Whoever has long roamed and hunted in the wilderness always cherishes with wistful pleasure the memory of some among the countless camps he has made. The camp by the margin of the clear, mountain-hemmed lake; the camp in the dark and melancholy forest, where the gusty wind booms through the tall pine tops; the camp under gnarled cottonwoods, on the bank of a shrunken river, in the midst of endless grassy prairies,—of these, and many like them, each has had its own charm.
Love, Sleep, Drugs and Intoxicants are elementary forms of art, or rather, of producing the same effect as art. But love, sleep and drugs all have their disillusion. Love wearies or disappoints. Sleep ends when we awaken, and while sleeping we haven't lived. Drugs are paid for with the ruin of the very physique they served to stimulate. But in art there is no disillusion, because the illusion was admitted from the start. There's no waking up from art, because we didn't sleep in it, though we may have dreamed. And in art we pay no tax or penalty for having enjoyed it.
Now, you're right when you say my father was no business man. I know that. Why he ever started this cheap, penny-ante Building and Loan, I'll never know. But neither you nor anybody else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was -- Why, in the twenty-five years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing, he never once thought of himself. Isn't that right, Uncle Billy? He didn't save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me. But he did help a few people get outta your slums, Mr. Potter. And what's wrong with that? Why -- here, you're all businessmen here. Don't it make them better citizens? Doesn't it make them better customers?
You, you said that they -- What'd you say just a minute ago? They had to wait and save their money before they even thought of a decent home. Wait? Wait for what?! Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they're so old and broken-down that -- You know how long it takes a workin' man to save five thousand dollars? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about, they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him, but to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you'll ever be.
It’s a Wonderful Life
If there was ever a more timeless piece of cinema, I can't think of it. The older I get, the more poignant I find its themes. George Bailey exemplifies just how thankless it is to be selfless and idealistic in a self interested world. The emotional juice of the movie comes from the fact that he's not a saint. He's driven by the same desires and ambitions as everyone else. What sets him apart is accountability and he's consistently kicked in the teeth for it.
He saves his brother only to lose his hearing.
He stops Mr. Gower from poisoning someone only to get smacked in the head for it. And if there's ever been a scene guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes it's 12 year old George Bailey's outpouring of empathy for a grief stricken father and his solemn promise never to tell anyone.
Jimmy Stewart is absolutely at the top of his game in the scenes when all his frustration boils over: when he gives to staying with Mary in Bedford Falls, when he comes apart in front of his children because he's absolutely trapped by a situation he didn't create (and you know he would have taken the fall for Uncle Billy).
His diatribe against Mr. Potter, however, has to be some of the best writing in 20th century cinema. Frank Capra wasn't a communist by any stretch but clearly felt that capitalism doesn't justify Americans eating one another. George Bailey's paean for a working class life with some dignity to it and an idea of community where people watch out for one another instead of selling out to the highest bidder has never felt more relevant than it does today.
The Warder blinked as if caught off guard, like a horse on three legs. “Does everyone know—?” He regained his balance almost immediately. “If there is anything else she needs to hear from me I will tell her myself.” He closed the door nearly in her face.
One of the greatest safeguards to man throughout the meanderings of his life is the love of a father, mother, brother and sister, children and friends; it is a great solace and anchor to right-thinking men when they may be hundreds and thousands of miles away. Love of family begets true patriotism in his bosom, for, in my opinion, there is no such thing as true patriotism without love of family.
Quote from - Seventy Years on the Frontier by Alexander Majors
“Fortunately there is gin, the sole glimmer in this darkness. Do you feel the golden, copper-coloured light it kindles in you? I like walking through the city of an evening in the warmth of gin.”