Diane: This is one of the most amateurish, hackneyed, odious pieces of effluvium ever to wash down the pike. Listen to this drivel. "l fly through a puckish arena, where echoes dance, where echoes dance, where echoes dance" This sounds familiar.
Norm: Well, you said it three times.
Diane: This poem is plagiarized.
Sam: Oh, now I stole it? And a minute ago, you said it stunk.
Diane: It does stink. Leave it to you to not have the sense to steal something worthwhile.
Sam: Aw, you know, I realize that it's tough to have somebody come along and swipe your dreams of glory, so I will not take offense at that remark.
Diane: That poem is fraudulent, and I intend to find its true source, even if I have to search through every greeting card to do so. [Sam laughs] Believe me, Sam Malone, I will not rest until today, the blackest day in the history of literature, is blotted out for all eternity.

Frasier: Diane, now listen, uh, listen, I think the joke's gone far enough, don't you? You haven't eaten a decent meal in a week. You're living off of cigarettes and coffee. I mean, for God's sake, this little literary magazine's circulation must be what, 600.
Diane: That's just the beginning. You see, the original 600 readers drop their copies on buses, in taxicabs and doctors' offices. And another 600 people pick them up and take them to the airport, where they go all over the country. And then they get taken on international flights. Tierra del Fuego, Sierra Leone; all the remotest parts of the world. And soon, I defy you to find me a house, a hut, an igloo or a wickiup that doesn't have a copy on the coffee table.
Frasier: Diane?
Diane: And then, then, then... [voice breaking] everyone in the world, every living thing will be laughing at me! Because he got published, and I did not!

Diane: Well, I submitted one of my poems for publication, and quite honestly, I was overwhelmed by the response. It was more than I could ever have hoped for. But I blush. Read it. It speaks for itself. [giggles]
Frasier: Oh, uh this is a rejection letter.
Diane: It's not a rejection letter per se. It's a "soon and inevitably to be accepted" letter. Listen to this. "Your work is not entirely without promise." They're almost begging for another submission.
Sam: Boy, you know, I- l hope you don't get your hopes up there too high, because that looks like a form letter to me.
Diane: Poor Sam. This really threatens you, doesn't it? Let me assure you that I can heed my man as well as my muse. Syzygy would not even have bothered to respond to my letter if they hadn't perceived me as an up-and-coming literary talent.
Sam: You know, this is just like you. You- You turn every defeat into a victory. It's like the time when I said that I didn't want to see you anymore, and you all of a sudden start making wedding plans.
Diane: Sam, we can talk about the wedding later, I have work to do.

Sam: Uh, how's it goin', Diane?
Diane: Would you like to know how it's going?
Sam: Yeah.
Diane: This is how it's going. I'm totally blocked. I can't write another word.
Sam: Hmm.
Diane: "Hurricane of Wills," unfinished. "The Death of a Shallow Man," unfinished. "A Bartender Dismembered," unfinished. I suffer failure after failure while you, a despoiler of the English language are lionized in front of the world. [throws her unfinished works in the air] That's how it's going.

Diane: Oh, my God, it's one of mine. How could I not recognize this exquisite fluidity? The characteristic Chambers' grace in the face of hard imagery?
Sam: Come on. You told me that it stunk.
Diane: Sam, I'm a poet, not a critic. Oh, I'm published!
Sam: Yeah!
Diane: I'm published! Oh, this is so exciting! This is like like the first time I ever... rode a bicycle.

Cliff: Say, what's with Diane there?
Frasier: She's still searching for Sam's poem.
Woody: Dr. Crane, I think you ought to talk to her. I mean, all she does is read, read, read. I bet she goes through a book a week.

Diane: Hello, one and all.
Sam: Hello.
Diane: How are you, love of my life?
Sam: Just fine, pain in my neck.

Cliff: It's been proven time and time again that reincarnation breaks no physical laws as we know 'em.
Woody: You know, I was thinking about this the other day, and, uh, I think in my next life I'd like to come back as the president of France.
Norm: Why is that, Wood?
Woody: Well, I think it'd attract a lot of business to the bar.

Sam: You okay?
Diane: You win, Sam. I've struggled so hard for so long to keep my dreams alive, and I haven't fooled anyone but myself. I know all along you all considered me a pretentious, self-deluded windbag and apparently, you've all been right. I'm never going to be Diane Chambers, the great poet, the world-famous novelist, the revered artist. I've gone as high as I'm going to go. I'm a waitress in a beer hall... and not a very good one. A waitress. A waitress. A waitress.
Man: Miss, could you take our order?
Diane: [sobbing]
Sam: Come on. Let's go have a talk in my office. Come on. Sweetheart?
[As Diane continues to weep, Sam pushes her chair around the bar]

Sam: You know, I bet I could, uh, send a poem to that magazine and get the same letter back that you did.
Diane: Oh, Sam, you don't want to write a poem. Poetry is very, very difficult.
Sam: What's the big deal? All you got to do is rhyme.
Diane: Most great modern poetry doesn't necessarily have to rhyme.
Sam: Well, that's even easier, isn't it?