Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and shine. Not that I wish to imply you have been sleeping on the job. No one is more deserving of a rest. And all the effort in the world would have gone to waste until... well, let's just say your hour has come again. The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So, wake up, Mr. Freeman. Wake up and smell the ashes.

Death is inevitable. Our fear of it makes us play safe, blocks out emotion. It's a losing game. Without passion, you are already dead.

The healthy human mind doesn't wake up in the morning thinking this is its last day on Earth. But I think that's a luxury, not a curse. To know you're close to the end is a kind of freedom. Good time to take... inventory. Outgunned. Outnumbered. Out of our minds. On a suicide mission. But the sands and rocks here stained with thousands of years of warfare... they will remember us. For this. Because out of all our vast array of nightmares, this is the one we choose for ourselves. We go forward like a breath exhaled from the Earth. With Vigor in our hearts and one goal in sight: We. Will. Kill him.

They offered you the city, and you refused it. And what did you do instead? What I've come to expect from you; you saved them. You gave them the one thing that was stolen from them. A chance. A chance to learn. To find love. To live. And in the end what was your reward? You never said. But I think I know: a family.

Nothing is more badass than treating a woman with respect.

No Gods or kings. Only man.

I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No!' says the man in Washington, 'It belongs to the poor.' 'No!' says the man in the Vatican, 'It belongs to God.' 'No!' says the man in Moscow, 'It belongs to everyone.' I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.

Tell my wife, I had another wife.

Amanda De Santa: Get a center, Michael. You have no center.
Michael: How about you suck my cock?

I am diversification personified... or personification diversified.

Michael: Alright... the fuck is this bullshit? We handled your little immigration problem or whatever the fuck it was. We're straight.
Steve Haines: Oh absolutely... yeah, yeah. You killed people, you tortured people, committed a litany of other crimes... Oh we're so straight you and me, we're arrows.

Franklin: We're finna risk our lives to rob some motherfucking government killers again?
Michael: Yup.

They damaged my stuff. They smash up my home. Damage my soul. Look at this... This, this, this, this statue here of Impotent Rage. This fucking meant more to me than Johnny K meant to anyone! And they smashed it! Those pathetic, midlife crisis, hog-riding, shaven-headed, fruity leather-chap-wearing fucking assholes!

Michael: It's a foolish man who builds his house in sand, baby.
Franklin: I don't think my boy Matthew was thinking trucks when he wrote that shit.

Lamar: The fucker got fucked. He fucked the fucker himself.
Trevor: Shut up.