Theatrical Play Quotes

We are all fragments of the Source that have chosen to have an experience outside of Source and play different roles in a theatrical play of sorts. Some will play heroes and some will play villains; without all the characters, there wouldn’t be a play to enjoy. No play lasts forever, as that would cease to be entertaining and become boring. When the play is over, the curtain will fall. When the curtain rises, all of the players will be holding hands and congratulating each other on their well-played characters.

The artist’s artistic brush stroke of colour... Fractionally exists within the art canvas cover... Unaware of its existence in the art’s totality... Absolute devoid of the art’s true reality... Experiencing within the art is mere illusion… Truth of the art lies in the depth of the vision… For the visionary truth to become experience... Requires that certain conscious distance… Detaching from the perceived abode... Deviating from the miscode to decode... Maya illusionary stage manifests for the play… As the actor enacts the illusionary Leela play... Viewing the play is must from an audience eye... Where all the illusionary play theatrics lie… Observing the art as the non intruder... Is the liberating clarity for the art observer…

If you want more people to come to the theatre, don't put the prices at £50. You have to make theatre inclusive, and at the moment the prices are exclusive. Putting TV stars in plays just to get people in is wrong. You have to have the right people in the right parts. Stunt casting and being gimmicky does the theatre a great disservice. You have to lure people by getting them excited about a theatrical experience.

Surely you know that whatever the play, the curtain always falls at the end.

If vampires ever spend less time playing theatrics and living down to their stereotypes, they might actually take over the world someday

Therefore, poets do not 'fit' into society, not because a place is denied them but because they do not take their 'places' seriously. They openly see its roles as theatrical, its styles as poses, its clothing costumes, its rules conventional, its crises arranged, its conflicts performed and its metaphysics ideological.

Partake in reality as an actor in a theatrical play: with attention, dedication and an open heart. But never believe yourself to be your character, for characters spend their lives chasing their own shadows, whereas actors embody the meaning of existence.

A play that takes as its burden the meaning of self-consciousness may hint that inner freedom can be attained only when the protagonist can separate his genius for expanding consciousness from his own passion for theatricality.

An ad for cigars appears in 100,000 newspapers; sales of that brand increase by 3% for a short time thereafter. A new play receives a viciously negative review in a theatrical journal that prints 500 copies; the playwright shoots himself. Who’s the better writer?

What?” he asked, finishing the second of his nine-ounce steaks, medium rare. “Why are you looking at me that way?” [...] I sighed theatrically, resting my chin on my cupped hands and bracing my elbows on the table. “You are too gorgeous, you know?” I said it just loud enough that the people who’d been watching us surreptitiously could hear me. Unholy laughter lit his eyes—telling me he’d been noticing the looks we’d been getting. But his face was completely serious, as he purred, “So. Am I worth what you paid for me, baby?” I loved it when he played along with me. I sighed again, a sound that I drew up from my toes, a contented, happy sound. I’d get him back for that “baby.” Just see if I didn’t. “Oh, yes,” I told our audience. “I’ll tell Jesse that she was right. Go for the sexy beast, she told me. If you’re going to shell out the money, don’t settle.” He threw back his head and laughed until he had to wipe tears of hilarity off his face. “Jeez, Mercy,” he said. “The things you say.” Then he leaned across the table and kissed me. A while later he pulled back, grinned at me, and sat back in his chair. I had to catch my breath before I spoke. “Best five bucks I ever spent,” I told him fervently.

William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564 – died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon" (or simply "The Bard"). His surviving works consist of 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language, and are performed more often than those of any other playwright. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18 he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Between 1585 and 1592 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part owner of the playing company the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare's private life survive, and there has been considerable speculation about such matters as his sexuality, religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by others. Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. Next he wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest examples in the English language. In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights. Many of his plays were published in editions of varying quality and accuracy during his lifetime, and in 1623 two of his former theatrical colleagues published the First Folio, a collected edition of his dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognised as Shakespeare's. Shakespeare was a respected poet and playwright in his own day, but his reputation did not rise to its present heights until the nineteenth century. The Romantics, in particular, acclaimed Shakespeare's genius, and the Victorians hero-worshipped Shakespeare with a reverence that George Bernard Shaw called "bardolatry". In the twentieth century, his work was repeatedly adopted and rediscovered by new movements in scholarship and performance. His plays remain highly popular today and are consistently performed and reinterpreted in diverse cultural and political contexts throughout the world. Source: Wikipedia

I like poetry," said the king. "And plays. I used to put on little theatricals at the palace. If we survive this, and if I get my crown back, and if there's time, I'd like to open a theater someday." "If we survive this, you totally should," G agreed. They both tightened their grips on their swords and coughed in a manly way that meant that they weren't scared of a silly old bear.

Pandora launched into a detailed account of her conversation with the hermit crab, reporting that his name was Shelley, after the poet, whose works he admired. He was a well-traveled crustacean, having flown to distant lands while clinging to the pink leg of a herring gull who had no taste for shellfish, preferring hazelnuts and bread crumbs. One day, the herring gull, who possessed the transmigrated soul of an Elizabethan stage actor, had taken Shelley to see Hamlet at the Drury Lane theater. During the performance, they had alighted on the scenery and played the part of a castle gargoyle for the entire second act. Shelley had enjoyed the experience but had no wish to pursue a theatrical career, as the hot stage lights had nearly fricasseed him. Gabriel stopped digging and listened, transported by the wonder and whimsy of Pandora's imagination. Out of thin air, she created a fantasy world in which animals could talk and anything was possible. He was charmed out of all reason as he watched her, this sandy, disheveled, storytelling mermaid, who seemed already to belong to him and yet wanted nothing to do with him. His heart worked in strange rhythms, as if it were struggling to adjust to a brand new metronome. What was happening to him?

It didn't seem like Sergeant Doakes would give up before my conversion to a beer-bellied sofa ornament was complete, and I could see nothing else to do except play kick the can and hangman with Cody and Astor, performing outrageously theatrical good-bye kisses with Rita afterward for the benefit of my stalker.

The dogged effort to “denaturalize” gender in this text emerges, I think, from a strong desire both to counter the normative violence implied by ideal morphologies of sex and to uproot the pervasive assumptions about natural or presumptive heterosexuality that are informed by ordinary and academic discourses on sexuality. The writing of this denaturalization was not done simply out of a desire to play with language or prescribe theatrical antics in the place of “real” politics, as some critics have conjectured (as if theatre and politics are always distinct). It was done from a desire to live, to make life possible, and to rethink the possible as such.

Ever theatrical, Jackie also viewed the home as a grand set: a malleable, working stage on which to play out the daily sketches of life...

Above ground, you are comfortable with the theatrics of playing yourselves

I understood the stage in New York City didn't simply exist on Broadway, with actors playing our parts. The most dramatic, unforgettable and horrifying theatrical experiences happened within the walls of homes.

They’d performed more modern plays sometimes in the first few years, but what was startling, what no one would have anticipated, was that audiences seemed to prefer Shakespeare to their other theatrical offerings.

Interestingly, the word 'person' did not originally refer to the individual in the way we tend to use it today. Instead, 'person' came, via french, from the Latin word 'persona', which referred to the mask worn by tan actor to protray a particular character. In this theatrical sense, personality has to do with the role or character that the person plays in life's drama. The person's individuality, in this sense, is a matter of the roles or characters that he or she assumes.

People go to war and build cathedrals because they believe in God, and they believe in God because they have read poems about God, because they have seen pictures of God, and because they have been mesmerised by theatrical plays about God. Similarly, our belief in the modern mythology of capitalism is underpinned by the artistic creations of Hollywood and the pop industry. We believe that buying more stuff will make us happy, because we saw the capitalist paradise with our own eyes on television. In

In a disembodied floating space, S/m offers little pockets of theatricality and connection. So long as they are playing, two people are totally accountable and listening to each other. S/m radically preempts romantic love because it is a practice of it.

Scholars have protested that the engraver was merely incompetent. “Droeshout’s deficiencies are, alas, only too gross,” sighed Professor Samuel Schoenbaum. But it is hard to believe that a professionally commissioned artist would be so inept as to accidentally make two left arms, two right eyes, a huge head, and all of the other alleged deformities. The First Folio was an expensive undertaking, several years in the making. The anti-theatrical puritan William Prynne complained that “Shakespeare’s plays are printed in the best crown paper, far better than most bibles.

Children and adults alike need to experience how rewarding it is to work at the edge of their abilities. Resilience is the product of agency: knowing that what you do can make a difference. Many of us remember what playing team sports, singing in the school choir, or playing in the marching band meant to us, especially if we had coaches or directors who believed in us, pushed us to excel, and taught us we could be better than we thought was possible. The children we reach need this experience. Athletics, playing music, dancing, and theatrical performances all promote agency and community.

Following the popular success of The Pickwick Papers, there was a great demand for anything ‘Pickwickian’ and soon many plagiarised reproductions and theatrical adaptations were created, aiming to cash in on the publishing phenomenon. This play, written by W. T. Moncrieff, was one of the more popular adaptations of the day.

No one gets closer to words, and to the impulses behind them, than actors and directors working intensely on a play. The main difference between a translator and a director, when it comes to performed texts, is that a translator has only words at his disposal, while a director can employ the entire theatrical palette of lights, movement, sound, costumes, speech/ diction, and bodies moving through space in order to transform words on a page into a production on a stage. As I worked on Euripides’s Bacchae, I soon came to realize that I was a director and a translator—an intermediary between ancient plays and audiences—and that directing and translating were one and the same.

One of the most marvelous things I experienced was that you hold another one's hand in your hand, you feel the pulse, then it becomes slower and slower, then that's it. It's something enormous. Then you still hold that hand, then the nurse comes in, bringing with her the number for the corpse. The nurse wheels her out once more and says: "Come back later." Then you are immediately confronted with life again. You calmly get up and put things in order; in the meantime the nurse comes back and attaches the number to the corpse, you empty the bedside cabinet, the nurse says: "Don't forget the yogurt, you have to take it too." Outside you hear the crows -- it's like a theatrical play. Then the bad conscience comes. A dead person leaves you with an immense guilt.

They’d performed more modern plays sometimes in the first few years, but what was startling, what no one would have anticipated, was that audiences seemed to prefer Shakespeare to their other theatrical offerings. “People want what was best about the world,” Dieter said. He himself found it difficult to live in the present. He’d played in a punk band in college and longed for the sound of an electric guitar.

I find that there are a lot of objects and subjects within the world today. There's so much going on, that it seems like reality itself is trying hide something. Not only do we have to deal with illusions that the media, literature, states, governments, religions, and all of the plentiful theatrics of life entrances us with, but we have to deal with reality's false face. People continuously live life, go to work, play, stress, dance, eat, sleep, and step back into yesterday, not understanding that there are invisible curtains blinding the truth from the surface. Become empty, just for a moment, and ask yourself simple paradoxical questions. Do you know where you are? Do you understand where you are? Do you understand who you are? Do you understand why you are? Gain a sense of glory, by being defeated by your own question, and liberate yourself from the mask that reality has given you since adolescence. However, that is the problem. So many have worn this invisible mask for so long, that they are unable to take it off, and are bound by the illusion that reality wants them to see. Liberation is a goal that you may no longer obtain, but don't worry, for ignorance and deception are your only true friends now. They can carry you to God, but they cannot wake you up.

Okay, okay . . . where do you hear it coming from?” “Around here somewhere.” “Always in this spot?” “No. Not always. You are going to think I am even more insane, but I swear it is following me around.” “Maybe it is my new powers. The power to drive you mad.” She wriggled her fingers at him theatrically as if she were casting a curse on him. “You already drive me mad,” he teased, dragging her up against him and nibbling her neck with a playful growling. “Ah hell,” he broke off. “I really am going mad. I cannot believe you cannot hear that. It is like a metronome set to some ridiculously fast speed.” He turned and walked into the living room, looking around at every shelf. “The last person to own this place probably had a thing for music and left it running. Listen. Can you hear that?” “No,” she said thoughtfully, “but I can hear you hearing it if I concentrate on your thoughts. What in the world . . . ?” Gideon turned, then turned again, concentrating on the rapid sound, following it until it led him right up to his wife. “It is you!” he said. “No wonder it is following me around. Are you wearing a watch?” He grabbed her wrist and she rolled her eyes. “A Demon wearing a watch? Now I have heard everything.” Suddenly Gideon went very, very still, the cold wash of chills that flooded through him so strong that she shivered with the overflow of sensation. He abruptly dropped to his knees and framed her hips with his hands. “Oh, Legna,” he whispered, “I am such an idiot. It is a baby. It is our baby. I am hearing it’s heartbeat!” “What?” she asked, her shock so powerful she could barely speak. “I am with child?” “Yes. Yes, sweet, you most certainly are. A little over a month. Legna, you conceived, probably the first time we made love. My beautiful, fertile, gorgeous wife.” Gideon kissed her belly through her dress, stood up, and caught her up against him until she squeaked with the force of his hug. Legna went past shock and entered unbelievable joy. She laughed, not caring how tight he held her, feeling his joy on a thousand different levels. “I never thought I would know this feeling,” he said hoarsely. “Even when we were getting married, I never thought . . . It did not even enter my mind!” Gideon set her down on her feet, putting her at arm’s length as he scanned her thoroughly from head to toe. “I cannot understand why I did not become aware of this sooner. The chemical changes, the hormone levels alone . . .” “Never mind. We know now,” she said, throwing herself back up against him and hugging him tightly. “Come, we have to tell Noah . . . and Hannah! Oh, and Bella! And Jacob, of course. And Elijah. And we should inform Siena—” She was still rattling off names as she teleported them to the King’s castle.

If talking pictures could be said to have a father, it was Lee De Forest, a brilliant but erratic inventor of electrical devices of all types. (He had 216 patents.) In 1907, while searching for ways to boost telephone signals, De Forest invented something called the thermionic triode detector. De Forest’s patent described it as “a System for Amplifying Feeble Electric Currents” and it would play a pivotal role in the development of broadcast radio and much else involving the delivery of sound, but the real developments would come from others. De Forest, unfortunately, was forever distracted by business problems. Several companies he founded went bankrupt, twice he was swindled by his backers, and constantly he was in court fighting over money or patents. For these reasons, he didn’t follow through on his invention. Meanwhile, other hopeful inventors demonstrated various sound-and-image systems—Cinematophone, Cameraphone, Synchroscope—but in every case the only really original thing about them was their name. All produced sounds that were faint or muddy, or required impossibly perfect timing on the part of the projectionist. Getting a projector and sound system to run in perfect tandem was basically impossible. Moving pictures were filmed with hand-cranked cameras, which introduced a slight variability in speed that no sound system could adjust to. Projectionists also commonly repaired damaged film by cutting out a few frames and resplicing what remained, which clearly would throw out any recording. Even perfect film sometimes skipped or momentarily stuttered in the projector. All these things confounded synchronization. De Forest came up with the idea of imprinting the sound directly onto the film. That meant that no matter what happened with the film, sound and image would always be perfectly aligned. Failing to find backers in America, he moved to Berlin in the early 1920s and there developed a system that he called Phonofilm. De Forest made his first Phonofilm movie in 1921 and by 1923 he was back in America giving public demonstrations. He filmed Calvin Coolidge making a speech, Eddie Cantor singing, George Bernard Shaw pontificating, and DeWolf Hopper reciting “Casey at the Bat.” By any measure, these were the first talking pictures. However, no Hollywood studio would invest in them. The sound quality still wasn’t ideal, and the recording system couldn’t quite cope with multiple voices and movement of a type necessary for any meaningful dramatic presentation. One invention De Forest couldn’t make use of was his own triode detector tube, because the patents now resided with Western Electric, a subsidiary of AT&T. Western Electric had been using the triode to develop public address systems for conveying speeches to large crowds or announcements to fans at baseball stadiums and the like. But in the 1920s it occurred to some forgotten engineer at the company that the triode detector could be used to project sound in theaters as well. The upshot was that in 1925 Warner Bros. bought the system from Western Electric and dubbed it Vitaphone. By the time of The Jazz Singer, it had already featured in theatrical presentations several times. Indeed, the Roxy on its opening night in March 1927 played a Vitaphone feature of songs from Carmen sung by Giovanni Martinelli. “His voice burst from the screen with splendid synchronization with the movements of his lips,” marveled the critic Mordaunt Hall in the Times. “It rang through the great theatre as if he had himself been on the stage.

was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon" (or simply "The Bard"). His surviving works consist of 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language, and are performed more often than those of any other playwright. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18 he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Between 1585 and 1592 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part owner of the playing company the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare's private life survive, and there has been considerable speculation about such matters as his sexuality, religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by others. Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. Next he wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest examples in the English language. In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights. Many of his plays were published in editions of varying quality and accuracy during his lifetime, and in 1623 two of his former theatrical colleagues published the First Folio, a collected edition of his dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognised as Shakespeare's. Shakespeare was a respected poet and playwright in his own day, but his reputation did not rise to its present heights until the nineteenth century. The Romantics, in particular, acclaimed Shakespeare's genius, and the Victorians hero-worshipped Shakespeare with a reverence that George Bernard Shaw called "bardolatry". In the twentieth century, his work was repeatedly adopted and rediscovered by new movements in scholarship and performance. His plays remain highly popular today and are consistently performed and reinterpreted in diverse cultural and political contexts throughout the world. Source: Wikipedia

It was a terrible thought-and yet it couldn't be avoided, that most of the Jews seemed particularly destined by nature to play this shameful role... I then began to carefully investigate the names of all the fabrications of these filthy cultural products. As a result, I became even more disgusted with the Jews than I was previously. Even if my feelings might resist a thousand times, reason now had to draw its own conclusions... The fact was that 90 percent of all the filthy literature, artistic trash, and theatrical idiocy had to be charged to the account of a people who formed scarcely one percent of the nation. This fact could not be denied. It was there, and had to be admitted.

It's a dangerous game Cherrycoke's playing here. Often he thinks the sheer volume of information pouring in through his fingers will saturate, burn him out...she seems determined to overwhelm him with her history and its pain, and the edge of it, always fresh from the stone, cutting at his hopes, at all their hopes. He does respect her: he knows that very little of this is female theatricals, really. She has turned her face, more than once, to the Outer Radiance and simply seen nothing there. And so each time has taken a little more of the Zero into herself. It comes down to courage, at worst an amount of self-deluding that's vanishingly small: he has to admire it, even if he can't accept her glassy wastes, her appeals to a day not of wrath but of final indifference...

As to the tragic paintings by which Mr. Burke has outraged his own imagination, and seeks to work upon that of his readers, they are very well calculated for theatrical representation, where facts are manufactured for the sake of show, and accommodated to produce, through the weakness of sympathy, a weeping effect. But Mr. Burke should recollect that he is writing history, and not plays, and that his readers will expect truth, and not the spouting rant of high-toned exclamation. When we see a man dramatically lamenting in a publication intended to be believed that "The age of chivalry is gone! that The glory of Europe is extinguished for ever! that The unbought grace of life (if anyone knows what it is), the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone!

People of Earth know nothing about the heart. And the ones who do, address love as the need to bleed. And it is indeed so. This materialistic world of mentally-obsessed humanoids will never allow true love to show itself. The ones who possess a better understanding often walk alone, love alone, and feel alone, with their partners, groups and the world itself. Altruism is not a disease, a curse or a punishment, although it usually feels that way. Altruism is not even a price we pay for being spiritually free. Altruism, as death or birth, is just what it is. It just happens. The feelings attached to it are merely an awakening to the realization of the gap between oneself and the remaining of his prehistoric ancestors. One moves apart, into the future, in his evolution, and looks back at his brothers and sisters, trapped in the dogmas of the past, not realizing one can’t travel in time in body but only in spirit. And in this sense, none of us ever escapes the prison. Not in body. Only in mind. The mind has the key we look for outside ourselves. The heart helps the blind of spirit find it. And when humanity, as a whole, realizes this, it will ascend. But for now, unfortunately, many will have to suffer and pay with their own life, before this realization becomes common sense. Before the many books that have been written, are finally read by the masses and understood as they were intended by the creators. Before we realize that all the wars are being fought in our mind and merely being represented in the material playground like a theatrical play to which we all contribute with our own mental script, daily written and adjusted by the collective conscience and its concepts of right and wrong, true and false, justice and injustice, real and unreal.

Knowledge about the nutritious properties and growth cycles of what would later become staple crops, feeding vast populations – wheat, rice, corn – was initially maintained through ritual play farming of exactly this sort. Nor was this pattern of discovery limited to crops. Ceramics were first invented, long before the Neolithic, to make figurines, miniature models of animals and other subjects, and only later cooking and storage vessels. Mining is first attested as a way of obtaining minerals to be used as pigments, with the extraction of metals for industrial use coming only much later. Mesoamerican societies never employed wheeled transport; but we know they were familiar with spokes, wheels and axles since they made toy versions of them for children. Greek scientists famously came up with the principle of the steam engine, but only employed it to make temple doors that appeared to open of their own accord, or similar theatrical illusions. Chinese scientists, equally famously, first employed gunpowder for fireworks.

My intention, this time, was to transfer a play to the screen while keeping its theatrical character. It was in some senses a matter of walking, invisibly, around the stage and catching the different aspects and nuances in the play, the urgency and the facial expressions that escape a spectator who cannot follow them in detail from a seat in the stalls. Apart from that, I had noticed how effective a play becomes when you have a bird's-eye view from it, for example from the flies, that is to say from the viewpoint of a voyeur. The Audience is enclosed with the characters in a room lacking its fourth wall and listens to them on equal terms, without the element of my story conferred on scenes of intimacy by the whimsical shape of a keyhole.” “L'aigle à deux têtes is not History. It is a story, an invented story lived out by imaginary heroes, and I should never have dared venture into the realistic world of cinema without being able to rely on the help of Christian Bérard. He has a genius for situating whatever he touches, for giving it a depth in time and space and an appearance of truth that are literally inimitable.” (...) “A drama of this kind would be unacceptable, and almost impossible to tell, unless it was interpreted by superb actors who could instill grandeur and life into it. Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, applauded evening after evening in their parts in the play, surpass themselves on the screen and give of themselves, as I suggested above, everything that they cannot give us on the stage.” “George Auric's music and the Strauss waltzes at the krantz ball make up the liquid in this drama of love and death is immersed.” (...) “In L'aigle à deux têtes, I wanted to make a theatrical film.” (...) “I know the faults of the film, but unfortunately the expense of the medium and the constraints of time that it imposes on us, prevent us from correcting our faults, Cinematography costs too much.” (...) “In Les parents terribles (1948), what I determined to do was the opposite of what I did in L'aigle à deux têtes; to de-theatricalize a play, to film it in chronological order and to catch the characters by surprise from the indiscreet angle of the camera. In short, I wanted to watch a family through the keyhole instead of observing its life from a seat in the stalls.

I want to decorate the castle with shells and seaweed,” Seraphina said. “You’ll make it look like a girl’s castle,” Justin protested. “Your hermit crab might be a girl,” Seraphina pointed out. Justin was clearly appalled by the suggestion. “He’s not! He’s not a girl!” Seeing his little cousin’s gathering outrage, Ivo intervened quickly. “That crab is definitely male, sis.” “How do you know?” Seraphina asked. “Because . . . well, he . . .” Ivo paused, fumbling for an explanation. “Because,” Pandora intervened, lowering her voice confidentially, “as we were planning the layout of the castle, the hermit crab discreetly asked me if we would include a smoking room. I was a bit shocked, as I thought he was rather young for such a vice, but it certainly leaves no doubt as to his masculinity.” Justin stared at her raptly. “What else did he say?” he demanded. “What is his name? Does he like his castle? And the moat?” Pandora launched into a detailed account of her conversation with the hermit crab, reporting that his name was Shelley, after the poet, whose works he admired. He was a well-traveled crustacean, having flown to distant lands while clinging to the pink leg of a herring gull who had no taste for shellfish, preferring hazelnuts and bread crumbs. One day, the herring gull, who possessed the transmigrated soul of an Elizabethan stage actor, had taken Shelley to see Hamlet at the Drury Lane theater. During the performance, they had alighted on the scenery and played the part of a castle gargoyle for the entire second act. Shelley had enjoyed the experience but had no wish to pursue a theatrical career, as the hot stage lights had nearly fricasseed him.

For four hours, Andrew and I were presented with course after course of delightful creations, imaginative pairings, and, always, dramatic presentations. Little fillets of sturgeon arrived under a glass dome, after which it was lifted, applewood smoke billowed out across the table. Pretzel bread, cheese, and ale, meant to evoke a picnic in Central Park, was delivered in a picnic basket. But my favorite dish was the carrot tartare. The idea came, along with many of the menu's other courses, while researching reflecting upon New York's classic restaurants. From 21 Club to Four Seasons, once upon a time, every establishment offered a signature steak tartare. "What's our tartare?" Will and Daniel wondered. They kept playing with formulas and recipes and coming close to something special, but it never quite had the wow factor they were looking for. One day after Daniel returned from Paffenroth Gardens, a farm in the Hudson Valley with the rich muck soil that yields incredibly flavorful root vegetables, they had a moment. In his perfect Swiss accent, he said, "What if we used carrots?" Will remembers. And so carrot tartare, a sublime ode to the humble vegetable, was added to the Eleven Madison Park tasting course. "I love that moment when you clamp a meat grinder onto the table and people expect it to be meat, and it's not," Will gushes of the theatrical table side presentation. After the vibrant carrots are ground by the server, they're turned over to you along with a palette of ingredients with which to mix and play: pickled mustard seeds, quail egg yolk, pea mustard, smoked bluefish, spicy vinaigrette. It was one of the most enlightening yet simple dishes I've ever had. I didn't know exactly which combination of ingredients I mixed, adding a little of this and a little of that, but every bite I created was fresh, bright, and ringing with flavor. Carrots- who knew?

The Unknown Soldier A tale to tell in bloody rhyme, A story to last ’til the dawn of end’s time. Of a loving boy who left dear home, To bear his countries burdens; her honor to sow. –A common boy, I say, who left kith and kin, To battle der Kaiser and all that was therein. The Arsenal of Democracy was his kind, –To make the world safe–was their call and chime. Trained he thus in the far army camps, Drilled he often in the march and stamp. Laughed he did with new found friends, Lived they together for the noble end. Greyish mottled images clipp’ed and hack´ed– Black and white broke drum Ʀ…ɧ..λ..t…ʮ..m..ȿ —marching armies off to ’ttack. Images scratched, chopped, theatrical exaggerate, Confetti parades, shouts of high praise To where hell would sup and partake with all bon hope as the transport do them take Faded icons board the ship– To steel them away collaged together –joined in spirit and hip. Timeworn humanity of once what was To broker peace in eagles and doves. Mortal clay in the earth but to grapple and smite As warbirds ironed soar in heaven’s light. All called all forward to divinities’ kept date, Heroes all–all aces and fates. Paris–Used to sing and play at some cards, A common Joe everybody knew from own heart. He could have been called ‘the kid’ by the ‘old man,’ But a common private now taking orders to stand. Receiving letters from his shy sweet one, Read them over and over until they faded to none. Trained like hell with his Commander-in-Arms, –To avoid the dangers of a most bloody harm. Aye, this boy was mortal, true enough said, He could be one of thousands alive but now surely dead. How he sang and cried and ate the gruel of rations, And grumbled as soldiers do at war’s great contagions. Out–out to the battle this young did go, To become a man; the world to show. (An ocean away his mother cried so– To return her boy safe as far as the heavens go). Lay he down in trenched hole, With balls bursting overhead upon the knoll. Listened hardnfast to the “Sarge” bearing the news, —“We’re going over soon—” was all he knew. The whistle blew; up and over they went, Charging the Hun, his life to be spent (“Avoid the gas boys that’ll blister yer arse!!”). Running through wires razored and deadened trees, Fell he into a gouge to find in shelter of need (They say he bayoneted one just as he–, face to face in War’s Dance of trialed humanity). A nameless sonnuvabitch shell then did untimely RiiiiiiiP the field asunder in burrrstzʑ–and he tripped. And on the field of battle’s blood did he die, Faceless in a puddle as blurrs of ghosting men shrieked as they were fleeing by–. Perished he alone in the no man’s land, Surrounded by an army of his brother’s teeming bands . . . And a world away a mother sighed, Listened to the rain and lay down and cried. . . . Today lays the grave somber and white, Guarded decades long in both the dark and the light. Silent sentinels watch o’er and with him do walk, Speak they neither; their duty talks. Lone, stark sentries perform the unsmiling task, –Guarding this one dead–at the nation’s bequest. Cared over day and night in both rain or sun, Present changing of the guard and their duty is done (The changing of the guard ’tis poetry motioned A Nation defining itself–telling of rifles twirl-clicking under the intensest of devotions). This poem–of The Unknown, taken thus, Is rend eternal by Divinity’s Iron Trust. How he, a common soldier, gained the estate Of bearing his countries glory unto his unknown fate. Here rests in honored glory a warrior known but to God, Now rests he in peace from the conflict path he trod. He is our friend, our family, brother, our mother’s son –belongs he to us all, For he has stood in our place–heeding God’s final call.

For the last part of the trial in heaven, Yahweh Elohim allowed the litigators to engage in cross examination and rebuttal. The Accuser stood next to Enoch before the throne. Yahweh Elohim announced the beginning of the next exchange, “Accuser, you may speak.” The Accuser began with his first complaint, “On this fourth aspect of the covenant, the ‘blessings and curses,’ we find another series of immoral maneuvers by Elohim, the first of which is the injustice of his capital punishment.” The Accuser delivered his lines with theatrical exaggeration. It would have annoyed Enoch had they not been so self-incriminating. “What kind of a loving god would punish a simple act of disobedience in the Garden with death and exile? In the interest of wisdom, the primeval couple eat a piece of fruit and what reward do they receive for their mature act of decision-making? Pain in childbirth, male domination, cursed ground, miserable labor, perpetual war, and worst of all, exile and death! I ask the court, does that sound like the judicious behavior of a beneficent king or an infantile temper tantrum of a juvenile divinity who did not get his way?” The Accuser bowed with a mocking tone in his voice, “Your majestic majesticness, I turn over to the illustrative, master counselor of extensive experience, Enoch ben Jared.” The Accuser’s mockery no longer fazed Enoch. His ad-hominem attacks on a lowly servant of Yahweh Elohim was so much child’s play. It was the accuser’s impious sacrilege against the Most High that offended Enoch — and the Most High’s forbearing mercy that astounded him. He spoke with a renewed awe of the Almighty, “If I may point out to the prosecutor, the seriousness of the punishment is not determined by the magnitude of the offense, but the magnitude of the one offended. Transgression of a fellow finite temporal creature requires finite earthly consequences, transgression against the infinite eternal God requires infinite eternal consequences.

Every time we sit down to breakfast, we are likely to be benefiting from a dozen such prehistoric inventions. Who was the first person to figure out that you could make bread rise by the addition of those microorganisms we call yeasts? We have no idea, but we can be almost certain she was a woman and would most likely not be considered ‘white’ if she tried to immigrate to a European country today; and we definitely know her achievement continues to enrich the lives of billions of people. What we also know is that such discoveries were, again, based on centuries of accumulated knowledge and experimentation – recall how the basic principles of agriculture were known long before anyone applied them systematically – and that the results of such experiments were often preserved and transmitted through ritual, games and forms of play (or even more, perhaps, at the point where ritual, games and play shade into each other). ‘Gardens of Adonis’ are a fitting symbol here. Knowledge about the nutritious properties and growth cycles of what would later become staple crops, feeding vast populations – wheat, rice, corn – was initially maintained through ritual play farming of exactly this sort. Nor was this pattern of discovery limited to crops. Ceramics were first invented, long before the Neolithic, to make figurines, miniature models of animals and other subjects, and only later cooking and storage vessels. Mining is first attested as a way of obtaining minerals to be used as pigments, with the extraction of metals for industrial use coming only much later. Mesoamerican societies never employed wheeled transport; but we know they were familiar with spokes, wheels and axles since they made toy versions of them for children. Greek scientists famously came up with the principle of the steam engine, but only employed it to make temple doors that appeared to open of their own accord, or similar theatrical illusions. Chinese scientists, equally famously, first employed gunpowder for fireworks.

The AIDS obsession doubtless arises from the fact that the exceptional destiny of the sufferers gives them what others cruelly lack today: a strong, impregnable identity, a sacrificial identity -- the privilege of illness, around which, in other cultures, the entire group once gravitated, and which we have abolished almost everywhere today by the enterprise of therapeutic eradication of Evil [le Mal]. But in another way, the whole strategy of the prevention of illness merely shifts the problem [le mal] from the biological to the social body. All the anti-AIDS campaigns, playing on solidarity and fear -- `Your AIDS interests me' -- give rise to an emotional contagion as noxious as the biological. The promotional infectiousness of information is just as obscene and dangerous as that of the virus. If AIDS destroys biological immunities, then the collective theatricalization and brainwashing, the blackmailing into responsibility and mobilization, are playing their part in propagating the epidemic of information and, as a side-effect, in reinforcing the social body's immunodeficiency -- a process that is already far advanced -- and in promoting that other mental AIDS that is the Aids-athon, the Telethon and other assorted Thanatons -- expiation and atonement of the collective bad conscience, pornographic orchestration of national unity. AIDS itself ends up looking like a side-effect of this demagogic virulence. `Tu me préserves actif, je te préservatif' ['You keep me active, I condom you']: this scabrous irony, heavy with blackmail, which is also that of Benetton, as it once was of the BNP, in fact conceals a technique of manipulation and dissolution of the social body by the stimulation of the vilest emotions: self-pity and self-disgust. Politicians and advertisers have understood that the key to democratic government -- perhaps even the essence of the political? -- is to take general stupidity for granted: `Your idiocy, your resentment, interest us!' Behind which lurks an even more suspect discourse: `Your rights, your destitution, your freedom, interest us!' Democratic souls have been trained to swallow all the horrors, scandals, bluff, brainwashing and misery, and to launder these themselves. Behind the condescending interest there always lurks the voracious countenance of the vampire.

You don’t know me! You know Miss Erstwhile, but--” “Come now, ever since I witnessed your abominable performance in the theatrical, it’s been clear that you can’t act to save your life. All three weeks, that was you.” He smiled. “And I wanted to keep knowing you. Well, I didn’t at first. I wanted you to go away and leave me in peace. I’ve made a career out of avoiding any possibility of a real relationship. And then to find you in that circus…it didn’t make sense. But what ever does?” “Nothing,” said Jane with conviction. “Nothing makes sense.” “Could you tell me…am I being too forward to ask?...of course, I just bought a plane ticket on impulse, so worrying about being forward at this point is pointless…This is so insane, I am not a romantic. Ahem. My question is, what do you want?” “What do I…?” This really was insane. Maybe she should ask that old woman to change seats again. “I mean it. Besides something real. You already told me that. I like to think I’m real, after all. So, what do you really want?” She shrugged and said simply, “I want to be happy. I used to want Mr. Darcy, laugh at me if you want, or the idea of him. Someone who made me feel all the time like I felt when I watched those movies.” It was hard for her to admit it, but when she had, it felt like licking the last of the icing from the bowl. That hopeless fantasy was empty now. “Right. Well, do you think it possible--” He hesitated, his fingers played with the radio and light buttons on the arm of his seat. “Do you think someone like me could be what you want?” Jane smiled sadly. “I’m feeling all shiny and brand new. In all my life, I’ve never felt like I do now. I’m not sure yet what I want. When I was Miss Erstwhile, you were perfect, but that was back in Austenland. Or are we still in Austenland? Maybe I’ll never leave.” He nodded. “You don’t have to decide anything now. If you will allow me to be near you for a time, then we can see.” He rested his head back, and they looked at each other, their faces inches apart. He always was so good at looking at her. And it occurred to her just then that she herself was more Darcy than Erstwhile, sitting there admiring his fine eyes, feeling dangerously close to falling in love against her will. “Just be near…” she repeated. He nodded. “And if I don’t make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every day of your life, then I don’t deserve to be near you.” Jane breathed in, taking those words inside her. She thought she might like to keep them for a while. She considered never giving them up. “Okay, I lied a little bit.” He rubbed his head with even more force. “I need to admit up front that I don’t know how to have a fling. I’m not good at playing around and then saying good-bye. I’m throwing myself at your feet because I’m hoping for a shot at forever. You don’t have to say anything now, no promises required. I just thought you should know.” He forced himself to lean back again, his face turned slightly away, as if he didn’t care to see her expression just then. It was probably for the best. She was staring straight ahead with wide, panicked eyes, then a grin slowly took over her face. In her mind was running the conversation she was going to have with Molly. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I found a man as crazy intense as I was.

In Britain, it’s kind of an old-guy thing to do,” I explain as she gleefully chalks up a cue stick. “You’re kidding! We have them in all the bars where I live.” She pantomimes a big theatrical wink. “Not that I’ve been in any, of course. Here, I’ll teach you to play pool. Though ‘snooker’ is a really cool word. Snooker!” she says, and it sounds hilarious in her accent. Who’d have thought it--me and Paige. If not BFFs, we’re certainly BFTs. Best Temporary Friends. I certainly didn’t see that coming. But we’re united, at least, in refusing to withdraw into the kind of slump that both Kendra and Kelly are indulging in. It may be unfair of me, but I think it’s selfish of them. We’re all in this together, away from home, and though the group could cope with one of the four throwing a wobbly, two is unquestionably a downer. Thank goodness, Paige teaching me pool is a lot of fun, especially as she keeps showing me how guys put their arms around girls from behind to do what I call copping a feel and she calls doing a booty rub. We laugh, a lot. We laugh so much that Paige’s mobile rings four times before we hear it, and she only just answers it before it goes to voice mail. “Hey, Ev! No, I wasn’t ignoring you--Violet and I were playing pool. She calls it snooker! Isn’t that such a great word?

She is the author of The Happy Kid Handbook: How to Raise Joyful Children in a Stressful World. She offers four strategies for helping your children pursue their passions.2 Know your child’s unique interests. Avoid plugging her into the local soccer program or Chinese class because that’s what all of your neighbors are doing. Watch instead (especially when she is playing) for signs of serious interests in particular pursuits. Think outside the box. Passion is not limited to playing fields and theatrical stages. It can exist in the kitchen, in the workshop, in the woods outside your back door, or in any number of other places. Parents are understandably anxious to offer enrichment to their children, but enrichment doesn’t automatically equate with large, organized programs. Nurture optimism. “Optimistic kids are more willing to take healthy risks, become better problem-solvers and experience positive relationships,” she notes. Since failure is a fact of life and your children will certainly have their share of setbacks, help them look optimistically at what they do. Avoid judgment. When you offer a negative judgment of your child’s expressed area of interest, you run the risk of stealing much of the joy from that pursuit. Not only is your child unique and different from every other child in the world, he is also unique from you. If you stomp on his potential passions or push him toward a pursuit he doesn’t particularly like, you’re likely to cause him a great deal of internal conflict.

Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam, it was commonly known as MOBE. The key words were mobilization and end. MOBE was not going to listen to a three-point plan like Bobby Kennedy’s. Nothing less than a definitive and absolute end to the war in Vietnam was acceptable. David Dellinger was MOBE’s main coordinator. Dellinger was not one of the kids. He was Gene McCarthy’s age, fifty-two, a lifelong pacifist. During World War II, when nothing like the antiwar fervor of the 1960s could have been imagined, David Dellinger refused to serve in the military and was imprisoned. He had a history in radical pacifism like no one else in the anti-Vietnam movement. By 1967, Dave Dellinger’s time had finally come. Dellinger coordinated the October 21 march with a man of a totally different stripe, twenty-nine-year-old Jerry Rubin, whose activism was born in the Berkeley Free Speech movement of 1964. Rubin dropped out of Berkeley then and had been making trouble for establishments ever since. Rubin’s radical style seemed frivolous compared to Dellinger’s. Jerry Rubin mixed stunts, costumes, nudity, drugs, music, and jokes. Rubin concocted a theatrical potion intended

June 2: Filming of Niagara begins in Buffalo, with Marilyn playing Rose Loomis, the femme fatale murdered by her co-star, Joseph Cotten. Marilyn stays at the General Brock Hotel in Niagara Falls. Joseph Cotten arranges a cocktail party for cast and crew in his hotel room. Marilyn arrives in a terry cloth robe and drinks orange juice. When a guest observes that “Sherry Netherlands Hotel, New York” is embroidered on the robe, Marilyn replies, “Oh, that. I thought I had stolen this robe, until I paid my bill.” Cotten is amused with her and calls her a “pretty clown, beguiling and theatrically disarming.” On this occasion she is charming. On weekends Marilyn goes to New York City to be with DiMaggio.

Evie, sweetie! So glad you could make it!” Mal said, throwing her arms theatrically around the girl and giving her a giant and fake embrace. “We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven! Want to play?” “Uh, I don’t know,” said Evie, looking around the party nervously. “It’ll be a scream,” said Mal. “Come on, you want to be my friend, don’t you?” Evie stared at Mal. “You want me to be your friend?” “Sure—why not?” Mal led her to the closet door and opened it. “But doesn’t a boy go in here with me?” Evie asked as Mal shoved her inside the storage room. For someone castle-schooled, Evie sure knew her kissing games. “Did I say Seven Minutes in Heaven? No, you’re playing Seven Minutes in Hell!” Mal cackled; she couldn’t help it. This was going to be so much fun. The

Peter Brook’s production with Laurence Olivier as Titus was one of the great theatrical experiences of the 1950s

Sabism is an art and theatric movement of 21st century occupied with the philotipes, mythologic forms, schematism and chromatic scales, dual art, logism of color, cult art, conglomeration. As an art movement it tries to explore word act, group performance, collective structure, fruitfulness and aesthetics of multitude through philotipes as implicit connotation of colors or schemes in their general use (honeysuckle yellow, female, courtly, savage, dionysiaque).

A theatrical tribute to John Knox is one way of measuring his failure. John Kox was a strong advocate of the death penalty for actors, and consistent supporters of his doctrine should properly have strung up Tom Fleming, his impersonator, along with the rest of the cast of Robert Kemp's Master John Knox presented at the Gateway Theatre during October. The play and the man cannot both be justified, and an unrealistic element enters into a theatrical interpretation that is devised to do fulsome homage to a historical character without conceding that he was one of the Theatre's most savage enemies. This element of calculated inaccuracy was sustained in a piece that Christopher Small, writing in the Glasgow Herald, rightly observed presented us with the Knox of tradition, or sentiment, rather than the Knox of history. But if we are prepared to swallow the legend, Mr. Kemp succeeded in giving it theatrical life.

Enough of these discouragements Enough of these discouragements, you said. Enough gnawed skulls. Why all these red wet tickets to the pain theatricals? Why these boxfuls of ruin? Whole big-block warehouses full. Why can't you tell about flowers? But I did tell, I answer. Petal by petal, snowdrop and rose unfolding in season, I told them all— the leaf, the stem, the intricate bloom— I praised each one in its turn. I told about sunsets, as well, and silvery dawns, and noons. I told about young men playing their flutes beside pools and young girls dancing. I raised up fountains, golden pears: such gentle miracles. You didn't want them, these pastel flavours. You were bored by them. You wanted the hard news, the blows of hammers, bodies slammed through the air. You wanted weaponry, the glare of sun on metal, the cities toppled, the dust ascending, the leaden thud of judgment. You wanted fire. Despite my singed feathers and this tattered scroll I haul around, I'm not an angel. I'm only a shadow, the shadow of your desires. I'm only a granter of wishes. Now you have yours.

Point, shape, kick” begins with the meaning of the play – that honing and refining of what the author wants to say through the expression of the ten-minute play. What is the point of this and how can we maximize it in rehearsal? And because we work hands-on with our playwrights, the playwright’s own thinking is part of the revision/refining process. Shape implies that there is some action that defines the progress of the play. It may be linear, circular, a jazz motif, anything the playwright creates. Defining the shape of the play and supporting it is a strong part of our process. And the kick is something that carries the play: a theatrical value, like, surprise or humor that can carry the audience’s attention and evolves into satisfaction.

… it is necessary that she be able to sing, dance and play a musical instrument altogether when requested … she should write and draw well, be adept in the giving of tattoos, and be prepared to receive them in whatsoever place the man should desire. ‘She should know how to speak the language of flowers when decorating beds or couches, or even when decorating the ground. In the arts of staining, dyeing, colouring and painting her teeth, her clothes, her nails and her body, a woman should be beyond compare. ‘A woman should know how to play music on glasses filled to different heights with liquids of various sorts. She should be able to fix stained-glass into a floor. She should know how to make, trim and hang a picture; how to fashion a necklace, a rosary, a garland or a wreath; how to store or gather water in an aqueduct or a tank. ‘She should know about scents; and about ornaments. She should be able to act and to lay on theatrical shows; she should be quick and sure in her hands and be able to cook and make lemonade or sherbet; wear jewels and bind a man’s turban. And she should of course, know magic ….

On the surface, we come to understand that who we are is something separate from all other objects in the world. This is the first and primary of illusions we are taught to believe after having been welcomed to the human world. I do not use the word “illusion” in a negative sense, but in a necessary one. Just as the enjoyment of a film or theatrical play may depend upon the ability of the actors to woo the audience into believing the world they are portraying; the enjoyment of life may also be found in our own ability to wield the power of illusion.

I’m in agreement with you now about the not-watching part,” she said. Jane and Mr. Nobley walked back to the house in silence, the air around them thick, dragging with awkwardness. Witnessing confessions of love and first kisses can be enchanting when you’re with someone comfortable, someone you’ve already had that kiss with, and can laugh about it and feel cozy and remember your own first moment. Seeing it with Mr. Nobley was like having a naked-in-public dream. “It’s only natural to confuse truth and fantasy as they play parts in a theatrical,” said Jane. “They start to feel as their characters would.” “True. Which is one reason why I was hesitant to engage in this frivolity. I do not think pretending something can make it real.” “I find it a little alarming that we agree on something. But do you think, in their case anyway, do you think those feelings could run deeper?” Mr. Nobley stopped. He looked at her. “I wondered the same.” “I suppose it’s possible.” “It’s more than possible. They reside in compatible stations in life, they have like minds, their sentiments seem suited to each other.” “You sound like a textbook on matrimony. I’m talking about love, Mr. Nobley. Despite falling in love over a script, do you think they have a chance?” Mr. Nobley frowned and rubbed his sideburns briskly with the back of his fingers. “I…I knew Captain East in the past when he loved another woman. Her changes, her cruelty broke him. He was a shell for some time. If you had asked me last month if another woman’s attentions could make him a whole man again, I would have said that no man can recover from such a wound, that he will never be able to trust a woman again, that romantic love is not air or water and one can live without it. But now…” He breathed out. He had not looked away from her. “Now I do not know. Now I almost begin to think, yes. Yes.” “Yes,” she repeated. The moon hung in the sky just over his shoulder, peering as though listening in, breathless for what was next. “Miss Erstwhile.” “Yes?” He looked at the sky, he took several breaths as if trying to locate the right words, he briefly shut his eyes. “Miss Erstwhile, do you--” Captain East and Miss Heartwright passed by, walking close without touching. Mr. Nobley watched them, his frown deepening, then he looked back over his shoulder at nothing. What? What?! Jane wanted to yell. “Shall we go inside?” He offered his arm. She felt dumped-on-her-rear disappointment, but she took his arm and pretended she was just fine. Soon the warm safety of roof and walls cut off the luscious strangeness of night in the garden. Servants scurried, candles blazed, the preparations for the play were lively and unconcerned with a moment in the park. Without another word, Mr. Nobley left her alone, his jacket still around her shoulders. It smelled like gardens.

The night of the theatrical, Jane and Mr. Nobley secreted themselves behind the house for the final brush-up. The mood of late had let a bit of Bohemia into Regency England, the usual strict social observances bending, the rehearsals allowing the couples to slip away alone and enjoy the exhilarating intimacy of the unobserved. Mr. Nobley sat on the gravel path, leaning back on his elbow in a reluctant recline. “Oh, to die here, alone and unloved…” “That was pretty good,” Jane said. “You genuinely sounded in pain as you said it, but I think you could add a groan or two.” Mr. Nobley groaned, though perhaps not as part of the theatrical. “Perfect!” said Jane. Mr. Nobley rested his head on his knee and laughed. “I cannot believe I let you railroad me into this. I have always avoided doing a theatrical.” “Oh, you don’t seem that sorry. I mean, you certainly are sorry, just not regretful…” “Just do your part, please, Miss Erstwhile.” “Oh, yes, of course, forgive me. I can’t imagine why I’m taking so long, it’s just that there’s something so appealing about you there on the ground, at my feet--” He tackled her. He actually leaped up, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her to the ground. She screeched as she thudded down on top of him. His hands stiffened. “Whoops,” he said. “You did not just do that.” He looked around for witnesses. “You are right, I did not just do that. But if I had, I was driven to it; no jury in the world would convict me. We had better keep rehearsing, someone might come by.” “I would, but you’re still holding me.” His hands were on her waist. They were gorgeous, thick-fingered, large. She liked them there. “So they are,” he said. Then he looked at her. He breathed in. His forehead tensed as if he were trying to think of words for his thoughts, as if he were engaged in some gorgeous inner battle that was provoked by how perfectly beautiful she was. (That last part was purely Jane’s romantic speculation and can’t be taken as literal.) Nevertheless, they were on the ground, touching, frozen, staring at each other, and even the trees were holding their breath. “I--” Jane started to say, but Mr. Nobley shook his head. He apologized and helped her to her feet, then plopped back onto the ground, as his character was still in the throes of death. “Shall we resume?” “Right, okay,” she said, shaking gravel from her skirt, “we were near the end…Oh, Antonio!” She knelt carefully beside him to keep her skirt from wrinkling and patted his chest. “You are gravely wounded. And groaning so impressively! Let me hold you and you can die in my arms, because traditionally, death and unrequited love are a romantic pairing.” “Those aren’t the lines,” he said through his teeth, as though an actual audience might overhear their practice. “They’re better than. It’s hardly Shakespeare.” “Right. So, your love revives my soul, my wounds heal…etcetera, etcetera, and I stand up and we exclaim our love dramatically. I cherish you more than farms love rain, than night loves the moon, and so on…” He pulled her upright and they stood facing each other, her hands in his. Again with the held breaths, the locked gazes. Twice in a row. It was almost too much! And Jane wanted to stay in that moment with him so much, her belly ached with the desire. “Your hands are cold,” he said, looking at her fingers. She waited. They had never practiced this part and the flimsy play gave no directions, such as, Kiss the girl, you fool. She leaned in a tiny bit. He warmed her hands. “So…” she said. “I suppose we know our scene, more or less,” he said. Was he going to kiss her? No, it seemed nobody ever kissed in Regency England. So what was happening? And what did it mean to fall in love in Austenland anyway? Jane stepped back, the weird anxiety of his nearness suddenly making her heart beat so hard it hurt.

He pulled her upright and they stood facing each other, her hands in his. Again with the held breaths, the locked gazes. Twice in a row. It was almost too much! And Jane wanted to stay in that moment with him so much, her belly ached with the desire. “Your hands are cold,” he said, looking at her fingers. She waited. They had never practiced this part and the flimsy play gave no directions, such as, Kiss the girl, you fool. She leaned in a tiny bit. He warmed her hands. “So…” she said. “I suppose we know our scene, more or less,” he said. Was he going to kiss her? No, it seemed nobody ever kissed in Regency England. So what was happening? And what did it mean to fall in love in Austenland anyway? Jane stepped back, the weird anxiety of his nearness suddenly making her heart beat so hard it hurt. “We should probably return. Curtain, or bedsheet, I should say, is in two hours.” “Right. Of course,” he said, though he seemed a little sorry. The evening had pulled down over them, laying chill like morning dew on her arms, right through her clothes and into her bones. Though she was wearing her wool pelisse, she shivered as they walked back to the house. He gave her his jacket. “This theatrical hasn’t been as bad as you expected,” Jane said. “Not so bad. No worse than idle novel reading or croquet.” “You make any entertainment sound like taking cod liver oil.” “Maybe I am growing weary of this place.” He hesitated, as though he’d said too much, which made Jane wonder if the real mad had spoken. He cleared his throat. “Of the country, I mean. I will return to London soon for the season, and the renovations on my estate will be completed by summer. It will be good to be home, to feel something permanent. I tire of the guests who come and go in the country, their only goal to find some kind of amusement, their sentiments shallow. It wears on a person.” He met her eyes. “I may not return to Pembrook Park. Will you?” “No, I’m pretty sure I won’t.” Another ending. Jane’s chest tightened, and she surprised herself to identify the feeling as panic. It was already the night of the play. The ball was two days away. Her departure came in three. Not so soon! Clearly she was swimming much deeper in Austenland waters than she’d anticipated. And loving it. She was growing used to slippers and empire waists, she felt naked outside without a bonnet, during drawing room evenings her mouth felt natural exploring the kinds of words that Austen might’ve written. And when this man entered the room, she had more fun than she had in four years of college combined. It was all feeling…perfect.

A sense of humor was essential survival equipment in the palace jungle—but nothing too clever. So was an ability to enjoy food and drink. To these I secretly added an ability to enjoy plane-spotting. It turned out to be quite useful. Many of my tensest moments were experienced in royal airplanes, but surprisingly often I could deflect the Princess’s fiercest rocket with a calculated display of nerdish interest in what I could see out of the window. As it happened, I was able to indulge this lonely vice almost immediately as I caught the bus back to Heathrow. Farewells at KP were polite but perfunctory, and Richard and Anne gave no hint as to the outcome of my interview. Richard ventured the comment that I had given “a remarkable performance,” but this only added to the general air of theatrical unreality. I was pretty sure I had eaten my first and last royal Jersey royal potato. Back in Scotland, my despondency deepened as I inhaled the pungent aroma of my allocated bedroom in the Faslane transit mess. It was not fair, I moaned to myself, to expose someone as sensitive as me to lunch with the most beautiful woman in the world and then consign him to dinner with the duty engineer at the Clyde Submarine Base. And how could I ever face the future when every time the Princess appeared in the papers I would say to myself—or, far worse, to anyone in earshot—“Oh yes, I’ve met her. Had lunch with her in fact. Absolutely charming. Laughed at all my jokes . . .” Now thoroughly depressed, I was preparing for a miserable night’s sleep when I was interrupted by the wardroom night porter. He wore a belligerent expression so convincing that it was clearly the result of long practice. No doubt drawing on years of observing submarine officers at play, he clearly suspected he was being made the victim of a distinctly unamusing practical joke. In asthmatic Glaswegian he accused me of being wanted on the phone “frae Bucknum Paluss.” I rushed to the phone booth, suddenly wide-awake. The Palace operator connected me to Anne Beckwith-Smith. “There you are!” she said in her special lady-in-waiting voice. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Would you like the job?

Why would anyone’s suspicions be roused simply from an event being canceled?” Bram asked. “I think it might have had something to do with your grandmother implying you were soon to make an announcement,” Mr. Skukman said, speaking up. “What?” Lucetta and Bram asked together. Mr. Skukman’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Mrs. Hart seems determined to see you well settled, Miss Plum, and I think she may have planted that particular seed for her daughter’s benefit—so that Mrs. Haverstein will have time to adjust to the idea of you and Mr. Haverstein making a match of it.” “We have no intention of making a match of it,” Lucetta said firmly. “There’s no need to declare that quite so adamantly,” Bram mumbled. Lucetta sent him a smile. “Forgive me, Bram. You and I have agreed to become friends, and that was hardly friendly of me, was it? Still, I’ve seen Abigail maneuver events to her satisfaction before, and we cannot let our guard down—not when it’s now become clear she’s still determined to see us well settled, and well settled together.” “I believe the two of you would make a lovely couple,” Stanley said, sending a smile to Lucetta before he sent a not-so-subtle wink to Bram. Bram cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you for that, Stanley, but my grandmother’s matchmaking schemes aside, we still can’t host an event. We can’t chance Lucetta being recognized.” “Don’t worry about me,” Lucetta said with an airy wave of her hand. “I’m very good at disguise, and quite honestly, I’ve never been invited to attend a local theatrical event before, and I find the very idea of that intriguing.” Bram’s eyes narrowed on Lucetta’s face. “You can’t go to it.” “Of course I can. As I just mentioned, I’m a master at disguise. No one will have the faintest idea that a notorious New York actress is in their midst.” Bram’s eyes narrowed another fraction. “You wouldn’t happen to be considering trying out for a part, would you?” “Is that how it works?” she asked. “How marvelous. I’m now quite curious to discover whether or not I’ll be able to win a part if no one knows that I’m Lucetta Plum.” Bram slowed his steps. “Absolutely not.” Unwilling to continue the argument, especially since she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Bram Haverstein possessed a bit of a stubborn streak, Lucetta turned to Mr. Skukman and abruptly changed the subject.

Pulling his wet shirt over his head, Bram headed for the bathing chamber, pausing as he passed a mirror and getting a glimpse of his reflection—the glimpse reminding him of something he had no idea how to address. Lifting up the patch that covered his eye, he directed his attention to Stanley again. “Why didn’t anyone mention to me that I was wearing this before I charged out of the castle?” Stanley scratched his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but since your vision has to be obscured while wearing that patch, I assumed you knew you were wearing it. Quite honestly, I thought you kept it on in order to appear more intimidating. You know—a pirate look, if you will.” “I had to admit to Miss Plum that there’s nothing wrong with my eye.” “And . . . that was difficult for you, sir?” “Do you know how odd she must find me now, learning that I run about with a patch over a perfectly good eye?” “She wouldn’t find you odd if you just told her the truth.” “I can’t tell her the truth—or anyone else for that matter. Why, it would kill my mother if she found out.” “Now you’re being a little overly theatrical, sir. But speaking of theatrics, you could tell Miss Plum that you were trying to get into the role you’ll be expected to play later on this week during the theatrical event your mother is hosting here at Ravenwood.” “Mother’s

Fine. Have it your way. But getting back to the theatrical event, do you think Miss Plum would believe me if I told her I was wearing that patch in order to get comfortable with a role?” “I imagine she would, although, now that I think about it, using that as an explanation might turn problematic if the play that’s to be performed doesn’t have a pirate in it.” Stanley frowned. “But pirates aside, sir, why are you so overly concerned about what Miss Plum thinks of you?” “I never said I was overly concerned.” Stanley’s eyes widened. “She’s the lady you hold in high esteem—isn’t she!” Seeing absolutely no benefit in denying it, Bram shrugged. “I might hold her in a bit of esteem.” “Good heavens, sir, I would have never guessed Miss Plum was the lady we were only recently speaking about, and . . . how peculiar that we were just speaking about her and . . . she shows up in your moat.” “It is an odd coincidence to be sure.” Stanley suddenly looked a bit too knowing. “Your affection for the lady certainly explains much, especially your interest in the theater and . . . using that interest to delve into different aspects of your work.” “I’m sure I have no idea what you could be suggesting.” “And I’m sure you know exactly what I’m suggesting, sir. Nevertheless, since you seem unwilling to explain what prompted you to take on work you had little time to take on, we’ll save this discussion for another time.” “Must we?” Stanley sent him a sad shake of his head. “You’re burying yourself in secrets, Mr. Haverstein, and secrets have a way of rising to the surface when we least expect them to do so. You might want to consider divulging a few of those secrets, before they slip out on their own and cause you all sorts of difficulties.” With

Miss Dunlap, you see, put on quite a dramatic display after she went back to the ballroom, far more dramatic than anything that dreary production she was trying to direct could have achieved. You won’t like hearing this, but the woman actually took to the stage and told everyone the rehearsal, as well as the final production, had been canceled. Then she told everyone in the ballroom about you and Miss Plum—and that Miss Plum had been the very unattractive Miss Fremont—and that Miss Plum had obviously gone to great lengths to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, embarrassing the good folk of Tarrytown in the process by mocking their theatrical efforts.” “Oh . . . no,” Bram said. “Indeed,” Tilda agreed. “And unfortunately, it gets worse.” “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me everything all in one sitting, Tilda,” Bram said a little weakly. “Don’t be a coward, Mr. Haverstein. It’s always best to hear all the bad instead of parceling it out bit by painful bit.” Retaking his seat, he buried his face in his hands. “Very well, carry on.” “Well, you see, Miss Dunlap was clearly distraught, as well as disappointed, that you’d been discovered kissing Miss Plum. Because of that, she said some very disparaging things about Miss Plum, and before long Mr. Skukman joined her on stage.” “Oh . . . no.” “Exactly. Well, Miss Dunlap didn’t take kindly to him arguing with her, and she . . . attacked him.” Bram lifted his head. “She . . . attacked him?” Tilda nodded. “She did, but to give Mr. Skukman credit, he didn’t bat an eye as she went about the unpleasant business of pummeling him. It wasn’t harming him at all, of course, but when she started throwing things—and not just at him but at members of your staff as well—Mr. Skukman saved quite a few people from suffering injuries by picking up Miss Dunlap, tossing her over his shoulder, and carting her offstage.” “Should I ask what happened next?” “He was run out of Tarrytown by a horde of angry townswomen, and . . . to add further chaos to the evening, someone let Geoffrey out of the barn again and he chased Miss Dunlap and Miss Cooper all the way down the drive, until they were rescued by Ernie. Although . . . he was apparently in the process of creating some new gravestones for the back graveyard in case you needed some disturbing inspiration some night, and . . . there is now a rumor swirling about town that we’re up to some concerning shenanigans here at Ravenwood.” “The

Jean-Marc watched the sand-yachts, and when he saw one heading at racing-car speed for Chantal, he frowned. An old man lay in the thing like an astro­naut in a rocket. Flat on his back like that, the man can’t see anything ahead of him! Is Chantal vigilant enough to keep clear? He railed against her, against her overly offhand nature, and quickened his pace. She turned half-way around. But she cannot have seen Jean-Marc, for her demeanour was still slow, the demeanour of a woman deep in thought and walking without looking about her. He would like to shout to her to stop being so distracted, to pay attention to those idiotic vehicles running all over the beach. Suddenly he imagines her body crushed by the sand-yacht, sprawled on the sand, she is bleeding, the sand-yacht is disappearing down the beach and he sees himself dash towards her. He is so upset by the image that he really does start shouting Chantal’s name; the wind is strong, the beach enormous, and no one can hear his voice, so he can give over to that sort of sentimental theatrics and, with tears in his eyes, shout out his anguish for her; his face clenched in a grimace of weeping, for a few seconds he is living through the horror of her death. Then, himself astounded by that curious spasm of hysteria, he saw her, in the distance, still strolling nonchalantly, peaceable, calm, pretty, infinitely touch­ing, and he grinned at the comedy of bereavement he’d just played out, smiled about it without self-reproach, because Chantal’s death has been with him ever since he began to love her.

Life is a theatrical folly, a play of the great players and big dreamers set out on the biggest stage. Where improvisation dictates the mood. The contest for the lead is unabating when the cast is made up of those aiming high. Fortunately we don't all want the lead, for the dream of some is not to be the hero and face the challenges that accompany it, to maintain their prowess every day, to be ready to see off every pretender to their throne. We don't all want to be revolutionaries, we don't all want to be alone in the spotlight and have the eyes of the critical audience on us for a single minute, not feeling owed their fifteen minutes of fame. Some don't want to take to that vast stage alone and perform a monologue of Shakespearean proportions. Some recognise maybe that within leading roles, the most memorable characters, there is vulnerability and often the part is a tragic one. It is a stronger mind that recognises their part in the play of life, someone who knows that the lead part is not for them. Someone who supports the lead, wishes to journey with them and knows they will need a supporting cast. Someone who aims for contentment and lives a humble yet happy existence. The risk is for those who sets their standards too high and will never reach them. The reality is, we won't all achieve the same greatness in our lives, because our view of greatness differs between us. So on a personal level you must decide what role you wish to have, make it your own. Be the best you can by your standards, not anyone else's.

When I am touched, I am touched only as the person I am behind all the theatrical masks, but at the same time I am changed from within-and whoever touches me is touched as well. We do not touch by design. Indeed, all designs are shattered by touching. Whoever touches and whoever is touched cannot but be surprised. (The unpredictability of this phenomenon is reflected in our reference to the insane as "touched.")

Time divided into periods is theatrical time. The lapse of time between the opening and closing of an era is a scene between curtains. It is not a time lived, but a time viewed-by both players and audience. The periodization of time presupposes a viewer existing outside the boundaries of play, able to see the beginning and the end simultaneously.

Thus, the theatricality of machinery: Such movement is but a change of scenes. If effective, the machinery will see to it that we remain untouched by the elements, by other travelers, by those whose towns or lives we are traveling through. We can see without being seen, move without being touched.

The inherent hostility of machine-mediated relatedness is nowhere more evident than in the use of the most theatrical machines of all: instruments of war. All weapons are designed to affect others without affecting ourselves, to make others answerable to the technology in our control. Weapons are the equipment of finite games designed in such a way that they do not maximize the play but eliminate it. Weapons are meant not to win contests but to end them. Killers are not victors; they are unopposed competitors, players without a game, living contradictions.

A gardener, whose attention is ever on the spontaneities of nature, acquires the gift of seeing differences, looks always for the merest changes in plant growth, or in the composition of the soil, the emerging populations of insects and earthworms. So will gardeners, as parents, see changes of the smallest subtlety in their children, or as teachers see the signs of an increasing skill, and possibly wisdom, in their students. A garden, a family, a classroom-any place of human gathering whatsoever-will offer no end of variations to be observed, each an arrow pointing toward yet more changes. But these observed changes are not theatrically amusing to genuine gardeners; they dramatically open themselves to a renewed future.

Fathering and mothering are roles freely assumed but always with the design of showing them to be theatrical. It is the intention of parents in such families to make it plain to their children that they all play cultural and societal roles, that they are only roles, and that they are all truly concrete persons behind them. Therefore, children also learn that they have a family only by choosing to have it, by a collective act to be a family with each other.

Metaphysics is about the real but is abstract. Poetry is the making (poiesis) of the real and is concrete. Whenever what is made (poiema) is separated from the maker (poietes), it becomes metaphysical. As it stands there, and as the voice of the poietes is no longer listened to, the poiema is an object to be studied, not an act to be learned. One cannot learn an object, but only the poiesis, or the act of creating objects. To separate the poiema from poiesis, the created object from the creative act, is the essence of the theatrical.

Occurring before a world, theatrically, a finite game occurs within time. Because it has its boundaries, its beginning and end, within the absolute temporal limits established by a world, time for a finite player runs out; it is used up. It is a diminishing quantity.

A space planner provides spaces for playing basketball, performing laboratory experiments, manufacturing widgets, or staging theatrical productions; an architect imbues the experience of these places with poignancy, richness, fun, beauty, and irony.

Velaxis was theatrical; he liked playing a mystifying role. But he couldn’t keep that up in front of those who knew him well.

Theatre and tourism are kindred practices. Both are experiences of temporary escape to different, sometimes distant, places and times. Both immerse you in other lives or other ways of living. Both mix fantasy, pleasure, and play with the promise of authentic cultural knowledge. Whether you travel by plane or bus, or whether it is only your imagination that is transported, in both tourism and theatre, embodied presence—being there—is of the essence. Tourism and theatre are alike in other ways. They are both leisure industries, bound up with global economic and political processes, such as colonization or nation-building, and more local ones, such as rural revitalization or city planning. As the example of the Guthrie shows, they share imagery and ideologies, techniques and technologies. Since the advent of commercial leisure travel in the eighteenth century, tourism and theatre have ridden on the coattails of each other’s commercial success. It is remarkable then that scholars have rarely attempted to look at the relationship between them. But it is also telling. Contemporary critics routinely berate tourist attractions for being overly theatrical or theatrical productions for being too touristic, as if the conjunction of the two was supercharged with cultural danger. Where does our discomfort with seeing theatre in tourism and tourism in theatre come from? What if we were to take touristic theatre and theatrical tourism seriously, as aesthetically dynamic practices? As sites of public culture with social, economic, and political significance?

… Shakespeare was a working dramatist in a very competitive world; he was writing highly topical plays to catch a particular market, and if he did not pull in an audience, the theatrical company in which he had a substantial financial share did not eat that week. What he and his fellows were selling was not a printed book but a heard and seen experience. As a result, he was far more concerned with the design of a very complex system of communication, as a tool to make the audience respond as he wished, than with a merely verbal text.”3

44. “Lastly, there are idols which have crept into men's minds from the various dogmas of peculiar systems of philosophy, and also from the perverted rules of demonstration, and these we denominate idols of the theatre: for we regard all the systems of philosophy hitherto received or imagined, as so many plays brought out and performed, creating fictitious and theatrical worlds. Nor do we speak only of the present systems, or of the philosophy and sects of the ancients, since numerous other plays of a similar nature can be still composed and made to agree with each other, the causes of the most opposite errors being generally the same. Nor, [pg 044] again, do we allude merely to general systems, but also to many elements and axioms of sciences which have become inveterate by tradition, implicit credence, and neglect.”8

The sun had reached its noon zenith in the sky in the world that lay outside the dark and grimy warehouse, and coming in slantwise through the small window sent a dusty shaft that fell like a theatrical spotlight about Jennie’s head and shoulders as she lectured. “If you have committed any kind of an error and anyone scolds you – wash,” she was saying. “If you slip and fall off something and somebody laughs at you – wash. If you are getting the worst of an argument and want to break off hostilities until you have composed yourself, start washing. Remember, every cat respects another cat at her toilet. That’s our first rule of social deportment, and you must also observe it. “Whatever the situation, whatever difficulty you may be in you can’t go wrong if you wash. If you come into a room full of people you do not know, and who are confusing to you, sit right down in the midst of them and start washing. They’ll end up by quieting down and watching you. Some noise frightens you into a jump, and somebody you know saw you were frightened – begin washing immediately. “If somebody calls you and you don’t care to come and still you don’t wish to make it a direct insult – wash. If you’ve started off to go somewhere and suddenly can’t remember where it was you wanted to go, sit right down and begin brushing up a little. It will come back to you. Something hurt you? Wash it. Tired of playing with someone who has been kind enough to take time and trouble and you want to break off without hurting his or her feelings? Start washing. “Oh, there are dozens of things! Door closed and you’re burning up because no one will open it for you – have yourself a little wash and forget it. Somebody petting another cat or dog in the same room, and you are annoyed over that – be nonchalant; wash. Feel sad – wash away your blues. Been picked up by somebody you don’t particularly fancy and who didn’t smell good – wash him off immediately and pointedly where he can see you do it. Overcome by emotion – a wash will help you to get a grip on yourself again. Any time, anyhow, in any manner, for whatever purpose, wherever you are, whenever and why ever that you want to clear the air, or get a moment’s respite or think things over – WASH!

Athletics, playing music, dancing, and theatrical performances all promote agency and community. They also engage kids in novel challenges and unaccustomed roles.

You testified that your son was drafted for the NFL," Zara said, the tone of her voice changing from demanding to conversational. "Did he get his love of the sport from you?" "I played in college," the witness said. "Wide receiver. I was a lock for a top-ten draft selection until I tore a ligament and that was the end for me." "You must have caught some good ones in your time." Now her voice was all warmth and sympathy, tinged with awe. The witness's eyes grew misty. "I miss those days." Plaintiff's counsel objected on the basis of irrelevance, and the judge sustained. Zara walked back to her table and consulted her notes. Was that it? He'd been expecting some theatrics, a smoking gun, or even a witness reduced to tears. Even without any legal training, he could see her cross-examination hadn't elicited any particularly useful information, and yet she didn't seem perturbed. Zara bent down to grab something from her bag. "Hut!" She spun around and threw a foam football at the plaintiff, her shout echoing through the courtroom, freezing everyone in place. The plaintiff shot out of his seat and took two steps to the side, hands in the air. "I got it. I got it." With a jump he grabbed the football and held it up, victorious. His smile faded as he stared at the stunned crowd, clearly realizing what he'd just done. "Objection." Plaintiff's counsel glared at Zara. "What was that?" "I believe it's called a Hail Mary pass." Zara smiled at the judge. "No further questions.

I had no doubt Harleigh Rose had organized the playlist purposely because “Coming Home” was playing. “My son’s home.” Dramatic, maybe. The entrance, the song, the announcement. But Dad, H.R., and I were theatrical.

Titus Andronicus, a play that took the art of sex-crazed violence further than anyone ever dared, even Kit, and in doing so captivated the city. Titus became the most profitable play in the history of London and remained so throughout Shakespeare’s life. What’s better than a public execution? Hey, Titus promises you four executions, seven murders, buckets of gore, degradations galore, blatant racism, rampant dismemberments, incestuous cannibalism, and a rape scene unrivaled in theatric brutality in which a young woman’s husband is stabbed to death before her eyes after which she is repeatedly raped on top of his corpse after which her hands and tongue are lopped off with knives.

Theater owner Philip Henslowe, who put on early Shakespeare plays, recorded payments to twenty-seven playwrights—but never Shakespeare. Cuthbert Burbage, another theatrical entrepreneur and shareholder in the Globe, named him merely as one of several “men players,” not as the company’s playwright.

Oh, the irony of life's little theatrics! I cracked a grin while my tears lined up for their grand performance, and my tongue played hide-and-seek with all those words eager to escape my lips. It's like a comedy of manners, where my emotions put on a masquerade, teasing me with their hidden truths. But fear not, for someday, this wordless mime will take center stage, and the spotlight will shine on my untold tales!

Percy is, indeed, a bold and engaging character, and I think that in Percy we can detect something of the artistic dilemmas Peake himself was confronting at the time. Percy is a natural actor, but happens also to be painfully shy, and so adopts the persona of the wild artist – October Trellis – after faking his own suicide, in order to woo Sally Devius. To bury oneself in a false identity, albeit to attain the object of one’s dreams, is indeed a kind of suicide or death. Peake’s pursuit of theatrical success, likewise, was at the cost of the fundamental fidelity of the artist to his own imagination. Ultimately, Peake and Percy rip away “the little civilized twigs” and arrive at “the original branch/ Naked and unadorned”, succeeding in winning Sally as well as remaining true to his real identity. Sadly, financial success eluded Peake, and in The Wit to Woo, when it is considered artistically, his powerful, individual imagination is muted, and is only in evidence once we look beneath the play’s more conventional façade.

Percy is, indeed, a bold and engaging character, and I think that in Percy we can detect something of the artistic dilemmas Peake himself was confronting at the time. Percy is a natural actor, but happens also to be painfully shy, and so adopts the persona of the wild artist – October Trellis – after faking his own suicide, in order to woo Sally Devius. To bury oneself in a false identity, albeit to attain the object of one’s dreams, is indeed a kind of suicide or death. Peake’s pursuit of theatrical success, likewise, was at the cost of the fundamental fidelity of the artist to his own imagination. Ultimately, Peake and Percy rip away “the little civilized twigs” and arrive at “the original branch/ Naked and unadorned”, succeeding in winning Sally as well as remaining true to his real identity. Sadly, financial success eluded Peake, and in The Wit to Woo, when it is considered artistically, his powerful, individual imagination is muted, and is only in evidence once we look beneath the play’s more conventional façade.

The rise of the theater of the absurd, it has been argued, "seems to mirror the change in the predominant form of mental disorders which has been observed and described since World War II by an ever-increasing number of psychiatrists. " Whereas the "classical" drama of Sophocles, Shakespeare, and Ibsen turned on conflicts associated with classical neuroses, the absurdist theater of Albee, Beckett, loncsco, and Genet centers on the emptiness, isolation, loneliness, and despair experienced by the borderline personality. The affinity between the theater of the absurd and the borderline's "fear of close relationships, " "attendant feelings of helplessness, loss, and rage," "fear of destructive impulses, " and "fixation to early omnipotence" inheres not only in the content of these plays but-more to the point of the present discussion-in their form. The contemporary playwright abandons the effort to portray coherent and generally recognized truths and presents the poet's personal intuition of truth. The characteristic devaluation of language, vagueness as to time and place, sparse scenery, and lack of plot development evoke the barren world of the borderline, his lack of faith in the growth or development of object relations, his "often stated remark that words do not matter, only action is important," and above all his belief that the world consists of illusions. "Instead of the neurotic character with well-structured conflicts centering around forbidden sex, authority, or dependence and independence within a family setting, we see characters filled with uncertainty about what is real." This uncertainty now invades every form of art and crystallizes in an imagery of the absurd that reenters daily life and encourages a theatrical approach to existence, a kind of absurdist theater of the self.

Melrose Avenue, Santa Monica - Dialogue on a terrace. SHE: You are jealous ? Are you jealous ? You are fucking jealous! . . . Let me say . . . You 're twenty and I am forty-two, and I'll give my fucking ass to fucking anybody . . . Do you know that? * He gets up, crosses Melrose for no reason, comes back, kneels down in front of her (younger, but as theatrical). HE: Do you love me? Do you love me? SHE: Yes . . . Yes, I love you . . . The Italian kneads his meatballs. An Indian is playing a video game and its shrill soundtrack provides a backing to the conversation. The woman herself speaks in a shrill, hysterical voice. It is pleasant in Los Angeles in November, on the Melrose terrace, around the middle of the night. Everyone is smiling somewhere. No passion. A scene American-style. The waiter takes the car keys and drags off the woman, who shows off her black-stockinged legs and pretends to be mad. A black man gets up and, as he passes, says to me: ' Too much love! ' Gliding along the road that runs beside the coast in a black Porsche is like penetrating slowly into the inside of your own body.

Power is a feature only of finite games. It is not dramatic but theatrical. How then do infinite players contend with power? Infinite play is always dramatic; its outcome is endlessly open. There is no way of looking back to make a definitive assessment of the power or weakness of earlier play. Infinite players look forward, not to a victory in which the past will achieve a timeless meaning, but toward ongoing play in which the past will require constant reinterpretation. Infinite players do not oppose the actions of others, but initiate actions of their own in such a way that others will respond by initiating their own.

You are Nicholas Ivanek-Williams. But I’m guessing you don't use the whole name when on stage, yeah?” “That's right.” “Because you wouldn’t sound like a comedian, yeah?” “I suppose.” “Because you'd sound like an eastern European lawyer?” “What’s wrong with being eastern European?” He looked around theatrically as if playing to some invisible audience. “Nothing,” he said innocently, “I was just saying that’s what you’d sound like in the milliseconds between your name being called out by the compere and the audience making their mind up about you. Interesting that you didn’t ask what’s wrong with being a lawyer though, isn’t it? You just focused on the other part.” “I don’t like lawyers.” “Nobody likes lawyers, Nick. Even lawyers don’t like lawyers, that’s why they’re always trying to put each other off by wearing those silly wigs.

The exposé type of magazine plays infinite variations on a single, very old theme--SEX. Almost every well-known figure in the literary, theatrical, and political world, at one time or another, has been the target of a salacious blast. By innuendo and the use of unrelated facts, fictions, and photographs, the subject's character is drawn and quartered. Murder, rape, mayhem, adultery, sadism, and masochism run rampant through the pages. No corruption or debauchery is considered too extreme, so long as it meets the publications' high levels of obscenity. If a saint could come to life, he would not be immune to the slaughter.

Art's relation to form, to the image, to the monistic fantasy that provoked its defense of its own dividedness is today, as Klein predicted, intermittent and embarrassed. There are modes of art now that resemble activism or protest, pure and simple; modes of art characterized by a refusal to structure themselves around subject-object relations. The visual itself, the image, is questioned as the normative framework of art. Art is often not a product, not a precious trace, not a singularity, but rahter a dynamic, multipular interaction that creates temporary publics who are public to one another. Art does not have to add anything to the world. for technology and entrepreneurship already do that. Art is an irreality opened up inside the world. Art is the refusal of complicity in any form of domination. You are not trapped by the collectivity, but you are not entirely free either, for freedom, even the anarchic mode of the artwork, is suspected to be a mode of evasion of responsibility. Art is a quasi-event: it is not there all the time (like a book), but it is also not there only at an assigned time (like a theatrical play). This has become a comparative advantage of art over the other arts, which have more trouble intervening in reality. Much art today is coordinated with long-term eschatological or emancipatory projects, with projects as such. Art aims at such positive goals as synchrony, participation, inclusion, and sympathy, concepts hard to reconcile with the once-prized, exclusive qualities of art.

So much that it seems consistent only for porosity37—seen as a kind of productive fragility that overcomes rigid dualisms—to be the key concept by which the nature of the city is revealed and interpreted in all its profundity. Porosity is the principle of the true life of Naples: At the base of the cliff itself, where it touches the shore, caves have been hewn. As in the paintings of hermits from the Trecento, a door appears here and there in the cliffs. If it is open, one looks into large cellars that are at once sleeping places and storerooms. Steps also lead to the sea, to fishermen’s taverns that have been installed in natural grottoes. Faint light and thin music rise up from there in the evening. As porous as those stones is the architecture. Buildings and action merge in courtyards, arcades, and staircases. The space is preserved to act as a stage for new and unforeseen configurations. What is avoided is the definitive, the fully formed. No situation appears as it is, intended forever, no form asserts its “thus and not otherwise.” . . . Because nothing is finished and concluded. Porosity results not only from the indolence of the southern craftsman but above all from the passion for improvisation. For that space and opportunity must be preserved at all costs. Buildings are used as a popular stage. They are divided into innumerable theaters, animated simultaneously. All share innumerable stages, brought to life simultaneously. Balcony, forecourt, window, gateway, staircase, roof are at once stage and theater box. Even the most miserable wretch is sovereign in his dim, twofold awareness of contributing, however deprived he may be, to one of the images of the Neapolitan street that will never return and, in his poverty, the leisure of enjoying the grand panorama. What is played out on the stairs is the highest school in theatrical direction. The stairs, never entirely revealed, but closed off in the dull northern house-

John Ruskin did not go to school. Nor did Queen Victoria, nor John Stuart Mill, George Eliot or Harriet Martineau. It would be absurd to suggest that Disraeli, Dickens, Newman or Darwin, to name four very different figures, who attended various schools for short spells in their boyhood, owed very much to their schooling. Had they been born in a later generation, school would have loomed much larger in their psychological stories, if only because they would have spent so much longer there, and found themselves preparing for public examinations. It is hard not to feel that a strong ‘syllabus’, or a school ethos, might have cramped the style of all four and that in their different ways – Disraeli, comparatively rich, anarchically foppish, indiscriminately bookish; Darwin, considered a dunce, but clearly – as he excitedly learned to shoot, to fish and to bird-watch – beginning his revolutionary relationship with the natural world; Newman, imagining himself an angel; Dickens, escaping the ignominy of his circumstances through theatrical and comedic internalized role-play – they were lucky to have been born before the Age of Control. For the well-meaning educational reforms of the 1860s were the ultimate extension of those Benthamite exercises in control which had begun in the 1820s and 1830s. Having exercised their sway over the poor, the criminals, the agricultural and industrial classes, the civil service and – this was next – the military, the controllers had turned to the last free spirits left, the last potential anarchists: the children.

Persuading him to do so is no easy task. In this attempt, Menenius is joined by Volumnia, who shares his frustration that the stiff-necked Coriolanus could not dissemble just long enough to be elected. “Lesser had been/The taxings of your dispositions,” she tells her son, “if/You had not showed them how ye were disposed/Ere they lacked power to cross you” (3.2.20–23). Coriolanus’s response is “Let them hang,” to which his mother adds, “Ay, and burn too” (3.2.23–24). But cursing the people will not solve the problem. The only intelligent course of action, she says, is for Coriolanus to do what, in effect, the elite have always known how to do: to speak To th’ people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th’ matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. (3.2.52–57) Just lie. Everyone shares this view, she assures him: “Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles” (3.2.65). It is in Coriolanus’s power to solve the crisis he has provoked. The price he needs to pay is simply to behave, for once, like a politician. But for him this price is unbearably high. Everything in Coriolanus’s being—the fierce integrity and pride and spirit of command he has imbibed from his mother—rebels against playing so degrading a part. And the conflict is all the more unbearable because it is precisely his mother who now urges him to debase himself. “I prithee now, sweet son,” she tells him, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. (3.2.107–10) Volumnia understands perfectly well that her son’s sense of his manhood is at stake and that he has shaped his whole identity from the beginning by trying to please her. The scars that cover his body were never meant for theatrical display before the people; they were adornments offered only to her. But now, devastatingly enough, she tells him that he has been trying too hard: “You might have been enough the man you are/With striving less to be so” (3.2.19–20). Or, rather, he hears from his mother a demand for a different, even more painful form of masochism. She wants him, in his view, to be a beggar, a knave, a weeping schoolboy, or a whore. Worse still, she wants his “throat of war” to be turned “into a pipe/Small as an eunuch” (3.2.112–14). All right, he says, for her and her alone, he will in effect castrate himself: “Mother, I am going to the marketplace

The “play” that is the nation’s capital never closes, high drama and low comedy, villains and heroes, all the stuff of compelling theatre. And in true theatrical spirit, the show must, and hopefully will, go on.

Gothel had told her that cutting her hair would kill her. The Goodwife said that was nonsense; it would only affect her powers, if anything at all. And come to think of it, Rapunzel did lose the occasional hair when it caught on something, or when she was combing it out. The dead hairs turned a dull brown, and it used to panic her when she was little. Did it take a day off her life? A month? A year? She thoughtfully wrapped a lock of hair around her fingers. Biting her lip, she brought the shears up.... "Rapunzel? What are you doing? No!" Flynn had quietly come in (and had paused at the door, preparing to say something theatrical) but immediately dropped all playing. He ran over and grabbed her hands, holding them away from her. "What... oh," Rapunzel said, confused and taking a moment to figure out what he was doing. "You thought I was going to hurt myself. You didn't hear what the Goodwife said? Cutting my hair won't kill me." "Oh. No, I did not hear that," Flynn said, collapsing against the edge of the workbench. But he didn't let go of her right hand. "Maybe when the group learns something important like that, you could let me in on it? You know, keep me in the loop?" "Sorry," she said, a little chagrined. "I guess this looked really bad, didn't it?" "You have no idea, Rapunzel, I... I think I died a little when I saw that." He opened his mouth, trying to say something else. Was he going to go into full funny Flynn Rider mode? Or was he actually going to say something serious? Rapunzel could hardly breathe, waiting to see. And then he kissed her. It wasn't like the night before, when there was a pause and a feeling of expectation. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. With desperation, maybe as if she really had almost died. Rapunzel shivered-- and for the slightest moment panicked that it was her magic activating. But it wasn't... When he stopped, she reached up and touched his lips gently. She didn't want the moment to end. "I don't want to lose you," he whispered. "But if I have to... I'd rather it be to your happy ending than to..." "Brigands and mercenaries, or a hair-related death, I know. You do care, Flynn Rider!