Poetry (0.031s) Poetry, prose, essays, comments, poems - International Culture and Literature
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agonia.net 
· a distance there is
Article 
Despre Boierism: manifest si razie
Round Table
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-05-30 | | CHARACTERS MARK GILFORD, the writer THE MAID / MUSE, a young, suave looking woman VIRGINIA JACOBSEN, the EDITOR JO, Mark's next-door neighbour & best friend The six Word-characters: WORDS AND I SPEAK COMPLETE NOTHINGNESS PROLOGUE Dark stage. In the background, stage left, a desk, with a chair behind it & books on it. In the background, stage right, an armchair with its back to the audience. Hypnotic music playing in the background. First, the Muse appears on stage, dressed in white and holding a candle. She places the candle center-stage and then stands behind it. She summons the 6 Words: three come from the right, three from the left, all holding candles. At this particular point, they’re not wearing any nametags. The Muse makes them sit and, as they all sit down, the Writer appears on stage, with a blank look on his face. He does not seem to see the Words. He comes up in front of the muse. The 6 Words are playing with his arms as if he were their puppet. The music grows louder and louder; when it reaches its climax the scene goes completely dark. The following 3 excerpts + background music are heard. MALE VOICE [affected tone; literary critic] “Well, indeed, in my educated opinion, Gilford is undoubtedly one of the most influential voices on this pre-apocalyptic literary scene. His work does have the staying power to be around for decades, I should say…” FEMALE VOICE [exalted tone; actress] “‘And yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I would hop on the first elevator taking me away from this world, go all the way up to the last floor & then take a spin on the ever-revolving doors of heaven.’ The archangel just sat there, gave her an odd glance and said…” FEMALE VOICE [neutral tone; news broadcaster] “In their most recent press conference The Booker Prize Committee has announced that writer Mark Gilford, best known for his post-modern urban approach to poetic expression, has been short-listed for this year’s award. Other nominees include…” SCENE I The light comes on. Gilford is alone on stage, walking around frantically. He keeps checking his wristwatch. He seems a bit schizophrenic: he is talking to himself, uttering two distinct discourses at the same time. On the one hand, when walking to the right he seems to be talking to an invisible presence – The Muse – and when he’s facing left he’s rambling on like a lunatic about the impeding arrival of his editor. WRITER [to the right] Muse, don’t you dare step out this door and forsake me. You are bound to me through an infinite umbilical chord of words. [to the left, irritated voice] Oh, for chrissakes I can’t even follow my own train of thought; that goddamn lame excuse for an editor should be here any minute… [to the right, decisive tone] But, Muse, mark my words: if I were not to pour drops of your essence into what I choose to speak, both of us would perish.[to the left, more irritated] And here we go again with the nagging and the criticism and the complaining – I swear to god I’ll just smack her over the head with the manuscript this time! [to the right, loving tone] Honestly, without you, dear Muse, I would be lost on the soiled face of this Earth, rambling on like the madman that I pretend to be, but with no echo left to my words. [to the left, sarcastic] Aaah, the joys of the author-editor relationship. “That comma on the 27th line of page 146 definitely does not belong there, Mister Gilford! What were you thinking?!” [to the right] Meanwhile you, Goddess of the Humble Abode, would begin to disintegrate, particle by particle until nothing would remain of you other than the dust that you wipe off the books in this room. [to the left, sounding mad] Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead – I’ll kill her. I swear, if she makes one more trite allusion to the fact that I don’t want anyone to know what this book is about her name’ll be hitting the obituary pages sooner than anyone would expect. [to the right, proprietary] So, Muse, hear me speak – you have no right over your existence: you do not exist onto yourself any more than I am god himself. [to the left, sarcastic, irritated] Editor! Hah. What the bloody hell do I need an editor for anyway? And who the hell came up with this job in the first place? [to the right, visionary tone] Muse, Muse, Muse – I am born out of your glass womb but, in return, you are my human crucifix, borne out on paper every single day. [to the left, panicking] She’s here! I can hear her high-heels sounding on the stairs on her way up here. She’s lurking outside my door, ready to press the doorbell. She’s here, she’s here, abandon all hope; I can run but I can’t hide; she’s put to get me, I know she is… [enters EDITOR, stage right. She looks professional: business suit, high heels, preferably glasses.] EDITOR Mr. Gilford… [She walks decisively & directly to the chair in front of the writer’s desk, crosses her legs and then makes direct, intimidating eye-contact with the writer] WRITER Miss Jacobsen, why what an unexpected surprise…[clears his throat in a sign of anxiety and then starts pacing around the stage nervously, avoiding to look at the editor.] Would you like some tea, or coffee, or perhaps a small dose of 1985 Valium? That was a particularly good year for the anti-depressant harvest, you know… EDITOR Oh, how marvelously amusing; how incredibly droll. Mr Gilford, why don’t we cut to the chase, shall we? WRITER Yes, by all means, we shall. [moment of awkward silence. Gilford clears his throat again.] EDITOR Yes, well… then that brings us to the reason for my being here, right? WRITER Right, of course… EDITOR So. WRITER So… EDITOR So… Suicidal Books Inc. has decided to publish your latest book. WRITER Naturally. I mean, after all, Miss Jacobsen, I do have a certain reputation, a particularly well-known name in the business. Besides, I have been around for several decades now and this one happens to be book number 21 for me. That’s why we’ve keeping this book a secret for so long; that’s why no one should have the slightest idea what it’s about. EDITOR Mr Gilford, I don’t understand what all this secrecy is about. WRITER Well it’s none of your business, now is it? If this book never sees the light of day then no one will ever find out what it is about. I’ll take it to the grave. It’s my own personal choice. I’m up for the Booker Prize for god’s sake! I’m a household name! This book is… it’s… it’s beyond anything that’s ever been written. Readers will swoon; they’ll break the windows of book stores just to buy it; I’ll become more famous than god himself. Ha! EDITOR Mr Gilford… Mark… I think this is your own personal trip… WRITER I’d rather you kept calling me “Mr Gilford”. EDITOR Alright then; fine… Mr Gilford, allow me to be frank with you. Your latest book, well… is 576-pages long. It is dense, bleak, largely depressing and, in all honesty, much too heavy to be carried around. For heaven’s sake, it could kill a person if it fell on their head! And, on top of all this, you insist on not revealing the subject of the book to the media. Seriously speaking, you have no idea how much this is going to damage our marketing strategy. And for your information, the President of the Board of Directors at our publishing-house has reviewed the book; and, all in all, he reached the same conclusions as I did. WRITER Oh, well, then if the President of the Board of Directors didn’t like it, then it makes perfect sense! After all, it’s perfectly normal that a businessman should be reviewing the work of a writer. Maybe I should go over to his office and tell him how to run his company, huh? EDITOR Now, now, I don’t think this kind of sarcasm is called for, Mr Gilford. All I’m saying is that… WRITER …that I have written a lame book, which you have no real interest in publishing! What can I say: my little heart is broken. Now may I please have my manuscript back so I can be on my way to deliver it to another publishing-house? EDITOR Well, you cannot quite do that, since you signed a contract with us, remember? Besides, how about just letting me finish what I have to say before jumping to any such absurd conclusions? WRITER Oh, so now I’m being absurd as well? EDITOR Yes, you are. But your book is still going to be published. It goes to the printing press tomorrow. Under one condition… WRITER You’re conditioning me now? EDITOR As a matter of fact I am. [stands up and takes her purse; her tone of voice is very serious and rather threatening] Mr. Gilford, you listen to me and you listen good: you have precisely twelve hours to write a motto for your 576-page… work of art [hands him the manuscript]. WRITER A motto?! Who the hell do you think I am, Sandra-freakin’-Brown? EDITOR Honestly, I couldn’t care less if your were Immanuel Kant in disguise. If by tomorrow, when I come over to collect the manuscript, the motto is not there, there’s no deal. We need to try and make your book at least slightly more accessible. Company policy, you understand. Now… I hope I have made myself clear enough. Good day Mr. Gilford. [exit stage right] SCENE II [The writer is left alone on stage. He looks distraught and disconcerted. He goes to sit on the chair behind just desk & stares into thin air. In the background, there’s a great noise of people talking incessantly. He starts talking to himself again] WRITER Muse, I told you not to leave & you left me empty and defenseless. I told you not to depart, yet you nonchalantly fled the scene. I didn’t even hear you get up and leave; I think you just flew out of here on the back of a post-modern pterodactyl [smiles sadly to himself]. Oh, Muse… JO [voice coming form somewhere back stage. She’s obviously mocking the writer] Oh, Mark… WRITER Muse, you talk! Where are you? It’s been so long since I last heard from you, Muse. Talk to me… JO Errrr, what… do you want me to say? WRITER Tell me where you are and how I can get there. JO Ummm, I have emigrated. I now live in New Jersey; I have a fat husband called Billy Bob and 5 kids. Also, I’ve changed my name into Louella and joined a satanic cult. Wanna drop by and visit me some day? WRITER [realizes he has been had] Oh, Muse, but I want to see you now. You’re a spirit – you should be able to travel long distances in no time. Come to me! JO I can’t, ‘cause… I’ve just washed my hair and I need to let it dry. And on top of that, Billy Bob Jr. is trying to kill one of his little brothers and I don’t know if I should try and prevent that from happening or just sit back and enjoy the show. WRITER Oh, come on… [gets up, goes to the door, and lets Jo, his best friend, come in] So you think you’re so funny, huh? JO Actually, yeah, I think I’m really funny. [sits on the floor] I think I’m funny “ha-ha”, whereas you, my dear friend, are just funny “hmmm”. WRITER [goes back to sitting in his chair] Yeah, well, excuse my bad disposition, but I’ve just had a dreary encounter with the Grim Reader. JO Oh, Mizz Virginia Jacobsen was around; wow, I would have liked to be a fly on the wall for that one! So, how did it go? WRITER Do you want the “parental advisory” version of the story, or the uncensored one? JO “Parental advisory” please. I know you’re a creative man of words, but really, I’m so not in the mood for enriching my swearword vocabulary right now. WRITER Well… to make a long story short, I’ve gotta come up with a motto for my book until tomorrow, otherwise they won’t publish it. They say it’s too complicated to be read. JO C’mon, it’s not so bad… I mean, all you’ve got to do is open a book at random, find some really smart-ass thing to say and that’s that. WRITER [speaks really passionately, almost violently] Jo, I’ve never been a fraud in my life and you know it! I’ve never “copied”, I’ve never let any other writer “inspire” me. It’s just me and my muse and that’s all I need. I’m not gonna take anybody’s words and put them in my book. JO Then write your own motto, d’oh! How hard can that be? Hell, you’ve done harder things; like, you’ve written the thickest book on the planet & you won’t even tell me – me! your best friend! – what it’s about. By the way, what is it_____? WRITER [interrupting] Wow. Wow! You’re right; I’ll do it! It’s so easy! Wow. [hugs her, then goes to sit behind the desk and looks for pen and paper to start writing] I’m gonna start writing right now; I’m gonna do the best, most quintessential motto anyone’s ever read. Wow! JO Okay, well, glad to have helped you, dude. Now all you’ve got to do is summarize 576 pages in 20 words. [The Writer looks at her with a look of revelation and despair: he hadn’t thought of that] WRITER Oh my god, Jo, that’s right. I put my whole life in that book; well, whatever was left of it, at least and now I’ve got nothing left. I bled myself dry of words. There is nothing I want to say anymore; and there’s no other way in which I could reformulate what I’m saying in that brick of a book. What the hell am I gonna do? JO Like, listen, first of all, you’re not going to panic. Secondly, you’re gonna like open the windows, let some fresh air get into this rat-hole of a house and relax. Only after all that are you going to start writing, okay? WRITER Not okay, Jo; it doesn’t work like that. But then again, how would you know?… JO [stares at him in disbelief; shakes her head] You know, anyone on this planet would take serious offense at what you just said, ‘cause it’s a horribly insensitive thing to say. However, I know that you’re a horribly insensitive paranoid maniac misogynistic agoraphobic freak. And that’s why I love you. [The Writer attempts to interrupt her] Shut up and let me finish. ‘cause the thing is that, yeah, I’ve got no clue about how to write an ode or a poetic novella or what not; but you’ve got no clue what year we’re in! you haven’t been outside in years. You live here, with your books and your words and your muses and, meanwhile, life is just outside, passing you by and waving hello. And you’re constantly ignoring her. So stop complaining, ‘cause this is all a consequence of your decisions, of your monk life, of your secrecy. If you wanna protect your little secret so bad then you’re gonna have to pay the freakin’ price & live with it. WRITER Well. I see your point. JO Now don’t get mad. Get even. Write something that’ll knock their socks off. WRITER Tell me a story from your day, Jo… JO Here we go again… You know I hate it when you put my stuff in your books, ‘cause then people will know that it’s me and they’ll know where to find me and you know I don’t want them to find me. WRITER I need this to survive; you know I feed on it. Come on, give me something… JO Okay, fine. Ummm, well, in the morning I put up my booth on the corner of 5th and Main, I opened a book and sat there until people started asking me stuff. I sold about 25 pairs of earrings, 20 bracelets, 3 anklets, 16 rings and 13 necklaces. I saw: a dog with two little wheels replacing his hind feet, a little girl with a birth mark on her neck in the shape of a harvest moon, a lady dressed in pink and yellow whose hair was half green – half purple, a heroine peddler selling stuff to a 63-year dope fiend, a couple of punk chicks kissing in the street and that’s about it. WRITER [taking notes]…couple of punk girls kissing… Yes, thank you very much, Jo, that’ll be all for today. JO Okay. I’ll go wash my hair for a whole hour now. And then I gotta go the supermarket to get some soy milk and cereal. Do you want me to get anything for you? WRITER [deep in thought] No, no, it’s okay. I have to start writing now; g’ bye Jo… JO Bye dude. Good luck with your words & stuff. [exit, stage left] SCENE III WRITER [speaking and at the same time focusing on his writing] I will come up with something absolutely brilliant; do you hear that, Muse? Muse… are you awake? [interrupts his writing and looks towards the armchair which has been with its back at the audience since the beginning; suddenly, that part of the stage is lit – The Muse is sitting in the armchair] Come here, help me out, please. I have to do this right; it’s my only chance. [stands up and starts pacing around, while holding a couple of sheets of paper and a pen; whenever he is dissatisfied with what he’s writing he throws away a sheet of paper. The Muse is walking behind him, picking up the fallen sheets] Let’s see now… “Poetry is…” – god, no; who do I think I am, Shakespeare?! [throws away the first sheet] “Life is like… a box of chocolates” – hmmm; no, I think that’s been done before. [throws away second sheet of paper] “Whatever does not kill you…” – hell, no! what’s gotten into me? [throws away third sheet; goes & sits behind the desk. The Muse follows him there.] I can’t do this, Muse; I can’t seem to be able to write. Somebody’s stolen my words. Can you find them and bring them back for me… I’m stuck here, to this chair, I can’t move and I’m [yawns] falling… asleep. I’m never gonna be able to get this book published. Well… at least the secret’s safe with me…[he puts his head on the desk and appears to be sleeping] [Music starts playing in the background; the Muse looks left, then right. She summons someone to come in from backstage. The Words appear, wearing their nametags. They’re very “energetic” and insubordinate: they don’t do what the Muse is signaling them to do. Instead, they just spin and run around on stage. They explore the room, make fun of the sleeping writer etc. Finally, the Muse gets them to form the first sentence] SCENE IV “words and I speak complete nothingness” [And is standing center-stage. Words is on her left and I on her right. Words & I seem to be looking for one another; neither of them takes any notice of And’s presence] AND Once upon a time there were to travelers looking for one another. They had heard incredible stories about the other one’s existence and so, both of them decided to meet and make sure for themselves if the rumors were true. However, while this one had the power to speak beautiful words [spotlight on Words] she was also completely deaf and unable to control what she was saying. This one, on the other hand [spotlight on I] heard and understood the most complex of issues in the world surrounding her, but, being blind, she was unable to see anything outside her self. Will they ever meet? I Oh, tell me, tell me, where are you? WORDS Why do people travel? I I’ve been looking for you, I need to find you. I’ll be lost without you. If I don’t find you, I’ll lose myself as well and I’ll never-ever remember where I came from. WORDS What is the purpose of this multitude of paths, alley, streets, freeways, highways, byways and roads? I Please, don’t leave me like this; help me, tell me something. WORDS Where does everybody want to go? After all, everybody knows that they’re only running around in circles, trying to grasp something, trying to find someone, trying to figure out some sort of riddle or puzzle that their fairy godmothers made them explain when they were born. AND So they went about, desperately seeking for each other all over the world. They circled the Earth three times in their hopeless endeavor. They even passed each other by a couple of times but, since one was deaf and one was blind, how could they have stopped and greeted each other? I I think I’m going to cry. I can’t stand this anymore. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what to do with my life. WORDS Sometimes, if you walk for too long a time, you will slowly lose all the water in your bodies and die. It’s called dehydration. I I feel like I’ve been wasting everything, trying to find someone whom I’m not even sure exists. WORDS Or, if you walk through the desert, if you’re lucky enough you’ll find an oasis and settle down there. I I am lost. I am scared. I am tired. I am confused. WORDS Or, if you’re walking up a mountain, you might fall into ravines or be caught by avalanches. I I am not able to find my way back and I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. I need to find the balance that I once had; I need to stop chasing dreams; I need to settle down and lead a calm, perfect little life; I can’t be here any longer. WORDS Or, this is a good one: if you’re simply walking down the street –oops!– a meteor might crash-land on earth, killing you right then & there… Oh well, time to go back home, apparently. There’s nothing here worth painting in words. AND And so the two travelers decided to go back home and forget all about their extraordinary plans of finding the other one. They both settled down, started families, had children and… [bursting out in revolt] No! What is this?!? Neither of you had any right to do this to me! No! What am I going to do now? Who am I going to speak about? This isn’t fair; everybody knows there is no narrator without characters! Come back! Come back, please!! Come back!!!… [fade to black; then music starts playing again as the light gradually & dimly reappears; the Muse is trying to co-ordinate the words into building another sentence, which she eventually succeeds in doing.] SCENE V “nothingness and I speak complete words” [Complete is sitting on a chair, taking notes, while Nothingness is pacing around behind her, holding very elaborate discourses] NOTHINGNESS Well, yes, if you approach the matter from this particular perspective then, indeed, you might come to such inconclusive answers. However, it is my better judgment, which advises me not to give heed to these preposterous dilettantes. It is their choice –it is the choice of every human being– to be absurd, irrelevant, inconsequential or down right silly whenever they might want to. COMPLETE What about courts of law? NOTHINGNESS Why, what a question! Based on my lengthy studies and observations I reached the conclusions that one can easily find the highest level of folly per square meter in courts of law, order and justice. COMPLETE Okay… well, what about churches? And graveyards? And weddings? Is it advisable for one to be seen acting foolishly at weddings, funerals and christenings? NOTHINGNESS Dear, of all the places where people congregate without having been forced to do as such, I believe churches to be by far the most absurd. Naturally, my remarks have offended quite a few; however, those few may not have realized that my carefully crafted rhetorical discourse had thus reached its very goal. To bug the devil out of various narrow-minded morons and to bring understanding smiles on the faces of those who share my mental wavelength. COMPLETE So, then… when being absurd it is alright to irritate? Because I’ve never been very certain about this one. To me it seems cruel to annoy someone just for the sake of art, even if that art is the Art of the Absurd. NOTHINGNESS Listen dear, what did we say were the three golden rules of the absurd? COMPLETE One: what makes sense to you doesn’t have to make sense to me and vice versa. NOTHINGNESS Good; two? COMPLETE Two: making sense is not even compulsory; it’s not even recommended. NOTHINGNESS Very good. And the third one? COMPLETE I’m sorry professor, I don’t remember… I’m really, really sorry. NOTHINGNESS Oh, no problemo. Repeat after me: blue horses only appear once in a blue moon, when the sky turns left and the wind blows your mind. Now; your turn… COMPLETE + NOTHINGNESS …blue horses only appear once in a blue moon, when the sky turns left and the wind blows your mind. NOTHINGNESS Very good. Now let’s see if you’ve done your homework. [she stands up, goes behind Complete’s chair and begins to talk; meanwhile, Complete is only lip-synching to what Nothingness is saying; nothingness clears her throat and then begins] Dada poem number 1689 A, take 1: Sun on the tip of a bald yellow head / Morose he is, yes; and bald head is dead./ A symbol is nothing, no; nothing at all/ COMPLETE + NOTHINGNESS My eyelashes twirled up and now it is fall./ Headaches and sounds and figures and rhymes/ Your skin is marvel and I’m hearing chimes./ COMPLETE Chains do not spin, they can’t tell a lie./ Wonderland’s barren and so is her eye./ Interior monologue – we do not deny. [fade to black; then music starts playing again as the light gradually & dimly reappears; the Muse is trying to co-ordinate the words into building another sentence, which she eventually succeeds in doing.] SCENE VI “words complete nothingness and I speak.” [Words and I are sitting at two opposite ends of the stage; Complete keeps running between the two of them] I We should feed the poor, give all the riches of the bourgeoisie to the homeless, destroy all private property and burn all our money. COMPLETE [runs from I to Words] Feed poor, impoverish rich, destroy private property, burn money. WORDS Ha! We should impose equal taxation irrespective of social class. We should encourage the rich to buy property, start businesses, create job opportunities. COMPLETE [runs from Words to I] Equal taxation, rich buy property, create businesses and jobs. I [yells] No way! We should give equal opportunities, allow everybody the right to free education, stop the oppression against racial, sexual and religious minorities. COMPLETE [runs from I to Words] Equal opportunities… WORDS Yeah, yeah, I heard all that non-sense… COMPLETE She heard all that… I This isn’t non-sense, it’s a revolution! We need to save this place, man! Can’t you see that everything that’s been built before us was fundamentally wrong, evil and morally corrupt? COMPLETE Revolution, save this place, wrong, evil, morally corrupt. WORDS Yes, we do need to start a revolution, but a revolution which will restore the ancient values, one which will bring back the prosperity and happiness of yesterday. COMPLETE Revolution, ancient values, prosperity, happiness, yesterday. WORDS + I Shut up!!! COMPLETE Yeah, sure, so that the two of you can keep fighting like idiots until kingdom come. Fine by me… I Power to the people! WORDS Long live the king! I Left! WORDS Right! I Left! WORDS Right! [the noise of a rebellion, of people cheering is heard from outside; enters Speak] SPEAK “Left – right; left – right; left – right!”. You think anybody gives a damn what you believe in? Well, then you must be so naïve. Because nobody cares whether it’s left or right, upwards or downwards. All they care is that they’re not hungry, thirsty or cold. Other than that people couldn’t give a rat’s tail if the person ruling them is yelling “left” or “right” or “magenta” or “baby blue”. So you know what I did, while the two of you were sitting here, arguing like lunatics? I seized power! I own you. Ha! [to Complete, who’s sitting on the floor somewhere behind her] What are you staring at? COMPLETE Nothing. Oh, hey, now that you’re a dictator & all… don’t you need a personal assistant? SPEAK What can you do? COMPLETE Umm, well… I’m really good at running around! SPEAK Okay, sure. Follow me! [fade to black; really rhythmical music; The Muse & the Words dance, they form the sentences all over again. Then the Words disappear, the Muse goes back to sleep on her chair and daylight is starting to break] SCENE VII [The Writer wakes up and finds the three sentences written on a piece of paper on his desk] WRITER “words and I speak complete nothingness nothingness and I speak complete words words complete nothingness and I speak.” Did I write this? When did I write this? Am I sure I wrote this? Is this the motto…? I don’t get this anymore… MUSE Of course you wrote it. Who else could have written it? [spotlight on Muse’s chair] WRITER Well, you could have, while I was asleep on my desk. MUSE I can’t write. My hands are tied… to your secret. WRITER I know… it’s all my fault. I’m being selfish. MUSE Yes. But soon enough the whole world will find out. WRITER Muse, did you bring me these words? MUSE They came to you. WRITER But how did they find me? MUSE I can’t tell you. I can’t speak. I need to sleep. You need to prepare. You’re telling the world tomorrow. WRITER But, I… MUSE Shhh… [fade to black, Muse’s corner; the Writer keeps walking around with the piece of paper in his hand, looking at it in amazement; enters Jo] JO Morning, dude. So… how did it go? WRITER Well, take a look. [Jo reads it] JO Hey, not bad; for a guy who can’t write anything under 500 pages this is awfully concise and to the point. I’m loving it [smiles] [enters Editor] JO Oh my, look what the cat dragged in… EDITOR Good morning Mr. Gilford, I’m afraid your time is up. WRITER Yes, Miss Jacobsen, I know. Here it is. EDITOR [surprised] Oh… you wrote it. WRITER Of course I did. What did you think, I was going to give you the satisfaction of getting away without publishing my big secret? My horribly complicated book that no-one will read? Well, if you did, then tough luck. EDITOR Yes, well, I need to go now; I’ve got an errand to make to the printing-press [picks up the manuscript of the desk] Good day. JO Hey, good for you dude, you nailed her this time. WRITER Yeah, sure did… JO Okay, well, then I guess I’ll see you when I come back. Tootles! [The Writer goes center-stage. The spotlight is on him; the rest of the stage is dim, but not completely dark. The Words appear behind him. Background music + the following three excerpts] MALE VOICE “Yes… yes, Mark Gilford… I am well acquainted with the fellow. Not too nice of a personality, but fabulous penmanship, I must say. I wonder where that chap gets his inspiration from! And his latest book… what a great subject to write about!” FEMALE VOICE “‘You’, said the archangel, ‘are a blessing in disguise and I’m a blessing from the skies. I’ll lend you one of my wings if you tell me your name. ‘I don’t know my name’, said the girl, ‘but I know that I spend all my days in an armchair in his room and when he speaks he calls me Muse…” FEMALE VOICE “This year’s Booker Prize went, as expected, to late author Mark Gilford. Mysteriously vanished due to yet unresolved reasons, Gilford did not live to collect his award. In an unprecedented gesture, the prize was collected by none other than the author’s maid. Gilford’s award-winning 576-page book was about…”
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Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests. | | ||||||||
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