Sergeant Howie: What religion can they possibly be learning jumping over bonfires?
Lord Summerisle: Parthenogenesis.
Sergeant Howie: What?
Lord Summerisle: Literally, as Miss Rose would doubtless say in her assiduous way, reproduction without sexual union.
Sergeant Howie: Oh, what is all this? I mean, you've got fake biology, fake religion... Sir, have these children never heard of Jesus?
Lord Summerisle: Himself the son of a virgin, impregnated, I believe, by a ghost.
Lord Summerisle: Do sit down, Sergeant. Shocks are so much better absorbed with the knees bent.
Lord Summerisle: Come. It is time to keep your appointment with the Wicker Man.
Miss Rose: The building attached to the ground in which the body lies is no longer used for christian worship, so whether it is still a churchyard is debatable.
May Morrison: Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?
Sergeant Howie: No, I doubt it, seeing you're all raving mad.
Sergeant Howie: And what of the true God? Whose glory, churches and monasteries have been built on these islands for generations past? Now sir, what of him?
Lord Summerisle: He's dead. Can't complain, had his chance and in modern parlance, blew it.
Daisy Pringle: The little old beetle goes 'round and 'round. Always the same way, y'see, until it ends up right up tight to the nail. Poor old thing.
Sergeant Howie: 'Poor old thing'? Then why in God's name do you do it, girl?
Sergeant Howie: You are despicable little liars.
May Morrison: You'll simply never understand the true nature of sacrifice.
Rowan Morrison: Did I do it right?
Lord Summerisle: You did it beautifully.
