Ice is nice, and will suffice
To turn this habit into a vice.
Both ignorant of what’s been begun and what’s changed.
Kind silence hides foolishness.
Telling the golden girl what she means would sustain future endeavours.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.
Boredom and decay go to a banquet,
Spit me out like five cent coins.
Rabid nostalgia encircles then sinks its teeth into a chunk of air.
(Juste pour vous amuser: a la style de E. L. James)
Bring about my sickness
Hunt out my weakness
Burn me till I no longer see straight.
Scald me with your stony stare
Bruise my ribs and pull my hair
Turn my day into my night
Whisper that all won’t be right.
I’ll let you do all this and more:
It’s truly you that I adore.
Alan: What’ll I feel first?
Dysart: Nothing much. After a minute, about a hundred green snakes should come out of that cupboard singing the Hallelujah Chorus.
I am Baudelaire. I am worms on a corpse, an admirer of glassy inaccessibility. An admirer of a diamond castle with no-one in it.
Progenitors, if you find a puddle of murky apathy in my bed instead of me don’t be concerned. Bottle me up and serve me to the public servants to sustain their endeavours to lead a conventional life.
Everything is never enough
Constant change makes us wince at ourselves
Even as wisdom is one moment felt,
The next a cringe at that moment’s folly.
Don’t listen, don’t judge, don’t condemn
Self-psychiatry will always sound petty and complaining.
WHY now? HOW now?
Look away, stay away, run and hide and never look back,
Then find life has led you horizon-like in a circle,
Face-to-face with past demons and future pain.
It makes you dance and jerk
Puppet on a rope
Makes us degrade all which was sacred,
And leaves us with a burning image of lost innocence.
Collapse and decay of delusion
Makes way for new shoots of resolve.
The Normal is the good smile in a child’s eyes - all right. It is also the dead stare in a million adults. It both sustains and kills - like a God. It is the Ordinary made beautiful; it is also the Average made lethal. The Normal is the indispensable, murderous God of Health, and I am his Priest. My tools are very delicate. My compassion is honest. I have honestly assisted children in this room. I have talked away terrors and relieved many agonies. But also - beyond question - I have cut from them parts of individuality repugnant to this God, in both his aspects. Parts sacred to rarer and more wonderful Gods. And at what length… Sacrifices to Zeus took at the most, surely, sixty seconds each. Sacrifices to the Normal can take as long as sixty months.
Dysart: Why is Equus in chains?
Alan: For the sins of the world.
And Equus the Mighty rose against All!
His enemies scatter, his enemies fall!
Trample them, trample them,
Trample them, trample them,
Peter Shaffer’s Equus.
Never have I been made to feel so appreciative of my insanity as after I finished reading this play. I wonder - does this cut close to the bone with child psychiatrists? Shall ask uncle, perhaps.
It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion.
Every time I have opened a door without knocking, I have discovered something repulsive.
If you want to make God laugh,
Tell him your plans.
Let it go. Let it go. Feel my touch. Respond to it. Come on. Open your mouth. Open your mouth. Open it. Open it. Open it. That was me seducing you, when it needs to be the other way around.