Only a couple of lines quoted in IMDb so far. Here are more:

The best-selling bloody author in the history of English bloody literature. Three of his books you have published in the last year and a half. Three!
-So where's the money?
Mr. Forster, like you, we are as puzzled as the Egyptians in their fog.
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What did they say?
-"Dull, vapid, and vulgar. Not a single character capable of exciting the reader's sympathies." I certainly didn't think it was vulgar.
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I'm sick of London. It's overcrowded, overpriced... You love this town. No place for a man without money. Not to mention the bloody fog.
-But it's your inspiration, your what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.
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Christmas is, or ought to be, the one time of year when men and women open their shut-up hearts and think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave and not another race of creatures altogether

Well, you have to learn to say no.
-How can I say no if I can be useful, if I can lighten the burden of another?
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I'm just sick of writing tooth and nail for bread, that's all.
-Hmm.
Should've become a journalist.
- You hate the press.
Or a lawyer.
- "The law is an ass." I believe you wrote that.
A hairdresser, then, in the Burlington Arcade. Do you know what I should have liked to be? An explorer, paddling a canoe somewhere in the wilds of Canada in a pair of buckskin breeches, all on my own. No nappies to change.
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Only a story my gran used to tell us, sir, back home in Ireland. She used to say that on Christmas Eve the veils between this world and the next thin out, and that's when the spirits cross over and walk among us.
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What is it you particularly object to in my books?
-Pickpockets, streetwalkers, charity boys. Those people don't belong in books.
"Those people"? You mean, the poor?

Stand up tall. Blood of iron, heart of ice.
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I'm happy wherever the weather. But your mother is of a more delicate sensibility.
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Humbug!
- What is?
Christmas.
-What about it?
Well, what is it but an excuse for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December?
-Yes. Keep going.
A time for paying bills without money. A time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer. If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips should be boiled in his own plum pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he should.
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Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business. Charity... mercy... forbearance, and benevolence were all my business.

You sound just like Father. How is the old reprobate?
- "This morning I had 25 shillings in my hand. And now, observe the vacancy."
He means no harm.
-It's not enough. He bobs around like a cork on the surface of life. Not a thought for the future.
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You hardly pay him at all.
- Fifteen shillings a week.
For a man with a family, not to mention a sick child?
-That's the market rate.
Do you really believe that every inch of existence is a bargain across the counter? Observe this family. They don't have much, but they're happy, grateful, contented with their lot. Whereas you are miserable and content with nothing.
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He has a heart, doesn't he?

Oh, don't be daft. Now, come on, your wife will be worried sick.
-Who? Kate? She doesn't understand me.
I've got news for you, Charles. None of us understand you. You're... You're a freak of nature.
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It's a Christmas book. Shouldn't it be hopeful? mean, isn't that what... what... what Christmas is all about? The hope that in the end, our better natures will prevail?
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What is so evil about him?
- Well, he's a miser.
Well, that doesn't make him evil. It just makes him cheap.
- He worships money. It's the only thing that matters to him.
Why?
-He has nothing else.
No friends? No family?
-No one he trusts.
Why?
-Because he's afraid.
Of?
-Being found out.

I say a lot of things that are nonsense when I'm working.
- Charles...
You know how ideas take possession of me. You knew what I was like when you married me.
- Yes. I did. But you have no idea what it's like to live with you. Always walking on eggshells, trying to guess your mood, to know which of your commands are a whim and which are in earnest. You know, sometimes I... I feel your characters matter more to you than your own flesh and blood.
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If you never read the book or watched the films, then – spoiler alert:
Stave five.
"The End of It."
Yes. And the bedpost was his own, the bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own to make amends in. Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. And so, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us, every one."
The end.

What's your name, Constable?
-My name? Copperfield, sir.
Copperfield.
-Any chance of a new book soon?
New book. New book! Wait. New book. Merry Christmas!
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That is beautiful.
-Isn't it? The Germans call it a Tannenbaum. It's a tree for Christmas. A Christmas tree, I suppose. Now the royal family have got one, it'll be all the rage.
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I wish you all many, many happy Christmases and friendships, and great accumulation of cheerful recollections and heaven at last for all of us. In the season of hope, we will shut out nothing from our firesides and everyone will be welcome.
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"It was a blessed inspiration that put such a book into the head of Charles Dickens. A happy inspiration of the heart that warms every page. It is impossible to read without a glowing bosom and burning cheeks, between love and shame of our kind."