professor Hilbert

I could change. I could quit my job. I could go away with Anna. I could be someone else.

Professor Hilbert
Harold, listen to me.

I can’t die right now. It’s just really bad timing.

Professor Hilbert
No one wants to die, Harold, but unfortunately we do. Harold. Harold, listen to me. Harold, you will die, some day, some time. Heart failure at the bank. Choke on a mint. Some long, drawn-out disease you contracted on vacation. You will die. You will absolutely die. Even if you avoid this death, another will find you. And I guarantee that it won’t be nearly as poetic or meaningful as what she’s written. I’m sorry, but it’s, it’s the nature of all tragedies, Harold. The hero dies, but the story lives on forever.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s