Playbill Quotes

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge out your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only silence. Indifference. But merely stand looking at the playbills, sighing because your name is not on them, and the devil himself appears at your elbow full of sympathy and suggestions. And that's why I did it....Because God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.

The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance--all strewn with crumpled playbills.

Watching him was like opening the door to a siniging telegram; you know it's supposed to be entertaining, but you can't get beyond the sad fact that this person actually thinks he bringing some joy into your life. Somewhere he had a mother who sifted through a shoe box of mimeographed playbills, pouring herself another drink and wondering when her son would come to his senses and swallow some drain cleaner.

Here on the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands. "What are you doing here?" asked my guardian. "Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook.

I've got my Motown girl-group music playing, and my supplies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I've cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrapbook has texture. It's thick and chunky and doesn't close all the way.

The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance - all strewn with crumpled playbills.

Oh, God, can't we stop now? Finally? Please let us. It's so quiet here, now.

The dry, formulaic chapters simply didn't interest me as much as the musty, antiquated albums stored in the archives of old buildings, or the digitised images of faded ephemera - playbills, census records, passenger manifest lists - I found online. I could lose myself for hours in these seemingly meaningless documents... To me, the allure of history lay in the minutiae of life long ago, the untold secrets of ordinary people.

The Bible is your Playbill tonight. It’s your behind-the-scenes guide to a Story that was written before time began, when the stage was set for the grand Production. It tells us what we need to know about the Designer, the players, and the story line unfolding, both on the stage of human history and in heaven above.

After dinner I text Chris to see if she wants to come over, but she doesn't text back. She's probably out with one of the guys she hooks up my scrapbooking. with. Which is fine. I should catch up on I was hoping to be done with Margot's scrapbook before she left for college, but as anyone who's ever scrapbooked knows, Rome wasn't built in a day. You could spend a year or more working on one scrapbook. I've got Motown girl-group music playing, and my sup plies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I've cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrap book has texture. It's thick and chunky and doesn't close all the way.

I was hoping to be done with Margot's scrapbook before she left for college, but as anyone who's ever scrapbooked knows, Rome wasn't built in a day. You could spend a year or more working on a scrapbook. I've got Motown girl-group music playing, and my supplies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I've cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrapbook has texture. It's thick and chunky and doesn't close all the way.

Outside, the blazing heat was merciless. She leaned into the brick wall of the building and closed her eyes against the sun, too distracted to realize Etienne had followed her. “Hey, cher, you okay?” Startled, she took a second to hone in on his face. “It’s there, Etienne. Answers…reasons…everything’s there. Nathan, Miss Ellena, the message--all I have to do is put the pieces together and make them fit. I just don’t know how.” She could see her frustration reflected in his eyes. Or is that his own frustration? She couldn’t be sure, and when she looked again, it was gone. “I don’t know how,” she repeated irritably. “You don’t have to know that now. You don’t have to do that now.” Etienne’s gaze was steady, his voice calm. “You have the wake tonight and the funeral tomorrow. That’s enough to handle.” “I had another vision. In the museum. When I looked at that playbill.” “So that’s why you came out here.” His features softened. He lifted one hand toward her face, then drew back again as the front door burst open. Almost guiltily, Miranda stepped away to make room for the others on the sidewalk.

Gage handed the braid back to Etienne. "Well, whoever’s hair this was must have been a redhead.” “Ellena Rose,” Miranda said. “She was a redhead.” There was a brief pause as everyone traded glances. Then Ashley scooted to the edge of the swing. “Miranda, how do you know that?” “I just…the playbill.” Parker gave a derisive snort. “Wow. It wasn’t even a photo of Ellena Rose.” Roo set down her lemonade and lit up a cigarette. “So you got her hair color from just a black-and-white sketch?” “Yes. She had red hair and different colored eyes--one green and one blue.” “Maybe she was wearing contacts,” Ashley suggested. Five stares aimed in her direction. Her smile began to fade. “She was a celebrity. Celebrities wear contacts to match their clothes.” “You know, Ash,” Roo stated, “even after all these years, your keen powers of perception continue to amaze me.

Within a week, Devon had spun a tale that cast him as the centerpiece hero, with Danny and Edmund bit players, and Nat and Melita not even mentioned on the playbill. Everyone in the county knew it was bullshit, the true story having been printed in the Courier, but Devon only had to fool himself, and he found himself to be a willing fool.

I slide the playbill into my purse. It’s risky to save it,