Diane Keaton: Renata

Interiors

Renata

Renata: We never see Marion and Gail. I don't understand. You used to like them!
Frederick: I can't stand them. They're so enthusiastic. College kids. I get embarrassed!
Renata: Oh, well, don't get embarrassed. Don't come. Stay home, drink yourself unconscious. That's one of the cliches of being a novelist you've had no problem with.
Frederick: Yeah, I sure can drink.

Renata: Do you have any children, Pearl?
Pearl: Oh, yes. I have two sons. Lewis and John. Lewis is in real estate. John runs an art gallery.
Renata: Oh?
Pearl: In the lobby in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. It's not exactly a gallery. It's more - a concession.
Joey: Paintings of clowns on black velvet?
Pearl: That's right. Junk. Oh, I tell you, it's pure junk. But people like it. They get a kick out of it. He does very nicely.

Renata: I can't seem to shake the real implication of dying. It's terrifying. The intimacy of it embarrasses me.

Renata: She has all the anguish and anxiety of the artistic personality without any of the talent.

Renata: It's hard to argue that in the face of death, life loses real meaning.
Pearl: It is?
Renata: Well, I can't argue it succinctly, but if you read Socrates or Buddha or Schopenhauer or even Ecclesiastes, they're very convincing.
Pearl: Well, they should know. I don't read that much.

Renata: I look in the mirror every day and I feel discouraged. Now I see you, and you don't change at all.
[Flyn laughs]
Renata: No, you don't change! Your skin is like cream. Look at your skin. I'm so envious.
Flyn: I work at it.
Renata: No, I don't think that's it.
Flyn: I have a few good years, then my youth will be frozen on old celluloid for TV movies.

Renata: Have you spoken with Mother?
Flyn: Oh, yes. We're having dinner one night this week. How's she holding up?
Renata: I don't know. Better than we all expected. Isn't that right, Joey?
Joey: She took it very badly at first, but after the initial shock she seemed to come out of it.
Renata: Joey feels that all of her Jesus Christ nonsense is actually somewhat of a help.
Flyn: Well, whatever works.

Renata: My impotence set in a year ago. My paralysis. I suddenly found I couldn't bring myself to write anymore. I shouldn't say "suddenly." Actually, it started happening last winter. Increasing thoughts about death just seemed to come over me. These... A preoccupation with my own mortality. These feelings of futility in relation to my work. Just what am I striving to create, anyway? To what end? For what purpose, what goal? I mean, do I really care if some of my poems are read after I'm gone forever?

Renata: Frederick, you know Flyn likes you. And don't behave condescendingly. She senses that you talk down to her.
Frederick: I don't talk down to Flyn. I love hearing about her hair, her weight, the latest TV junk she's done.

Pearl: He was in the jewelry business, my first husband, may he rest in peace. Adam, my second, was an orthodontist.
Renata: How many have you had?
Pearl: Two. Adam had a massive coronary. Rudy was an alcoholic.

Frederick: Flyn suffers from the same thing my last book suffered from. She's a perfect example of form without any content.
Renata: That's very profound. You haven't even started drinking yet.
Frederick: Yeah, I am profound. And I'm not the award-winning writer. You're the one who's supposed to be giving me insights into sex and other world-shattering phenomenon.

Renata: Do I really care if a handful of my poems are read after I'm gone forever? Is that supposed to be some sort of compensation?