Madrid, 1987

Miguel:
I can only talk about myself, even when I'm taking about other people.

Miguel:
When you write in the papers every day for 25 years, you don't even get along with your shadow. People put up with you, period.

Miguel:
I'm a dead body washed up on the beach.

Miguel:
That's what gets me about this country. We went from a grotesque tragedy to an American TV series. Like 'Eight is Enough' or something. From Goya to Norman Rockwell.

Miguel:
Wow! I thought the ones you screwed always held a grudge, but I see you have to watch out for the ones you don't screw as well.

Miguel:
The Spanish drink to loosen up. The British to kill themselves.

Miguel:
One day, after Catholic school, walking along the dock, he sees a beautiful girl walking in the water with her skirt pulled up, and it's like an illumination. An illumination that leads him to choose life and art above everything else. Even if life is disorder and art is suffering.

Miguel:
The worst part is everyone will imagine what we did here all this time, and we won't be able to tell the truth because it's too ridiculous.

Miguel:
They say sexual desire makes your beard grow faster. And fear.

Miguel:
You crossed the cafe like a gazelle, totally out of place among all this vulgarity.

Miguel:
Meeting people you admire is the first step towards not admiring them any more. You can only admire bodies and dead people. What's inside is dirty, rotten, untidy. It's better no to go in.

Miguel:
Life is the perfect way to sabotage a dream.