E. K. Hornbeck: He’s the only man I know who can strut sitting down.
Matthew Harrison Brady: I have been to their cities and I have seen the altars upon which they sacrifice the futures of their children to the gods of science. And what are their rewards? Confusion and self-destruction. New ways to kill each other in wars. I tell you gentlemen the way of science is the way of darkness.
E. K. Hornbeck: Disillusionment is what little heroes are made of.
E. K. Hornbeck: Mr. Brady, it is the duty of a newspaper to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
E. K. Hornbeck: Hello, Devil. Welcome to Hell.
Matthew Harrison Brady: Remember the wisdom of Solomon in the book of Proverbs. “He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.”
Henry Drummond: I don’t swear for the hell of it. Language is a poor enough means of communication. We’ve got to use all the words we’ve got. Besides, there are damn few words anybody understands.
E. K. Hornbeck: He that sups with the devil must have a long spoon.
Townswoman: You’re the stranger, ain’tcha? Are you looking for a nice, clean place to stay?
E. K. Hornbeck: Madam, I had a nice clean place to stay… and I left it, to come here.
Matthew Harrison Brady: But your client is wrong. He is deluded. He has lost his way.
Henry Drummond: It’s a shame we don’t all possess your positive knowledge of what is right and what is wrong, Mr. Brady.
Matthew Harrison Brady: I do not think about things I do not think about.
Henry Drummond: Do you ever think about things that you do think about?
Henry Drummond: The Bible is a book. It’s a good book, but it is not the only book.
Henry Drummond: But all you have to do is knock on any door and say, “If you let me in, I’ll live the way you want me to live, and I’ll think the way you want me to think,” and all the blinds’ll go up and all the windows will open, and you’ll never be lonely, ever again. If that’s the case, I’ll change the plea – that is, if you know the law’s right and you’re wrong.
E. K. Hornbeck: I may be rancid butter but I’m on your side of the bread.
E. K. Hornbeck: We’re growing a strange crop of agnostics this year.
Henry Drummond: You poor slob! You’re all alone. When you go to your grave, there won’t be anybody to pull the grass up over your head. Nobody to mourn you. Nobody to give a damn. You’re all alone.
E. K. Hornbeck: You’re wrong, Henry. You’ll be there. You’re the type. Who else would defend my right to be lonely?
Henry Drummond: Yes. The individual human mind. In a child’s power to master the multiplication table, there is more sanctity than in all your shouted “amens” and “holy holies” and “hosannas.” An idea is a greater monument than a cathedral. And the advance of man’s knowledge is a greater miracle than all the sticks turned to snakes or the parting of the waters.
E. K. Hornbeck: Sit down, Samson, you’re about to get a haircut.
Henry Drummond: Suppose God whispered into a Bertram Cate’s ear that an un-Brady thought could still be holy? Must men go to jail because they find themselves at odds with a self-appointed prophet?
Rachel Brown: I was always more afraid of you than of falling!