Constable: Mr. Jimson?
Gulley Jimson: No. That's my first cousin, once removed, an artist who's always getting into trouble with the police. He just went up the road. Shall I call him back?
Constable: Have you just sent a telephone message of a threatening character to Mr. Hickson of Portland Place?
Gulley Jimson: I only said I'd burn his house down and cut his liver out.
Constable: Now he doesn't want to prosecute, but if you go on making a nuissance of yourself, well, he's gonna have to take steps.
Gulley Jimson: Would he rather I cut his liver out without phoning?
Constable: Now, come now, Mr. Jimson. Put yourself in his place.
Gulley Jimson: I wish I could. It's a very nice place.

Gulley Jimson: [to Nosey] Now see what you've done. Got me locked out for life.
[Referring to prison]

Gulley Jimson: Anyone at home? Mrs. Morton Graines Waring? She's gone to Java.
Abel: That's all right, I'll work down there. Come. I want to get started.

Gulley Jimson: Go and do something sensible, like shooting yourself! But don't be an artist!

Gulley Jimson: Go away. Scram. Tie lead weights to your feet, fireworks in your hair, kiss your mother goodbye and jump in the river. I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Buzz off! Explode!

Gulley Jimson: I have news for you... I'm going to be a little bit ill.

Gulley Jimson: I like it here: bricks and broken glass, and an old garbage can. It's the story of my life.

Gulley Jimson: It could happen to anyone, dear. All the greatest artists got their squares wrong. Numbers were invented by Arabs who hate art.

Gulley Jimson: It's the kind of face you want to throw a brick at, don't you think?

Gulley Jimson: Of course you want to be an artist. Everybody does, once. But they get over it, like measles and chicken pox.
Nosey: But there have to be artists!
Gulley Jimson: And lunatics too! But why go and live in an asylum before you're sent for?