Nobody Ever Brings Anything Small Into a Bar

I watched Harvey again last night over a single malt after everyone else had gone to bed. Paul is right. This monologue is the sublime highlight.

Harvey and I have things to do... we sit in the bars... have a drink or two... and play the juke box. Very soon the faces of the other people turn towards me and they smile. They say: 'We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fellow.' Harvey and I warm ourselves in these golden moments. We entered as strangers and soon we have friends. They come over. They sit with us. They drink with us. They talk to us. They tell us about the great big terrible things they've done and the great big wonderful things they're going to do. Their hopes, their regrets. Their loves, their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. Then I introduce them to Harvey, and he's bigger and grander than anything they can offer me. When they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back, but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us. That's too bad, isn't it?