Oh, Agent Starling,
you think you can dissect me with this blunt, little tool?
No.
I thought that your knowledge ...
You're so ambitious, aren't you?
You know what you look like to me ...
with your good bag and your cheap shoes?
You look like a rube.
A well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste.
Good nutrition has given you some length of bone,
but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash,
are you, Agent Starling?
And that accent you've tried so desperately to shed,
pure West Virginia.
What does your father do? Is he a coal miner?
Does he stink of the lamp?
And, oh, how quickly the boys found you.
All those tedious, sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars,
while you could only dream of getting out, getting anywhere,
getting all the way to the FBI.
You see a lot, Doctor.
But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself?
What about it? Why don't you ...
Why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see?
Maybe you're afraid to.
A census-taker once tried to test me.
I ate his liver with some fava beans,
and a nice Chianti.
You fly back to school now, little Starling.
Fly, fly, fly.