Picard: Counselor, are you familiar with the concept of kamikaze pilots?
Troi: No, Captain.
Picard: Japanese pilots, particularly during the Second World War on Earth, who were perfectly willing to sacrifice their lives. I'm quite certain that they were calm and had inner peace as well, just before their planes exploded into fireballs.
Geordi La Forge: But when the dreamers started dreaming, they had no idea where those dreams would lead them - to the madhouse, or to the stars. And Quixote was the entire spirit of human imagination in one package. His perceptions led him to-
Data: Compound fractures, if he continued battling windmills.
Geordi La Forge: The Borg are damned big windmills to tilt with, Captain.
Picard: Yes, and in grappling with them, we can either be smashed to the ground, or hurled upwards towards the stars.
Mark Roper: We all do it. Case in point: you're at a party and you run into a woman wearing a dress so ugly that it looks like a Klingon targ vomited on it. Do you say, "good evening, my dear, why are you wearing such a god-awful dress?" or "good evening, my dear, you look lovely this evening."
Will Riker: Well... the second, I suppose, just to be sociable.
Mark Roper: Save it. On Betazed they know exactly what you're thinking.
Benjamin Sisko: If it hadn't been for me, we wouldn't have been aboard the Saratoga and Jennifer wouldn't have died. We'd have been on Earth...
Julian Bashir: I was on Earth. The Borg were heading our way, remember? The news was all over the internet. The entire planet was going berserk. It wasn't pretty, Commander. Citizens of Earth didn't exactly take it well when the end of everything they knew was barreling at light-speed right toward them. If the Enterprise crew members hadn't pulled a last-minute miracle out of their hats, I might be sitting here pasty-white with a gun instead of an arm, saying, "Drinks are irrelevant."
Morgan Le Fay: I still hate! I can live again! I can have my revenge! And I can get the hell out of New Jersey!
Elvis: Hi, I'm collecting signatures for Arthur Penn as an independent candidate for mayor of New York City. Sign this or I'll cut your fucking heart out.
Narration: Elvis collected 112 signatures. Before noon. Without breaking a sweat.
Reporter: Shouldn't you be in school?
Merlin: (in a 12-year-old body) Shouldn't you be in traction?
Merlin: I lift you out of the gutter and this is how you repay me?
Percival: I did what you wanted me to do: serve Arthur Pendragon. It's hardly my fault if his wishes don't always coincide with yours.
Arthur Penn: Once, a long time ago, yes, I impregnated a young woman. I could offer you various explanations about how it was her fault, how I was lured into it, and it would be true up to a point... but only up to a point. Marriage was not an option, nor was abortion. To forestall any further questions, I have not seen the young woman in years, and the offspring died. but I can tell you honestly - which is the only way I know how to deal with such matters - that there isn't a single day that goes by where I don't think of her, and wish that things could have turned out differently. But then, what can any man do, especially one who calls himself a potential leader, except be honest about his mistakes so that those he hopes to lead will not make the same ones?
Arthur Penn: Together, we can make it work. No... no, I recant that. Because I have seen what was, and I have seen what is, and I can tell you, my friends, that it is working. We can make it work better.
Apropos: What struck me most about the great hall was the decor. It was furnished in a style that I could only term "Early Atrocity." Bleached bones, presumably of former enemies, decorated the walls and not only that, had been incorporated into much of the furniture. The legs of the main dining table were genuine legs, the armchairs, I'm sure you can guess. There were tapestries, but they consisted mostly of depictions of slaughter, slaughter everywhere. Women being raped, children being tossed onto fires, men being crucified. All of it, a celebration of the worst sort of brutality. Suddenly the line of demarcation between the festivals of good and evil became that much clearer for me. When good is celebrating, you don't have an overwhelming urge to run screaming into the night. Well... unless a mime is performing.