Hagseed Quotes

None of them was willing to be a girl," he said. "You can see why not." "I know, right? I don't blame them," she said with a hard edge to her voice. "Being a girl is the pits, trust me.

The rest of his life. How long that time had once felt to him. How quickly it has sped by. How much of it has been wasted. How soon it will be over.

Miranda nods, because she knows that to be true: noble people don't do things for the money, they simply have money, and that's what allows they to be noble. They don't really have to think about it much; they sprout benevolent acts the way trees sprout leaves.

You’re clear, Mr. Duke.” Grins from both of them. What could Felix possibly be suspected of smuggling, a harmless old thespian like him? It’s the words that should concern you, he thinks at them. That’s the real danger. Words don’t show up on scanners.

Suddenly revenge is so close he can actually taste it. It tastes like steak, rare.

Young love, thinks Felix wistfully. So good for the complexion.

Why should the other ones in this play get a second chance at life, but not him? Why's he have to suffer so much for being what he is? It's like he's, you know, black or Native or something. Five strikes against him from Day One. He never asked to get born.

Miranda nods, because she knows that to be true: noble people don't do things for the money, they simply have money, and that's what allows them to be noble. They don't really have to think about it much; they sprout benevolent acts the way trees sprout leaves.

You always do good ones. We trust you, Mr. Duke," Says Dylan. Foolish lads, thinks Felix: never trust a professional ham.

For once in their lives, they loved themselves.

Fool, he tells himself. She’s not here. She was never here. It was imagination and wishful thinking, nothing but that. Resign yourself. He can’t resign himself.

Watching the many faces watching their own faces as they pretended to be someone else—Felix found that strangely moving. For once in their lives, they loved themselves.

But once you’ve climbed a ladder, what use is it? You kick it away, if you don’t intend to go down it again.

La grandeza está en la virtud, no en la venganza

All of these men are thinking mostly about ruling and rulers. Who should rule, and how. Who should have power, how they should get it, and how they should use it.

I hope she won’t destroy him, thought Felix. But he’s a con man, don’t forget. A con man playing an actor. A double unreality.

What he couldn't have in life he might still catch sight of through his art: just a glimpse, from the corner of his eye

Is extreme goodness always weak? Can a person be good only in the absence of power? The Tempest asks us these questions. There is of course another kind of strength, which is the strength of goodness to resist evil; a strength that Shakespeare’s audience would have understood well. But that kind of strength is not much on display in The Tempest. Gonzalo is simply not tempted. He doesn’t have to say no to a sinfully rich dessert, because he’s never offered one.

It’s theatre, Felix protests now, in his head. The art of true illusions! Of course it deals in traumatic situations! It conjures up demons in order to exorcise them! Haven’t you read the Greeks? Does the word catharsis mean anything to you?

What to do with such a sorrow? It was like an enormous black cloud boiling up over the horizon. No: it was like a blizzard. No: it was like nothing he could put into language. He couldn't face it head-on. He had to transform it, or at the very least enclose it.

What was so difficult about Macbeth done with chainsaws? Topical. Direct.

It’s always risky, the prospect that the prisoners might be having more fun than the guards. Resentment can build up, and that would cause problems for Felix.

It’s taken a while, but revenge is a dish best eaten cold, he reminds himself.

What was the guilty thing?” says Anne-Marie. “What’s Prospero done that’s so terrible?” “Indeed, what?” Felix asks rhetorically. More of the cast have gathered around. “He doesn’t tell us. It’s one more puzzle in the play. But The Tempest is a play about a man producing a play—one that’s come out of his own head, his ‘fancies’—so maybe the fault for which he needs to be pardoned is the play itself.

Mr. Duke, Mr. Duke. You are being far too abstract. These are real people. They are not ciphers in your aesthetic of drama, they are not your experimental mice, they are not your playthings. Have some respect.

No, Felix, it isn’t, he tells himself firmly. Prospero is not crazy. Ariel exists. People other than Prospero see him and hear him. The enchantments are real. Hold on to that. Trust the play. But is the play trustworthy?

You’re in character already,” says Anne-Marie, grinning. “Playing my overprotective dad. But you know teenage girls, they desert their adored daddies the minute some young ripped stud heaves into view. Don’t blame me, blame my fucking hormones.

Idiot, he tells himself. How long will you keep yourself on this intravenous drip? Just enough illusion to keep you alive. Pull the plug, why don’t you? Give up your tinsel stickers, your paper cutouts, your colored crayons. Face the plain, unvarnished grime of real life. But real life is brilliantly colored, says another part of his brain. It’s made up of every possible hue, including those we can’t see. All nature is a fire: everything forms, everything blossoms, everything fades. We are slow clouds…

What kinds of prisons are they? Who’s been put in each of them? And who’s the jailer—who’s put them in, who’s keeping them there?” PRISONER. PRISON. JAILER, he writes. “I found at least seven prisons. Maybe you can find more.” There are actually nine, but let them outdo him.

Quite right,” says Felix. “She is. Well done! Full marks for Team Gonzalo. As my uncle used to say, it’s better to be lucky than rich.” “I’m neither,” says Bent Pencil mildly. He gets a laugh, which gratifies him. “You’re not lucky yet, maybe,” says Felix, “but you never know with auspicious stars

Is the island magic? Felix asks himself. The island is many things, but among them is something he hasn’t mentioned: the island is a theatre. Prospero is a director. He’s putting on a play, within which there’s another play. If his magic holds and his play is successful, he’ll get his heart’s desire. But if he fails…

The whole play takes place on an island,” says Felix, standing beside his whiteboard. “But what kind of island is it? Is it magic in itself? We never really know. It’s different for each one of the people who’s landed on it. Some of them fear it, some of them want to control it. Some of them just want to get away from it.

Should he cast by type or against type? Uglies in parts that call for beauty, a gorgeous hunk as Caliban? Put them into roles that will force them to explore their hidden depths, or are those depths better left unexplored? Challenge the audience by showing them well-known characters in surprising and possibly disagreeable guises?

Then he says he also wants them to pray for him. He says: ‘And my ending is despair, / Unless I be relieved by prayer, / Which pierces so that it assaults / Mercy itself, and frees all faults.’ In other words, he wants a divine pardon. The last lines of the play are ‘As you from crimes would pardoned be, / Let your indulgence set me free.’ It has a double meaning.

Better to abdicate. Give up his plans for retribution, for restoration. Kiss his former self goodbye. Go quietly into the dark. What has he ever accomplished in his life, anyway, beyond a few gaudy hours, a few short-lived triumphs of no importance in the world where most people live? Why did he ever feel he was entitled to special consideration from the universe at large?

It’s here,” says Felix, rooting through his playbook. “He says, ‘Let me not dwell / In this bare island by your spell.’ Prospero has undone his charms and is about to break his magic staff and drown his book, so he can’t perform any more magic. The spell is now controlled by the audience, he says: unless they vote the play a success by clapping and cheering, Prospero will stay imprisoned on the island.

He pauses, looks out over the room: no hostility, but no real enthusiasm either. They’re watching him. “Maybe the island really is magic,” he says. “Maybe it’s a kind of mirror: each one sees in it a reflection of his inner self. Maybe it brings out who you really are. Maybe it’s a place where you’re supposed to learn something. But what is each one of these people supposed to learn? And do they learn it?

It would be an especially difficult vocation for a girl like her: she’s so tender-hearted, so sensitive. She’s been protected from the worst in human nature: how would she cope, once brought face to face with that worst? She ought to choose a safer career path, such as medicine, or perhaps dentistry. And marry a stable and loving husband eventually, of course. She shouldn’t fritter herself away on a world of illusions—of vanishing rainbows, of bursting bubbles, of cloud-capped towers—the way he himself has done.

If it were an ordinary company in the old days he’d have been yelling at them by now, calling them shit-for-brains, ordering them to reach deep, find the character, torquing their emotions to the breaking point and telling them to use the resulting blood and pain, use it! But these are fragile egos. Some have taken anger management therapy, so yelling by him would set a bad example. For others, depression is never far. Push them too much and they’ll collapse. They’ll give up, even his key players. They’ll walk out. It’s happened before.

But that’s not what he does. Instead he gets in a twist, piles on the insults, starts with the tortures, overlooks the good points Caliban’s got, such as musical talent. But by the end, Prospero’s learning that maybe not everything is somebody else’s fault. Plus, he sees that the bad in Caliban is pretty much the same as the bad in him, Prospero. They’re both angry, both name-callers, both full of revenge: they’re joined at the hip. Caliban is like his bad other self. Like father, like son. So he owns up: ‘This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.’ That’s what he says, and that’s what he means.

Yes,” says Felix. “They think it’s a waste of time. They think you’re a waste of time. They don’t care about your education, they want you to stay ignorant. They aren’t interested in the life of the imagination, and they have failed to grasp the redemptive power of art. Worst of all: they think Shakespeare is a waste of time. They think he has nothing to teach.” “But together we can stop their cancellation plan,” says Felix. “We can set things right! What we’re doing today—we’re giving them some excellent reasons for why they need to reconsider. We’ll be showing them that theatre is a powerful educational tool. Yes?

His voice sounds fraudulent. Where is the authentic pitch, the true note? Why did he ever think he could play this impossible part? So many contradictions to Prospero! Entitled aristocrat, modest hermit? Wise old mage, revengeful old poop? Irritable and unreasonable, kindly and caring? Sadistic, forgiving? Too suspicious, too trusting? How to convey each delicate shade of meaning and intention? It can’t be done. They cheated for centuries when presenting this play. They cut speeches, they edited sentences, trying to confine Prospero within their calculated perimeters. Trying to make him one thing or the other. Trying to make him fit. Don’t quit now, he tells himself. There’s too much at stake.

Is it really that helpful, Mr. Duke, to expose these damaged men—and let us tell you how very damaged they are, one way or another, many of them in childhood through abuse and neglect, and some of them would be better off in a mental institution or an asylum for recovering drug addicts, much more suitable for them than teaching them four-hundred-year-old words—is it helpful to expose these vulnerable men to traumatic situations that can trigger anxiety and panic and flashbacks, or, worse, dangerous aggressive behavior? Situations such as political assassinations, civil wars, witchcraft, severed heads, and little boys being smothered by their evil uncle in a dungeon? Much of this is far too close to the lives they have already been leading. Really, Mr. Duke, do you want to run those risks and take those responsibilities upon you?

Or are they? Maybe her eyes aren’t wide because of innocence. Maybe it’s fear. He has a split instant of seeing Prospero through the gaze of Miranda—a petrified Miranda who’s suddenly realized that her adored father is a full-blown maniac, and paranoid into the bargain. He thinks she’s asleep when he’s talking out loud to someone who isn’t there, but she’s heard him doing it, and it scares her. He says he can command spirits, raise storms, uproot trees, open tombs, and cause the dead to walk, but what’s that in real life? It’s sheer craziness. The poor girl is trapped in the middle of the ocean with a testosterone-sodden thug who wants to rape her and an ancient dad who’s totally off his gourd. No wonder she throws herself into the arms of the first sane-looking youth who bumbles her way. Get me out of here! is what she’s really saying to Ferdinand. Isn’t it?

Despite her razor edge she's a bright light in a dim space. She breaks up the monotones.

Despite her razor edge she's a bright light in a dim space. She breaks up the monotones.