Jake LaMotta Quotes

...sitting and waiting is one of the most miserable occupations known to man - not that it usually is known to men; women do it much more often.

I'd probably sit around the house and get lonesome if I didn't have something to do.

Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It's hard to keep awake with nothing to do.

People who have nothing to do are quickly tired of their own company.

SEASONS PASSED, FALL AND WINTER and spring and summer. Leaves blew in through the open door of Lucius Clarke’s shop, and rain, and the green outrageous hopeful light of spring. People came and went, grandmothers and doll collectors and little girls with their mothers. Edward Tulane waited. The seasons turned into years. Edward Tulane waited. He repeated the old doll’s words over and over until they wore a smooth groove of hope in his brain: Someone will come; someone will come for you.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.

Nothing is so intolerable to man as being fully at rest, without a passion, without business, without entertainment, without care.

To wait idly is the worst of conditions.

This was in '79. I got pretty restless there, sitting around with a lot of people sitting around smoking cigarettes and talking about films, but nobody really doing anything.

I can't sit around doing nothing. If I'm not working, I have a habit of becoming rather insular.

I don't do much else but stay in my hotel room.

If I am not moving I get bored very easily.

I don't want to be the guy who sits on a front porch with a mint julep in his hand and rocks his life away.

A lot of the time nothing happens in a day.

I'm so boring. My idea of a great day is just to be home with absolutely nothing to do.

I spent a lot of my childhood sat on a wall thinking, waiting for my mum to pick me up.

She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her man had always made her wait.

We stay in the house so much because I am waiting for the telephone. I seem to be back in my teens, a period I thought I would never have to endure again: my life is spent hoping for things that only someone else can bring about.

So I sit there kicked my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly attempt to commit suicide by butting his head against the windowpane.

Waiting is the rust of the soul.

Just sitting around waiting for my life to begin, while it was all just slipping away.

How much of human life is lost in waiting.

Everyone else is either asleep or having sex. I’ve been watching cable television and eating jello.

Real serious waiting is done in waiting rooms, and what they all have in common is their purpose, or purposelessness, if you will; they are places for doing nothing and they have no life of their own. ... their one constant is what might be called a decorative rigor mortis.

Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting.