Philip Winthrop: [as the house starts to rumble] Don't you think that crack in the wall should be repaired?
Roderick Usher: For future generations of Ushers?
Philip Winthrop: For Madeline's safety.
Philip Winthrop: While I was riding here I noticed a singular lack of vegetation, is there something wrong with the soil?
Roderick Usher: The soil?
Madeline Usher: Roderick please!
Roderick Usher: [looking at Madeline] As you wish.

Philip Winthrop: Is there no end to your horrors?
Roderick Usher: No. None whatever.

Philip Winthrop: You have murdered your sister, Mr. Usher, and I intend to see that you hang for it.
Roderick Usher: Arrange it quickly then. The old house crumbles.

Roderick Usher: [shouting] Be done.
Philip Winthrop: What?
Roderick Usher: I think I rave.
Philip Winthrop: You said be done.

Roderick Usher: Did you know that I could hear the scratching of her fingernails on the casket lid?

Roderick Usher: I suggest you leave, Mr. Winthrop. No? Then perish with us.

Roderick Usher: Madeline and I are like figures of fine glass. The slightest touch and we may shatter. Both of us suffer from a morbid acuteness of the senses. Mine is the worst for having existed the longer, but both of us are afflicted with it. Any sort of food more exotic then the most pallid mash is unendurable to my taste buds. Any sort of garment other then the softest, is agony to my flesh. My eyes are tormented by all but the faintest illumination. Odors assail me constantly, and as I've said, sounds of any degree whatsoever inspire me with terror.

Roderick Usher: See to the crypt, will you?