LAMDA

FEMALE
ANTHOLOGY
MEDALS
EARLY
–
1799
Antigone
Antigone
Sophocles
441 BC

To my grave them. My honeymoon bed.

My prison. My crypt, under the mountain.
My home for the rest of time. I shall meet
So many of my relations there:
We shall all be guests of the sad faced queen
Of the shadows, Persephone, in that bleak hotel
That is never short of a room. I am the last,
The unhappiest, I think, and the youngest,
Booking in too soon. But my father will be there,
To meet me at the door: my mother will smile,
And hug me close, as she always did:
And my brother. He will be glad to see me,
More than all the rest. At each fresh grave
My hands sprinkled the earth, at each
I poured the purifying water,
And made offering. And for my beloved Polynices,
Whose broken body I set to rest,
I am rewarded with a shameful death.
There are some, I know, more thoughtful people,
Who respect my action. They must justify me.
Not for a husband, you understand,
Not even for a son would I have done this.
If the law had forbidden it, I would have bowed
My head, and let them rot. Does that
Make sense? I could have married again,
Another husband, and had more children
By him, if the first had died. Do you see?
Do you understand me? But my mother and father
Are dead. There will be no more brothers,
Never again. My love had to speak
At Polynices’ grave, or nowhere.
And for that terrible crime, my dearest brother,
Creon Sentences me to death,
Drags me here, and will shut me away
In a cavern under the mountain, a living death,
In silence and darkness and solitude.
I shall die unmarried, all those pleasures
Denied me, and motherhood denied
Too, no children to love me, to love:
And now, no friends. What moral law
Have I broken? What eternal truths
Have I denied? Yet now, even a god
Can help me, and there’s no man who will,
I’m sure of that. No help, and no hope.
How can there be, when common decency
Has become a crime? If the gods in heaven
Have changed their minds and, this is the way
They order things now, I shall soon know it:
And I shall have learned my lesson the hard way.
But if some others are mistaken,
Let them be punished as I have been punished,
And suffer the injustice that I suffer!
Helena
Act 3 Scene III ii
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Lo, she is one of this confederacy! friend?

Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three It is not friendly, tis not maidenly:
To fashion this false sport, in spite of me. Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid! Though I alone do feel the injury
Have you conspired, have you with these
Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
contrived
To follow me and praise my eyes and face?
To bait me with this foul derision?
And made your other love, Demetrius
Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
(Who even but now did spurn me with his
The sisters’s vows, the hours that we have
foot),
spent,
To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he
For parting us,--O, is it all forgot?
this
All school-day's friendship, childhood
To her he hates? And wherefore doth
innocence?
Lysander
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Deny your love (so rich within his soul)
Have with our needles created both one
And tender me (forsooth) affection,
flower,
But by your setting on, by your consent?
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
What though I be not so in grace as you,
So hung upon with love, so fortunate
Both warbling of one song, both in one key,
(But miserable most, to love unlov’d)?
As if our hands, our sides, voices and
This you should pity rather than despise.
minds,
Ay, do! persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Had been incorporate. So we grow together,
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
Wink each at other, hold the sweet jest up;
But yet a union in partition;
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
If you have any pity, grace, or manners,
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
You would not make me such an argument.
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
But fare ye well; ’tis partly my own fault,
Due but to one and crowned with one crest.
Which death, or absence, soon shall
And will you rent our ancient love asunder,
remedy.
To join with men in scorning your poor
The Comedy of Errors
William Shakespeare
Adriana
1595

ADRIANA: Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown.

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;
I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.
The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow
That never words were music to thine ear,
That never object pleasing in thine eye,
That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
That never meat sweet-savored in thy taste,
Unless I spake, or looked, or touched, or carved to thee.
How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
That thou art then estrangèd from thyself?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
That, undividable, incorporate,
Am better than thy dear self's better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
And take unmingled thence that drop again
Without addition of diminishing,
As take from me thyself and not me too.
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious,
And that this body, consecrate to thee,
By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me,
And hurl the name of husband in my face,
And tear the stained skin off my harlot-brow,
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?
I know thou canst, and therefore see thou do it.
I am possessed with an adulterate blot;
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust.
For if we two be one, and thou play false,
I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;
I live disdained, thou undishonorèd.
Romeo and Juliet
William Shakespeare
Juliet
1597

Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name
When I, thy three hours wife, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have killed my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.
All this is comfort. Wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
That murdered me. I would forget it in fain.
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners’ minds!
‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banishèd’.
That ‘banishèd-that one word ‘banishèd’,
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there;
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship
And needly will be ranked with other grief’s,
Why followed not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead’,
Thy father, or they mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have moved?
But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,
‘Romeo is banishèd’-to speak that word
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead. ‘Romeo is banishèd’-
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death. No words can that woe sound.
Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?
As You Like It
William Shakespeare
Rosalind
1599

I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who
was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have
heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touched with
so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving -Rosalind- on their
barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of
Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems
to have the quotidian of love upon him.
he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not
prisoner
 A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an
unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not: but I pardon
you for that, for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. Then, your hose
should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and
everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man: you are
rather point-device in your accoutrements; as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any
other.
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so
admired? Are you so much in love as your rimes speak?
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as
madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so
ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking;
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion
something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle
of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living
humour of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook
merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as
clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.
 I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo
me.
Go with me to it and I'll show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you
live.
Macbeth
William Shakespeare
Lady Macbeth
1623

[reads] ‘they met me in the day of success, and I have

Learned by the perfectest report they have more in them
Than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to
Question them further, they made themselves air, into
Which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder
Of it, came missives from the king who all-hailed me
Thane of Cawdor, by which title before these weird
sisters saluted me and referred me to the coming on of
time, with “Hail, king that shalt be.” This I have thought
Good to deliver thee, My dearest partner of greatness,
that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing by being
ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to
thy heart and farewell.’
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promis’d; yet I do fear thy nature,
It is too full o’th’milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great
Glamis,
That which cries, ‘thus thou must do’ if thou have It;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than Wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pore my spirits into thine ear
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown’d withal.
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here
And fill me from the crown to the toe topfull
Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood,
Stop up th’access and passage to remorse
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between
Th’effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts
And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry, ‘Hold, hold.’
Henry VIII (Act II Scene IV)
William Shakespeare
Katherine
1623

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice,

And to bestow your pity on me; for
I am a most poor woman and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions: having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,
In what have I offended you? What cause
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure
That thus you should proceed to put me off
And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,
I have been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable,
Even in fear to kindle your dislike,
Yea, subject to your countenance--glad or sorry
As I saw it inclined. When was the hour
I ever contradicted your desire
Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends
Have I not strove to love, although I knew
He were mine enemy? What friend of mine
That had to him derived your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind
That I have been your wife in this obedience
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
With many children by you. If in the course
And process of this time you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty
Against your sacred person, in God's name
Turn me away, and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir,
The king your father was reputed for
A prince most prudent, of an excellent
And unmatched wit and judgment. Ferdinand,
My father, King of Spain, was reckoned one
The wisest prince that there had reigned by many
A year before. It is not to be questioned
That they had gathered a wise council to them
Of every realm, that did debate this business,
Who deemed our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly
Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may
Be by my friends in Spain advised, whose counsel
I will implore. If not, i' th' name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfilled!
The Rover
Aphra Behn
Angellica Bianca
Act five – Scene One.
1677

Behold, this face so lost to thy remembrance and then call thy sins about thy soul and let them
die with thee. Yes, traitor, does not thy guilty blood run shivering through thy veins? Hast thou
no horror at this sight that tells thee thou hast not long to boast thy shameful conquest? Tell me,
how many poor believing fools thou hast undone? How many hearts thou hast betrayed to ruin?
And yet, these are little mischiefs to the ills thou hast taught mine to commit. Thou hast taught it
love! Love, that has robbed it of it’s unconcern, of all that pride that taught me how to value it.
And in it’s room, a mean, submissive passion was conveyed that made me humbly bow, which I
never did to anything but heaven. Thou, perjured man, didn’t this!

And with thy oaths which on thy knees thou didn’t devoutly make, softened my yielding heart.
And then, I was a slave. Yet, still had been content to‘ W worn my chains, worn ‘em with vanity
and joy forever. Hadst thou not broke those that put them on. ‘Twas then, I was undone. Had I
remained in innocent security , I should have thought all men were born my slaves and worn my
power like lightening in my eyes to have to have destroyed at pleasure when offended. But,
when love held the mirror the undeceiving glass, reflected all the weakness of my soul and
made me know, my richest treasure being lost, my honour! All the remaining spoil could not be
worth the conquerors care or value. Oh, how I fell like a long worshipped idol discovering all the
cheat! Would not the incense and rich sacrifice which blind devotion offered at my altars have
fallen to thee? Why wouldst thou then destroy my fancied powers?
Antigone
Sophocles
441 BC
Antigone

Ismene, listen. The same blood flows through both our veins, doesn’t it my sister? The
blood of Oedipus and suffering which was his destiny is our punishment. The sentence
passed onto all his children. Physical pain, contempt and insults. Every kind of dishonour,
we’ve seen it all and endured it all, the two of us. But there’s more to come, now today,
have you heard this new proclamation that the king has made to the whole city? Have
you heard how nearest to us are to be treated with the contempt we reserve for traitors.
People we love. We have two brothers, both of them dead. And Creon has decreed that a
decent burial shall be given to one, but not to the other. Eteocles, apparently, has already
been buried, with full military honours, and all the formalities due to the dead
meticulously observed. So that his rest in the underworld among the hero’s is assured.
But Polynecies, who died in agony just as certainly as his brother did, is not to be buried
at all. The decree makes that quite plain. He is to be left lying where he fell, with no tears,
and no ceremonies of mourning, to stink in the open: till the kites and vultures catch the
scent, and tear him to pieces and pick him to the bone. Left unburied there is no rest for
him in the underworld, no more than here. What a great King our Creon is eh sister? It’s
against us, you realise, and against me in particular that he has published this decree.
And he’ll soon be here himself, to make it public to the senators, and anyone who may
not have heard it. He isn’t bluffing. He means to act to make it stick. The punishment for
anyone who disobeys the order is public stoning to death. So that’s the news, and you
know it now. The time has come for you too to stand up and be counted with me: and to
show whether you are worthy of the honour of being Oedipus’ daughter. Just say you will
help me. Commit yourself, Just to give me a hand to lift the body. It’s too heavy for me to
move on my own. He is my brother and like it or not he’s yours too. I won’t betray him
now that he is dead. No one will ever throw that in my face. Creon can’t forbid me to
love my brother. He has neither the right nor the power to do that.
The Changeling
Thomas Middleton and William Rowley
Beatrice
1652
This fellow has undone me endlessly;
Never was bride so fearfully distress'd.
The more I think upon th' ensuing night,
And whom I am to cope with in embraces--
One [who's] ennobled both in blood and
mind,
So clear in understanding, that's my plague
now,
Before whose judgment will my fault appear
Like malefactors' crimes before tribunals,
There is no hiding on't--the more I dive
Into my own distress. How a wise man
Stands for a great calamity! There's no
venturing
Into his bed, what course soe'er I light upon,
Without my shame, which may grow up to
danger.
He cannot but in justice strangle me
As I lie by him, as a cheater use me;
'Tis a precious craft to play with a false die
Before a cunning gamester. Here's his
closet,
The key left in't, and he abroad i' th' park.
Sure 'twas forgot; I'll be so bold as look in't.
Bless me! A right physician's closet 'tis,
Set round with vials, every one her mark
too.
Sure he does practice physic for his own
use,
Which may be safely call'd your great man's
wisdom.
What manuscript lies here? The Book of
Experiment,
Call'd Secrets in Nature: so 'tis, 'tis so.
[Reading] "How to know whether a woman
be with child or no."
I hope I am not yet; if he should try, though--
Let me see, folio forty-five. Here 'tis,
The leaf tuck'd down upon't, the place
suspicious.
[Reading] "If you would know whether a
woman be with child or not, give her two
spoonfuls of the white water in glass C."
Where's that glass C? Oh, yonder I see't
now.
[Reading] "And if she be with child, she
sleeps full twelve hours after; if not, not."
None of that water comes into my belly.
I'll know you from a hundred; I could break
you now
Or turn you into milk, and so beguile
The master of the mystery, but I'll look to
you.
Ha! That which is next, is ten times worse.
[Reading] "How to know whether a woman
be a maid or not."
If that should be apply'd, what would
become of me?
Belike he has a strong faith of my purity,
That never yet made proof; but this he calls
[Reading] "A merry slight but true
experiment,
The author, Antonius Mizaldus.
Give the party you suspect the quantity of a
spoonful of the water in the glass M, which
upon her that is a maid makes three several
effects: 'twill make her incontinently gape,
then fall into a sudden sneezing, last into a
violent laughing; else dull, heavy, and
lumpish."
Where had I been?
I fear it, yet 'tis seven hours to bedtime.
1800
–
1979
Lady Windermere's Fan
Oscar Wilde
Duchess of Berwick
1892

Ah, what indeed, dear? That is the point. He goes to see her continually, and stops for hours at
a time, and while he is there she is not at home to any one. Not that many ladies call on her,
dear, but she has a great many disreputable men friends--my own brother particularly, as I told
you--and that is what makes it so dreadful about Windermere. We looked upon him as being
such a model husband, but I am afraid there is no doubt about it. My dear nieces--you know the
Saville girls, don't you?--such nice domestic creatures--plain, dreadfully plain,--but so good--
well, they're always at the window doing fancy work, and making ugly things for the poor, which
I think so useful of them in these dreadful socialistic days, and this terrible woman has taken a
house in Curzon Street, right opposite them--such a respectable street, too! I don't know what
we're coming to! And they tell me that Windermere goes there four and five times a week--they
see him. They can't help it--and although they never talk scandal, they--well, of course--they
remark on it to every one. And the worst of it all is that I have been told that this woman has got
a great deal of money out of somebody, for it seems that she came to London six months ago
without anything at all to speak of, and now she has this charming house in Mayfair, drives her
ponies in the Park every afternoon and all--well, all--since she has known poor dear
Windermere. It's quite true, my dear. The whole of London knows about it. That is why I felt it
was better to come and talk to you, and advise you to take Windermere away at once to
Homburg or to Aix, where he'll have something to amuse him, and where you can watch him all
day long. I assure you, my dear, that on several occasions after I was first married, I had to
pretend to be very ill, and was obliged to drink the most unpleasant mineral waters, merely to
get Berwick out of town. He was so extremely susceptible. Though I am bound to say he never
gave away any large sums of money to anybody. He is far too high-principled for that!
An Ideal Husband
Oscar Wilde
Mabel Chiltern
1895

Gertrude, I wish you to speak to Tommy Trafford …

Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He
proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an
elaborate trio going on. I didn’t dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I
had it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable.
They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be
absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful
statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling.
The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to
propose again, and I just managed to check him in time and assure him that I was a bimetallist.
Fortunately I don’t know what bimetallism means. And I don’t believe anybody else does
either .But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then
Tommy is so annoying in the way that he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I
should not mind so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does it in a
horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I
am very fond of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date.

I wish you Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often
enough to propose to anyone, and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some
attention.

I must go around now and rehearse at Lady Basildon’s. We are having tableaux, you do
remember don’t you? The Triumph of something, I don’t know what! I hope it will be triumph of
me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present.
Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs Cheveley, in a most
lovely gown. Did you ask her?...
I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural.
A Woman of No Importance
Oscar Wilde
Mrs Allonby
1893

The Ideal Man! Oh, the Ideal Man should talk to us as if we were goddesses, and treat us as if
we were children. He should refuse all our serious requests, and gratify every one of our whims.
He should encourage us to have caprices, and forbid us to have missions. He should always
say much more than he means, and always mean much more than he says. He should never
run down other pretty women. That would show he had no taste, or make one suspect that he
had too much. No; he should be nice about them all, but say that somehow they don't attract
him. If we ask him a question about anything, he should give us an answer all about ourselves.
He should invariably praise us for whatever qualities he knows we haven't got. But he should be
pitiless, quite pitiless, in reproaching us for the virtues that we have never dreamed of
possessing. He should never believe that we know the use of useful things. That would be
unforgivable. But he should shower on us everything we don't want. He should persistently
compromise us in public, and treat us with absolute respect when we are alone. And yet he
should be always ready to have a perfectly terrible scene, whenever we want one, and to
become miserable, absolutely miserable, at a moment's notice, and to overwhelm us with just
reproaches in less than twenty minutes, and to be positively violent at the end of half an hour,
and to leave us for ever at a quarter to eight, when we have to go and dress for dinner. And
when, after that, one has seen him for really the last time, and he has refused to take back the
little things he has given one, and promised never to communicate with one again, or to write
one any foolish letters, he should be perfectly broken-hearted, and telegraph to one all day long,
and send one little notes every half-hour by a private hansom, and dine quite alone at the club,
so that everyone should know how unhappy he was. And after a whole dreadful week, during
which one has gone about everywhere with one's husband, just to show how absolutely lonely
one was, he may be given a third last parting, in the evening, and then, if his conduct has been
quite irreproachable, and one has behaved really badly to him, he should be allowed to admit
that he has been entirely in the wrong, and when he has admitted that, it becomes a woman's
duty to forgive, and one can do it all over again from the beginning, with variations.
The Cherry Orchard
Anton Chekhov
Madame Ranevsky
1903

[Deeply agitated] Why doesn't Leoníd come? Oh, if only I knew whether the property's sold or
not! It seems such an impossible disaster, that I don't know what to think... I'm bewildered . . . I
shall burst out screaming, I shall do something idiotic. Save me, Peter; say something to me,
say something. You can see what's truth and untruth, but I seem to have lost the power of
vision; I see nothing. You settle every important question so boldly; but tell me, Peter, isn't that
because you're young, because you have never solved any question of your own as yet by
suffering? You look boldly ahead; isn't it only that you don't see or divine anything terrible in the
future; because life is still hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, honester, deeper than
we are, but reflect, show me just a finger's breadth of consideration, take pity on me. Don't you
see? I was born here, my father and mother lived here, and my grandfather; I loved this house;
without the cherry orchard my life has no meaning for me, and if it must be sold, then for
heaven's sake sell me too! My little boy was drowned here. Be gentle with me, dear, kind Peter.
I am so wretched today, you can't imagine! All this noise jars on me, my heart jumps at every
sound. I tremble all over; but I can't shut myself up; I am afraid of the silence when I'm alone.
Don't be hard on me, Peter; I love you like a son. I would gladly let Anya marry you, I swear it;
but you must work, Peter; you must get your degree. You do nothing; Fate tosses you about
from place to place; and that's not right. It's true what I say, isn't it? And you must do something
to your beard to make it grow better. I can't help laughing at you. [Showing him a telegraph] It's
a telegram from Paris. I get them every day. One came yesterday, another today. That savage
is ill again; he's in a bad way. . . . He asks me to forgive him, he begs me to come; and I really
ought to go to Paris and be with him. You look at me sternly; but what am I to do, Peter? What
am I to do? He's ill, he's lonely, he's unhappy. Who is to look after him? Who is to keep him
from doing stupid things? Who is to give him his medicine when it's time? After all, why should I
be ashamed to say it? I love him, that's plain. I love him, I love him. . . . My love is like a stone
tied round my neck; it's dragging me down to the bottom; but I love my stone. I can't live without
it. Don't think ill of me, Peter; don't say anything! Don't say anything!
Blithe Spirit
Noel Coward
1941
Madame Arcati

My dear Mrs Condomine- I came directly I got your message. So very excited. At last- at last- a
genuine materialisation. You say she is visible only to your husband? Audible too- I presume?
Your husband was devoted to her?
She’d never have been able to materialise unless there was a strong influence at work. Would
you say that she was a woman of strong character?
I fully sympathise with you, Mrs Condomine, and I assure you I will do anything in my power to
help- but at the moment I fear I cannot offer any great hopes.
The old Bell and Book method is Poppycock, Mrs Condomine. It was quite effective in the old
days of genuine religious belief but that’s all changed now. I believe the decline of faith in the
Spirit World has been causing grave concern.
There was a time of course when a drop of holy water could send even a poltergeist
scampering for cover, but not anymore. I’m afraid the time has come for me to admit to you
frankly, Mrs Condomine that I haven’t the faintest idea how to set about it and honesty is the
best policy.
Amateur meddling? I have been a professional since I was a child “Amateur” is a word I cannot
tolerate…
I was in a trance. Anything might happen when I am in a trance..
I can’t go into trances at a moment’s notice- it takes hours of preparation in addition to which I
have to be extremely careful of my diet for days beforehand. Please try not to upset yourself.
Try to look on the bright side.
I resent your tone, Mrs Condomine, I really do!
Kindly remember that I came here the other night on your own invitation.
I did what I was requested to do, which was to give a séance and establish contact with the
other side- I had no idea that there was any ulterior motive mixed up with it. Your husband was
obviously eager to get in touch with his former wife. If I had been aware of that at the time I
should naturally have consulted you beforehand.
No intention of trying to get in touch with anyone? Am I to understand that I was only invited in a
spirit of mockery?
Tricks of the trade? Insufferable! I’ve never been so insulted in my life. I feel we have nothing
more to say to one another. Mrs Condomine- good bye.
Your attitude from the outset has been most unpleasant, Mrs Condomine. Some of your
remarks have been discourteous in the extreme and I should like to say, without umbrage, that
if you and your husband were foolish enough to tamper with the unseen for paltry motives and
in a spirit of ribaldry, whatever has happened to you is your own fault and, to coin a phrase, as
far as I’m concerned you can stew in your own juice!
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Tennessee Williams
Maggie
1955

Why are you looking at me like that? The way you were looking at me just now before I caught
your eye in the mirror. And you started to whistle, I don’t know how to describe it but it froze my
blood, I’ve caught you looking at me like that so much lately what are you thinking of when you
look at me like that. That I’ve gone through this hideous transformation, become hard, frantic,
cruel. Is that what you’ve been observing in me lately, how could you help but observe it. That’s
alright. I’m not thin skinned anymore, can’t afford to be thin skinned anymore yanno living with
someone you love can be lonelier than living entirely alone when you know the one you love
doesn’t love you.
You kept in good shape though, I always thought drinking men lost their looks but I was plainly
mistaken. You are the only drinking man I know that never seems to put any fat on.
Well, sooner or later it’s going to soften you up, it was just beginning to soften up skipper when,
I’m sorry, I never could keep my fingers off a sore. I wish you would lose you looks.
If you did it would make the martidum of St Maggie that bit more bearable but no such god
damn luck. I actually think you’ve gotten better looking since you’ve been on the bottle.
Yeah, any person who didn’t know you would think you’ve never had a tense nerve in your body
or a strained muscle. Of course you always did has this, rare sort of charm about you. Although
you were playing a game without much concern if you were to win or lose and now that you’ve
lost the game well, not lost just, given up playing. You have this charm about you that only ever
appears in very old or hopelessly sick people. The charm of the defeated. You look so cool. So
cool, so enviably cool.
And you were a wonderful lover, such a wonderful person to go to bed with and I think that’s
because you were so indifferent to it, isn’t the right? Never had any anxiety about it did it
naturally, easily, slowly with absolute confidence and perfect calm. Or like opening a door for a
lady, or showing her to a table or longing for her. Your indifference made you wonderful at love
making strange but true.
Do you know if I thought you would never, never, never make love to me again I would go
downstairs to the kitchen, pick out the longest and sharpest knife and shuff it straight into my
heart I swear I would. But then the one thing I don’t have is the charm of the defeated. My hat is
still in the ring and I am determined to win. What is the victory of the cat on the hot tin roof, I
wish I knew. Just staying on it I suppose. As long as she can. Later on tonight
I am going to say that I love you and maybe by that stage you’ll be drunk enough to believe me.
Absent Friends
Alan Ayckbourn
Diana
1974

DIANA: Him and his squash. It used to be tennis- now he’s squash mad. Squash, squash,
squash. Can’t see what he sees in it. All afternoon hitting a ball against a wall. It’s so noisy.
Bang, bang, bang. He’s not even out of doors. No fresh air at all. It can’t be good for him. Does
John play squash?
Oh, well. He probably doesn’t need it. Exercise. Some men don’t. My father never did a stroke
of exercise. Till he died. He seemed fit enough. He managed to do what he wanted to do. Mind
you, he never did very much. He just used to sit and shout at we girls. Most of the time. He got
calmer though when he got older. After my mother left him.
Did you knit this little jacket for him?
Pretty. No, there are times when I think that’s the principal trouble between Paul and me. I
mean, I know I’m running myself down but Paul basically, he’s got much more go- well, I mean
let’s face it, he’s much cleverer than me. Let’s face it. Basically. I mean, I was the bright one in
our family but I can’t keep up with Paul sometimes. When he has one of his moods, I think to
myself, now if I was really clever, I could probably talk him round or something but I mean the
thing is, really and truly, and I know I’m running myself down when I say this, I don’t think I’m
really enough for him. He needs me, I can tell that; he doesn’t say as much but I know he does.
It’s just, as I say, I don’t think I’m really enough for him.
But he couldn’t do without me. Make no mistake about that. He’s got this amazing energy. I
don’t know where he finds it. He goes to bed long after me, he’s up at dawn, working down
here- then off he goes all day… I need my eight hours, it’s no good. What I’m saying is really, I
wouldn’t blame him. Not altogether. If he did. With someone else. You know, another woman. I
wouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t blame her. Not as long as I was told. Providing I know, that I’m
told- all right. Providing I feel able to say to people- ‘Yes, I am well aware that my husband is
having an affair with such and such or whoever… it’s quite alright. I know all about it. We’re both
grown-up people, we know what we’re doing, he knows I know, she knows I know. So mind
your own business.’ I’d feel alright about it. But I will not stand by deception. I’m simply asking
that I be told. Either by him or if not by her. Not necessarily now but sometime. You see.
I know he is, you see. He’s not very clever and he’s a very bad liar like most men. If he takes
the trouble, like last Saturday, to tell me he’s just going down the road to the football match, he
might at least choose a day when they’re playing at home.
I hope I’ve made enough tomato.
No, I must be told. Otherwise it makes my life impossible. I can’t talk to anybody without them…
I expect them, both of them, at least to have some feeling for me.
East
Steven Berkoff
Sylv
1975

I for once would like to be a fella, unwholesome both in deed and word and lounge around one
leg cocked up and car keys tinkling on my pinky. Give a kick at talent strolling and impale them
with an impertinent and fixed stare … hand in Levi-Strauss and teeth grinding, and that super
unworrisome flesh that toys between your thighs, that we must genuflect and kneel to, that we
are beaten across the skull with. Wish I could cruise around and pull those tarts and slags
whose hearts would break as he swiftly chews us up and spits us out again… the almighty boot!
Nay, not fair that those pricks get all the fun – with their big raucous voices and one dozen
weekly fucks … cave mouths, shout, burp and Guinness soaked … If I dare do that …‘What an
old scrubber-slag-head’ utter their fast and vicious lips … so I’d like to be a fella. Strolling down
the front with the lads and making minute and limited wars with knife-worn splatter and invective
splurge. And not have the emblem of his scummy lust to Persil out with hectic scrub.
I am snarled beneath his bristly glass-edged jaw, beneath a moving sack of leer and hard and
be a waste-bin for his excessives and embellishments and No … no …not tonight my friend, a
dangerous time is here in case your tadpoles start a forest fire in my oven or just a bun … you
won’t will you? …you will be careful! … you won’t … not inside. Not tonight
… (‘Doth thou not love me then’) he quests Oh Micky! Micky! Wait until tomorrow.

(‘Tomorrow I may be dead,’) he chants in dirge of minor key…

So wrench open deflower unpeel, unzip … pull off … tear round knee tights stuck … get your
shoes off … Ow. Knickers (caught on heel) … OOh, zip hurts … dive in and out … more a whip
in, like a visit – quick, can’t stay just sheltering from the rain – cup o’tea hot and fast … hot
plunge-squirge and sklenge mixed for a brief ‘hallo’. A rash of oohs and aaahs quiver and
hummmmmmy … mmm … then hot and flushy he climbs off and my tears those holy relics of
young love tracing mortal paths to elysium down my cheeks … while the ‘he’ with fag choke and
smoke … toothgrin-zip-up … me lying looking at the future flashing across the ceiling. He,
flashing his comb through his barnet and reddened cheeks blood soaked and me lying there a
pile of satiate bone and floppy tits flesh-pinched and crack-full of his slop containing God only
knows what other infernos. Oh let me be a bloke.
Confusions
Alan Ayckbourn
Beryl
1974

Thanks. Sorry, only the man over there won’t stop talking. I wanted to read this in peace. I
couldn’t concentrate. He just kept going on and on about his collections or something. I normally
don’t mind too much, only if you get a letter like this, you need all your concentration. You can’t
have people talking in your ear – especially when you’re trying to decipher writing like this. He
must have been stoned out of his mind when he wrote it. It wouldn’t be unusual. Look at it. He
wants me to come back. Some hopes. To him. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to do what he did, he
won’t do it again I promise, etc., etc. I seem to have heard that before. It’s not the first time, I
can tell you. And there’s no excuse for it, is there? Violence, I mean, what am I supposed to do?
Keep going back to that? Every time he loses his temper he... I mean, there’s no excuse. A
fracture, you know. It was nearly a compound fracture. That’s what they told me. (Indicating her
head) Right here. You can practically see it to this day. Two X-rays. I said to him when I got
home, I said ‘You bastard, you know what you did to my head?’ He just stands there. The way
he does. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m ever so sorry.’ I told him. I said ‘You’re a bastard, that’s what you
are. A right, uncontrolled, violent, bad-tempered bastard.’ You know what he said? He says,
‘You call me a bastard again and I’ll smash your stupid face in.’ That’s what he says. I mean,
you can’t have a rational, civilised discussion with a man like that, can you? He’s a right
bastard. My friend Jenny, she says, ‘You’re a looney, leave him for God’s sake. You’re a
looney.’ Who needs that? You tell me one person who needs that? Only where do you go? I
mean, there’s all my things – my personal things. All my – everything. He’s even got my bloody
Post Office book. I’ll finish up back there, you wait and see. I must be out of my tiny mind. Eh.
Sometimes I just want to jump down a deep hole and forget it. Only I know that bastard’ll be
waiting at the bottom. Waiting to thump the life out of me. Eh?
Alan’s Wife
Florence Bell and Elizabeth Robins
Jean
1893

“Oh God! If I’ve been wicked, don’t make it worse for the child- punish me some other way-
don’t hurt him any more- he’s so little, dear God- so helpless, and he never did any wrong! He
hasn’t been drunk with life and strength and love- he hasn’t walked through the world exulting
and fearless and forgetting You. That was I, oh, Father in heaven! Punish me and take the baby
away. This is a hard place- this world down here. Take him away! (She staggers to her feet-
listens.) He is stirring. (Goes and looks in cradle- leans over it.) Ah, how little you must know to
be smiling in your sleep! (Drops on her knees by the cradle.) Dear little face! Ah! It’s brave of
you to smile when God has laid such heavy burdens on you! Do you think you will be able to
smile later on when you see other boys running and leaping and being glad- when you’re a
man, dear, and see how good it is to be strong and fair? Can you bear it, little one? (She rocks
the cradle as if to hush him, though the child sleeps on- she croons drearily.) Never mind, never
mind! Mother’ll be always at your side- always- always. Always? (She stops, horror stricken.)
Who can say so? I might die! It’s natural I should go first and leave him to the mercy of- Oh, I
cannot! I dare not! (Bows her head over the cradle’s edge- then half recovering, and yet with
suppressed wildness whispers.) Baby, I’m frightened! Listen, I don’t know what to do. Do you
want to live? Tell me, shall you ever hate me for this horrible gift of life? (With wide vacant
eyes.) Oh, I seem to see you in some far-off time, your face distorted like your body, but with
bitterness and loathing, saying, ‘Mother, how could you be so cruel as to let me live and suffer?
You could have eased my pain; you could have saved me from this long martyrdom; when I was
little and lay in your arms. Why didn’t you save me? You were a coward- a coward.’ (She bows
her head over the cradle again, overcome, then she lifts a drawn white face.) It would be quite
easy- only to cover the dear little face for a little while- only to shut out the air and the light for a
little while, and remember I’m fighting for his release. Yes, it would be quite easy- if only one’s
heart didn’t sink and one’s brain grow numb! (Leans against the cradle, faint- her eyes fall on
the child.) Are your lips moving, dear? (Pause.) Are you asking for life? No, you don’t want to
live do you? No, no, you cannot! Darling, it will be so easy- you’ll never know- it will only be that
you’ll go on sleeping- sleeping, until you wake up in heaven!”
Saint Joan
Bernard Shaw
1923
Joan D’Arc

I tell you, Bastard, your art of war is no use, because your knights are no good for real fighting.
War is only a game to them, like tennis and all their other games: they make rules as to what is
fair and what is not fair, and heap armour on themselves and on their poor horses to keep out
the arrows; and when they fall they can’t get up, and have to wait for their squires to come and
lift them to arrange about the ransom with the man that has poked them off their horse. Can’t
you see that all the like of that is gone by and done with? What use is armour against
gunpowder? And if it was, do you think men that are fighting for France and for God will stop to
bargain about ransoms, as half your knights live by doing? No: they will fight to win; and they
will give up their lives out of their own hand into the hand of God when they go into battle, as I
do. Common folks understand this. They cannot afford armour and cannot pay ransoms; but
they followed me half naked into the moat and up the ladder and over the wall. With them it is
my life or thine, and God defend the right!
I don’t blame you, Jack: you are right. I am not worth one soldier's life if God lets me be beaten;
but France may think me worth my ransom after what God has done for her through me. I am
not proud and disobedient. I am a poor girl, and so ignorant that I do not know A from B. How
could I be proud? And how can you say that I am disobedient when I always obey my voices,
because they come from God. I never said you lied. It was you that as good as said my voices
lied. When have they ever lied? If you will not believe in them: even if they are only the echoes
of my own common sense, are they not always right? and are not your earthly counsels always
wrong?
Where would you all have been now if I had heeded that sort of truth? There is no help, no
counsel, in any of you. Yes: I am alone on earth: I have always been alone. My father told my
brothers to drown me if I would not stay to mind his sheep while France was bleeding to death:
France might perish if only our lambs were safe. I thought France would have friends at the
court of the king of France; and I find only wolves fighting for pieces of her poor torn body. I
thought God would have friends everywhere, because He is the friend of everyone; and in my
innocence I believed that you who now cast me out would be like strong towers to keep harm
from me. But I am wiser now; and nobody is any the worse for being wiser. Do not think you can
frighten me by telling me that I am alone. France is alone; and God is alone; and what is my
loneliness before the loneliness of my country and my God? I see now that the loneliness of
God is His strength: what would He be if He listened to your jealous little counsels? Well, my
loneliness shall be my strength too; it is better to be alone with God; His friendship will not fail
me, nor His counsel, nor His love. In His strength I will dare, and dare, and dare, until I die. I will
go out now to the common people, and let the love in their eyes comfort me for the hate in
yours. You will all be glad to see me burnt; but if I go through the fire I shall go through it to their
hearts for ever and ever. And so, God be with me !
Sister Mary Ignatius explains it all for us
Christopher Durang
1979
Diane

When I was sixteen my mother got breast cancer, which spread. I prayed to god to let her
suffering be small, but her suffering seemed to me quite extreme. She was in bad pain for half a
year, and then terrible pain for much of a full year. The ulcerations on her body were horrifying
to her and to me. Her last few weeks she slipped into a semiconscious state, which allowed her,
unfortunately, to wake up for a few minutes at a time and to have a full awareness of her pain
and her fear of death. She was able to recognize me, and she would try to cry, but she was
unable to; and to speak, but she was unable to. I think she wanted me to get her new doctors;
she never really accepted that her disease was going to kill her, and she thought in her panic
that her doctors must be incompetent and that new ones could magically cure her. Then, thank
goodness, he went into a full coma. A nurse who I knew to be Catholic assured me that
everything would be done to keep her alive - a dubious comfort. Happily, the doctor was not
Catholic, or if he was, not doctrinaire, and they didn't use extraordinary means to keep her alive;
and she finally died after several more weeks in her coma. Now there are, I'm sure, far worse
deaths- terrible burnings, tortures, plague, pestilence, famine; Christ on the cross even, as
sister likes to say. But I thought my mother's death was hard enough, and I got confused as to
why I had been praying and to whom. I mean, if prayer was really this sort of button you
pressed- admit you need the Lord, then He stops the suffering- then why didn't it always work?
Or ever work? And when it worked so-called, and our prayers were supposedly answered,
wasn't it as likely to be chance as God? God always answers our prayers, you said, He just
sometimes says no. I became angry at myself, and by extension at you, for ever having
expected anything beyond randomness from the world. And while I was thinking these things,
the day that my mother died, I was raped. Now I know that's really too much, one really loses all
sympathy for me because I sound like I'm making it up or something. But sometimes, bad things
happen all at once, and this particular day on my return from the hospital I was raped by some
maniac who broke into the house. He had a knife and cut me up some. Anyway, I don't want to
really go into the experience, but I got really depressed for about five years. Somehow the utter
randomness of things- my mother's suffering, my attack by a lunatic- this randomness seemed
intolerable. My psychiatrist says that my hatred with you is obsessive, that I’m just looking for
somebody to blame. Then he seduced me and he was the father of my second abortion. He
said that I seduced him and maybe that’s so, but he’s just lying to make himself feel better. Your
idea that I should have had this baby, either baby is preposterous. Do you have any idea what a
terrible mother I’d be? I’m a nervous wreck. I blamed myself of course, for letting all of this get
to me..... But now, I think it is childish to look for blame, part of the randomness of things is that
there is no one to blame; but basically I think everything is your fault Sister.
 1980
–
present
Steel Magnolias
Robert Harling
M’Lynn
1987

Shelby! I thought you weren’t coming to town until after lunch. (sarcastically) What a treat! You
must not have visited long. She and Annelle are out back sticking pennies in the fuse box. They
decorated that little tree when I plugged it in all the lights blew. Red plastic poinsettia ear-rings.
They are a gift from Anelle. She has discovered the wonderful world of Arts and Crafts. Yes.
Jonathan came home yesterday morning. He loves his classics. It’s all he can talk about. I think
the main thing architecture school has taught him is how much he should hate his parents’
house. Tommy arrived last night and immediately started terrorizing your father. It’s nice having
the family home for Christmas. And how are you honey? Is Jackson at the house? Good
thinking. Shelby?! I realize that. I…what do you expect me to say? Congratulations. I’m in a
state of shock! I didn’t think… What does Jackson say about this? But does he ever listen? I
mean when doctors and specialists give you advice. I know you never listen, but does he? I
guess since he doesn’t have to carry the baby, it doesn’t really concern him. I’m not mad,
Shelby. This is just…hard. I thought that… I don’t know. But what about the adoption
proceedings? You have filled so many applications. People do it all the time. I see. Has he
really? There’s a first time for everything. Shelby. Your body has been through so much. Why
do you deliberately want to- You are special. There are limits to what you can do. Least of all
Jackson, I’m sure. I did not raise my daughter to talk to me this way. Shelby, I am not in the
mood for games. I said all I wanted was for you to be happy. I wish I..I don’t know what I wish.
Steel Magnolias
Robert Harling
Shelby
1987

Mama, where is everybody? We got an early start because of the traffic. We wanted to drop in
on Jackson’s parents on the way down here. And you have to catch them early. On Saturdays
they leave the house at the crack of dawn to start hunting furry little creatures. We didn’t. I could
tell they were anxious to start killing things. We stopped by the house first. Nobody was there.
Where’s Truvy? Are Tommy and Jonathan home yet? Some things never change. I’m so good
Mama. Just great. No you know how twitchy he gets. I sent him to look for stocking stuffers. Uh
Jackson and I have something to tell you. We wanted to tell you when you and Daddy were
together, but you’re never together, so it’s every man for himself. I’m pregnant. I’m going to
have a baby. Well… is that it? Is that all you’re going to say? Something along the lines of
congratulations. Would it be too much to ask for a little excitement? Not too much, I wouldn’t
want you to break a sweat or anything. In June. Oh Mama. You have to help me plan. We’re
going to get a new house. Jackson and I are going house-hunting next week. Jackson loves to
hunt for anything. Oh. He’s very excited. He says he doesn’t care whether it’s a boy or girl…but
I know he really wants a son so bad he can taste it. He’s so cute about the whole thing. It’s all
he can talk about Jackson Latcherie Junior. Mama. Don’t be mad. I couldn’t bear it if you were.
It’s Christmas. Mama. I want a child. Mama. It didn’t take us long to see the handwriting on the
wall. No judge is going to give a baby to someone with my medical track record. Jackson even
put out some feelers about buying one. Listen to me. I want a child of my own. I think it would
help things a lot. Mama. I know. I know. Don’t think I haven’t thought this through. You can’t live
a life if all you do is worry. And you worry too much. In some ways it’s a comfort to me. I never
worry because I know you’re worrying enough for the both of us. Jackson and I have given this
a lot of thought. Don’t start on Jackson. Mama. Diabetics have healthy babies all the time.
Mama…listen. I have it all planned. I’m going to be very careful. And this time next year, I’m
going to be bringing your big healthy grandbaby to the Christmas festival. No-one is going to be
hurt of disappointed, or even inconvenienced. You are jealous because you no longer have any
say-so in what I do. And that drives you up the wall. You’re ready to spit nails because you can’t
call the shots. Yes you did. Whenever any of us asked you what you wanted to be when we
grew up, what did you say? What did you say? Just tell me what you said. Answer me. OK. The
thing that would make me happy is to have a baby. If I could adopt one I would, but I can’t. I’m
going to have a baby. I wish you would be happy, too. Mama. I don’t know why you have to
make everything so difficult. I look at having this baby as the opportunity of a lifetime. Sure,
there may be some risk involved. That’s true for anybody. But you get through it and life goes
on. And when it’s all said and done there’ll be a little piece of immortality with Jackson’s good
looks and my sense of style…I hope. Mama, please. I need your support. I would rather have
thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special. Please. Don’t tell anybody yet. I
want to tell Daddy first.
Death and the Maiden
Ariel Dorfman
Paulina
1990

Good morning, Doctor… Miranda, isn’t it? Doctor Miranda. (She shows him the gun and points it
playfully in his direction.) I had a chum from the university, name of Miranda, Ana Maria
Miranda, you wouldn’t be related to the Mirandas of San Esteban, would you? She had quite a
mind. A marvellous retentive memory, we used to call her our little encyclopaedia. I have no
idea what became of her. She probably finished her medical studies, became a doctor, just like
you.
I didn’t get my diploma… I didn’t get too far with my studies, Doctor Miranda. Let’s see if you
can guess why I didn’t get my diploma, I’m pretty sure that it won’t take a colossal effort of the
imagination on your part to guess why.
Luckily there was Gerardo. He was—well, I wouldn’t exactly say he was waiting for me—but
let’s say that he still loved me, so I never had to go back to the university. Lucky for me,
because I felt a—well, phobia wouldn’t be the right word, a certain apprehension—about
medicine. I wasn’t so sure of my chosen profession. But life is never over till it’s over, as they
say. That’s why I’m wondering whether it might not be a good idea to sign up again—you know,
ask that I be readmitted. I read the other day, now the military aren’t in charge anymore, that the
university has begun to allow the students who were kicked out to apply for re-admittance.
But here I am chatting away when I’m supposed to make breakfast, aren’t I, a nice breakfast?
Now you like—let’s see, ham sandwiches, wasn’t it? Ham sandwiches with mayonnaise. We
haven’t got mayonnaise, but we do have ham. Gerardo also likes ham. I’ll get to know your
other tastes. Sorry about the mayonnaise. I hope you don’t mind that this must remain, for the
moment, a monologue. You’ll have your say, Doctor, you can be sure of that. I just don’t want to
remove this—gag, you call it, don’t you—at least not till Gerardo wakes up. But I should be
getting him up. Did I tell you I phoned the garage from the pay phone? They’ll be here soon.
The real truth is that you look slightly bored. Takes a cassette out of her pocket.
I took this out of your car—I took the liberty—what if we listen to Schubert while I make
breakfast, a nice breakfast, Doctor? Death and the Maiden?
Do you know how long it’s been since I last listened to this quartet? If it’s on the radio, I turn it
off, I even try not to go out much, I pray they won’t play that anywhere I go, any Schubert at all,
strange isn’t it?
But I always promised myself a time would come to recover him, bring him back from the grave
so to speak. And now I’ll be able to listen to my Schubert again, even go to a concert like we
used to. Is this the very cassette, Doctor, or do you buy a new one every year to keep the sound
pure? Good morning, my darling. Sorry breakfast isn’t ready yet.
Angels in America Part One- Millenium Approaches
Tony Kushner
Harper
1992

Where were you? Where? It’s late. I burned dinner. Not my dinner. My dinner was fine. Your
dinner. I put it back in the oven and turned everything up as high as it could go and I watched till
it burnt black. It’s still hot. Very hot. Want it? I didn’t have to do that I know. It just seemed like
the kind of thing a mentally-deranged sex starved pill-popping housewife would do. So I did it. I
WANT TO KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON! Tell me
without making me ask. Please.
When you come through the door at night and your face is never exactly the way I remembered
it. I get surprised by something… mean and hard about the way you look. Even the weight of
you in bed at night, the way you breathe in your sleep seems unfamiliar.
You terrify me.
I’m the enemy. That’s easy. That doesn’t change. You think you’re the only one who hates sex;
I do; I hate it with you; I do; I’m glad we don’t do it anymore. I dream that you batter away at me
till all my joints come apart, like wax, and I fall into pieces. It’s like a punishment. It was wrong of
me to marry you. I knew you…(She stops herself). It’s a sin, and it’s killing us both. Because… I
have something to ask you. Are you a homo?
Are you? If you try to walk out now I’ll put your dinner back in the oven and turn it up so high the
whole building will fill with smoke and everyone in it will asphyxiate. So help me God I will. Now
answer the question. Tell me, please, and we’ll see. I’m going to have a baby, a baby born
addicted to pills. A baby who does not dream but who hallucinates, who stares up at us with big
mirror eyes and who does not know who we are. 
Get away from me. Now we both have a secret. 
The Woman Destroyed
Simone de Beauvoir
Murielle
1994

MURIELLE: Shit. I’m gasping for a drink. I’m starving but it would kill me to get out of this chair
and go to the kitchen. You freeze in this dump and then when I turn the heating up the air dries
out, my mouth is all dry and my nose is burning. What a cock-up. They know how to muck up
the moon but they can’t heat a flat. If they were smart they’d invent me a robot that would fetch
me a juice whenever I wanted, and take care of the house work without me having to be nice
and listen to them droning on.
Mariette won’t be coming tomorrow, all well and good I’m bored stiff of her old dad and his
cancer. Anyway, I’ve got her broken in. She knows her place, more or less. Some of them slap
rubber gloves on and do the washing up and act like the lady of the house; I wouldn’t put up
with that. Mind you, you don’t want sluts that leave hairs in the salad and finger marks on the
doors…
Tristan’s a prat. I was very good with the help. I just wish they’d get on with it all without all the
drama. You have to train them properly just as you have to train children to turn them into
proper people. Tristan hasn’t trained Francis, rotten out Mariette’s left me in the lurch, the room
will be a pigsty after they’ve been. They’ll arrive with a fancy present, kisses all around, I’ll serve
little cakes and Francis will trot out all the answers his father has drummed into him. He already
lies like a grown-up. I must talk to Tristan about him. It’s always bad when a child’s deprived of
his mother. Turns into a hooligan or a nancy, you don’t want that.
God why am I being so bloody reasonable when my heart is breaking? All I want to do is yell,
“It’s unnatural to take a son away from his mother!”.
Threaten him with divorce, Dede said. He just laughed. Men gang up on you and the law’s so
unfair and Tristan’s got so much clout that I’d get all the blame. He’d get full custody, not a
penny more for me, and I’d lose the flat as well. It’s blackmail and I can’t do a thing about it. An
allowance and the flat in exchange for Francis. I am at his mercy. You can’t defend yourself with
no money, you are less than nothing. Double zero. What a clot I’ve been. Let all that money slip
through my fingers. I should’ve made the suckers dig deep in their pockets. If I’d have stayed
with Florent I’d have got myself a lovely little nest-egg. But Tristan was mad about me. I took
pity on him, and look what happened. The dope walked out on me just because I wouldn’t
grovel at his feet and treat him like some sort of Napoleon.
I’ll show him. Tell him I’m gonna tell the little one the truth. “I’m not sick, I’m not. I only live alone
because your dope of a father let me down. He sweet talked me, then he tortured me and
practically beat me up”. Have hysterics in front of the little one. Cut my wrists on the doorstep,
something like that. I’ve got plenty of ammunition and I’ll use it then he’ll come back to me.
I won’t have to be alone in this dump with the people upstairs trampling all over me and the
radio next door getting me up every morning and no one to bring me a snack when I’m hungry!
I can’t bear it. Three weeks now the plumber has been fobbing me off. When it’s a woman alone
they tell themselves anything will do. I hold my head up I show my teeth but they spit on a
woman alone.
A man under my roof. The plumber would com, the porter would greet me politely, the
neighbours would put a sock in it. Fuck it, I want some dignity my husband my son my own front
door just like anybody else.
Sylvia
AR Gurney
Sylvia
1995

Hey! I’m looking around. I gotta get used to things. I’m not ready to sit. I’m too nervous to sit. I’m
worried about where I sleep. Do I sleep on this couch? (Reacts to quick smack) Ouch. I’m
sitting, I’m sitting. You don’t have to hit, you know. It most certainly did hurt. You ought to be
sorry. Ok. (Master reads, Sylvia sits looking at him) I love you. I really do. Even when you hit
me, I love you. I think you’re God, if you want to know. I want to sit near you. Nearer, my God,
to thee. You saved my life. You did. You saved my life. I never would have survived out there on
my own. Oh no, not just anyone would have done the same thing. Someone else might have
ignored me. Or shooed me away. Or even turned me in. Not you. You welcomed me with open
arms. I really appreciate that. I hardly knew where to turn. I was beginning to panic. I thought
my days were numbered. Then there you were. I felt some immediate connection. Didn’t you? I
feel it now. I know you will try to give me a good home. And I’ll try to show my appreciation.
(Hearing something, she begins barking) Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
Someone’s there! (Reacting) This is your wife, Kate? Hello, Kate. I’m just trying to make friends.
You don’t like me, do you? You don’t like dogs. You’re prejudiced. I think you’re prejudiced
against dogs. Ok, fine. No problem. I’ll just stay out of your hair. (Steps onto couch and settles)
Off? Me? You speaking to me? I’m just relaxing. Can’t I even relax? Easy! Take it easy!...
Jesus! I’ve sat on couches before, you know. I’ve sat on plenty of couches. (Getting up, easing
onto the chair) Can’t I at least sit on a chair? No!? (Slumping back onto the floor) Piss. What do
you mean this is not going to work? The pound??? Hey, I’m sitting, aren’t I? I’m sitting on the
floor. Look how quickly I sat. Ok, I get the picture. I’ll avoid furniture. I’m not dumb. I don’t mind.
I’ll sleep. I’ll chew things. All right, I won’t chew things. Just show me the rules and I’ll follow
them, I swear. (She watches Kate go off) Dig her! She doesn’t like me. She makes me nervous.
I sense the clock ticking away. It took her two years to say she’d marry you?!? Two years!?
Jesus, Greg! If you multiply that by seven why that’s...um...carry the two...I make that fourteen
years, dog time! That’s too long, Greg! Can’t I do something to speed things up? I’m tired of
being just a houseguest around here. I want to feel totally at home. (She looks at the moon that
Greg has pointed out to her) Yeah. Nice moon...I suppose you’d like me to sit down and howl at
it? Well, I don’t think I can do that, Greg. Sorry. I like to think I’ve grown beyond that kind of
behaviour. I think I’ll just take my nap.
Trainspotting
Irvine Welsh
Alison
1995

Ah’m walkin down the street wi Kelly, n these guys, workies, up oan their scaffolding, whistle at
us.
‘Awright doll?’
Now, Kelly’s been doon tae see about her rent arrears n she’s pretty mad, like, tense n that, cos
she turns oan the guy.
‘Huv you goat a girlfriend?’ she shouts. ‘Ah doubt it, because yir a fat, ugly prick!’.
Aye! The guy looks at her wi real hate, I mean now he’s goat a reason tae hate her, not jist cos
she’s a woman, ken. The guys’ mates are gaun ‘woooah, woooah’-eggin him oan.
‘Fuck off, ya boot’ he snarls.
But she disnae, she stands her ground.
‘O, ah wis a doll a minute ago’ she cries ‘but now ah’ve telt ye to fuck off, ah’m a boot. Well,
you’re still a fat, ugly prick and that’s no gaunnae change!’
(Aussie) ‘And so say all of us!’
Australian lassie, wi a backpack. A pair of thum. A few folk have stopped tae check oot the
hastle.
‘Fuckin dykes!’ shouts another guy.
Noo, that gets right oan ma tits, getting called a dyke jist cos ah object tae bein hassled by
revolting, ignorant radges.
‘If all guys wir as repulsive as you, ah’e be fuckin proud tae be a lesbian, son!’
Did ah really say that? Crazy!
(Aussie) ‘You guys have obviously got a problem. Why don’t you just go and fuck each other?’
Quite a crowd has now gathered. Two auld wifies are listening in.
‘That’s terrible’ says one ‘lassies talkin like that tae the laddies’.
‘Och’ says the other wan, ‘it’s guid tae see lassies stickin up fir thirsels. Wish it happened in ma
day’. ‘Aye’ she said to me, ‘ah wish ah wis your age again, hen. Ah’d dae it aw different. Ah ken
tell ye’.
The guys are looking embarrassed, really shit up by the crowd. The foreman comes out.
‘Back inside yous!’
And they go, like sheep. And we aw let oot a cheer. It wis brilliant. Magic!
Me and Kelly and the two aussies and the two wifies all end up in Café Rio havin cups ay tea
thegither. The aussies actually turned oot tae be new Zealanders, Veronica and Jane. And they
WERE lesbians. Travelling round the world thegither. Ah’d love tae gi that a go. Me and Kelly.
Too mad.
We take them back tae ma place fir a smoke ay hash, N we sit there slaggin oaf men- stupid,
inadequate creatures, wi flat bodies and weird heids and dangling tubes. Aw their really gid fur
is the odd shag. Sometimes ah wish ah wis gay. Do it aw different.

What fuckin planet are we oan?

Spoonface Steinberg
Lee Hall
Spoonface
1997

During the day Mrs. Spud comes in and sees me- she makes me stuff and helps out Mam with
the laundry and the cleaning and she makes the house spick and span and that- if I were to
grow up, I would be just like Mrs. Spud and everyday I would clean the fridge and the over and
the shelves and the steps out to the Garden and some of the skirting boards, but I would leave
the shelves where nobody looks and everything would be clean.

I asked Mrs. Spud where I got my cancer from and she said she did not know- I said I might of
caught it off God and she said that God does not have cancer as far as we know- I said maybe
he’s just not telling anybody- Mrs. Spud says that if God has cancer then we’re all in trouble- I
think maybe he has or he has not.

She said she had a son who is a little angel and a husband who is dead- he had the cancer too-
only his was of a difference-

When you think about dying it is very hard to do- it is to think about what is not- to think about
everything there is nothing- to not be and never be again- it is even more than emptiness- if you
think of emptiness is full of nothing and death is even more than this- death is even less than
nothing- when you think that you’ll not be here for your breakfast and you’ll never see Mam or
Dad or Mrs. Spud- or the telly or hear the sweet signing opera ladies- or feel anything anymore-
that’s the weird bit- not that there is even anything but there is not even nothing and that is
death.

Sometimes it’s scary- but to think that I’ll not be here is impossible because I am here- and
when I’m not here they’ll still be cows and grass and vegetables and radios and telephone
machines and cardiologists and soup tins and cookers and hats and shoes and Walkman’s and
Tiny Tears and synagogues and beaches and sunshine and walks in the rain and films and
music and my coat and my shoes and cars and underpants and necklaces and my Mam and my
Dad and flowers- everywhere they’ll be something in the whole world except for me- and there
isn’t even a whole where I used to be and apart from people what remember me and what I was
like there is nothing missing from when I was here- there is no space in the universe where
people have dropped out- it’s filled in and is as full as ever- and in the beginning and in the end-
they’ll be no me or you- they’ll be no this or that, no little puppy dogs or anything- there will only
be that every moment is forever- and it will shine and everyone will end up being one- and that
is nothing- and it is endless.
Perfect Days
Liz Lochhead
Barbs
1998

So, Alice, I was telling you, we get to Glasgow airport, guy on the desk recognises me, we get
an upgrade, very nice, thank you very much, First class practically empty, great, spread out a
bit, relax, the champagne cocktails, the blue blue sky, the white fluffy clouds beneath us……I’m
feeling: OK maybe he’s not got the highest IQ in the world but he does have a gorgeous profile
and at least has not wearing that fucking awful jumper that he turned up in wan night, tucked
into his trousers can you believe, and gave me a red neck in front of Brendan from work.
I mean true and everlasting love it is not, but he’s a nice guy and all that, own teeth, daft about
me, well so far, it’s only been three or four weeks, defin-ately dead keen, or so I’ve been led to
believe by the dinners, the phone calls, the nipping my heid about Paris – how he used to live
there how there are all these sweet wee dinky little special places he knows that he’d like to
take me, so there we are , we get to the hotel and here they’ve overbooked so this time we get
and automatic upgrade to the four star no problem, it’s gorgeous, the corner room, the fruitbowl,
the flowers , the complimentary chocolates, the half bottle of champagne, the big king-size bed
all turned down at the corner…And-now , to let you know, Alice- back home in Glasgow I’ve
been avoiding it, by the way, because truth to tell I do not really fancy him, at least I do not
fancy him when I am actually with him, I’ve been, frankly, postponing the inevitable for this
weekend where I have calculated , quite correctly according to my predictor kit, I will be
ovulating – and he says to me he can’t sleep with me because he’s met someone and he’s
fallen in love! No, correction, he can sleep with me, but we can’t have sex because that would
be him being unfaithful to his new wee dolly inamorata.
I’m like: what? I’m like: what are we doing here? And why? He’s like: well, it’s a fantastic city,
and im his best friend- best friend! – and he wants to show me it and he didn’t want to
disappoint me!
Chinese!
Misery
Simon Moore (adapted from Stephen King Novel)
Annie Wilkes
1999

Did I ever tell you what lovely eyes you have but I suppose other women have women you are
much prettier than me and much bolder about their affections as well. What do you want first
Paul? The good news or the bad news? The good news is that your car is gone. I was very
worried about it now the snow is melted. But the storms must've washed into the river. It’s
gone… poof! Now that your car is gone it means you can really stay and finish my book but do
you want to stay? That's the question I have to ask myself, and as much as I want to pull the
wool over my eyes I know the answer to that one. 

When I was 11 my whole family were killed in a fire, all except me, Paul. Do you have any idea
what that feels like? I've had more tragedy than one person can bear. They put me with a
horrible mean family. It's not very Christian to say so, but I was glad when my stepfather died of
food poisoning. When I was studying for my nursing exams my room mate had what they called
a freak all. That was certainly the right word to describe her. Freak. She only fell one flight, but it
was a stone floor. I called the hospital but…

I got jobs in geriatric wards. Saint Joseph's. Riverview, and other places. You have no idea of
how… How foul old people can be, Paul. When they're sick, and nothing you do is right. A lot of
them died. An awful lot.

I preferred being a maternity nurse and I was very good, very good, Paul, whatever they say.
Until there were more… incidents and then would you believe it they put me on trial for one of
the babies who died. Some girl who wasn't even old enough to have a proper name. The press
had a name for me though, oh yes, they called me the dragon lady. The police had one hand
mark on the girls throat that was like mine, like mine, that was all! And they also said I'd always
been on duty when the deaths occurred. Well what does that prove? You tell me. What does
that prove!?
Everyone I ever love dies Paul it's as simple as that you know what kept me going all the time I
was sitting in that holding cell in Denver? Misery. I read all your books again cover to cover. If it
hadn't been for you I think I would've taken my own life, Paul. So when I found you in the
snow… It wasn't a coincidence at all, was it? It was a real miracle.

You remember when I went into town because you're writing paper wasn't good enough? That
was when you went out for the first time, wasn't it? And don't try and tell me you haven't been
out because all the hairs are broken. You can use cotton but are used hairs from my head if
they're broken you know someone's been sleeping. Not that I was surprised. I knew you'd been
out. I've known for a long, long time. That's the bad news!
The Country
Martin Crimp
Rebecca
2000

Everyone wants to hear a story, don’t they? I could say: Hello. I’m Rebecca. I’m the maid. Let
me tell you a story. Would you like me to tell you a story? Oh yes please, Rebecca, tell us a
story. Well once upon a time, children, there was a girl, there was a bright, young girl and she
was sick, and she needed some medicine. So she went to a doctor – and she said, doctor,
doctor, it hurts, I need some medicine. But the doctor wouldn’t give her any. He said, go away –
don’t waste my time – I have no medicine. So she went back again and she said, doctor, doctor
it really hurts, I need some medicine. And this time the doctor went to the door. He locked the
door. He said: I need to take a history – then, children, he got out the instrument to look into her
eyes. And another instrument to listen to her heart. And when he’d looked into her eyes and
listened to her heart, he asked her to undress. And when she’d undressed, he said: I see now
how very sick you are – you need some medicine. She said: Doctor, am I going to die? He said:
No, it’s simply that your eyes are very dark and your skin is very pale. Your skin is so thin that
when I touch it like this with my lips I can feel the blood moving underneath. You’re sick that’s
all. You need some medicine. So the treatment began. The treatment was wild, children. It
could take place at any time of day or night. In any part of the city. In any part of her body. Her
body …. Became the city. The doctor learnt how to unfold her – like a map. Until one day the
bright young girl decided the treatment would have to end – because the more medicine she
took, the more medicine she craved – and besides, she was leaving for the country. Now this
made the doctor very angry. Because he’s broken all the rules – as he saw it - for her. Not just
the kind of rules you children have – take off your shoes, wash your hands – but grown up rules.
Laws. He’d broken all these rules – laws – and he was very angry. In fact he wept. You bitch, he
said. You little bitch. Because you see there had been a terrible misunderstanding. Since the
thing the bright young girl bitch called treatment, the doctor, who of course was sick himself –
who craved medicine himself – imagined to be – what? – something personal. Something
human. Which is why / he followed her.
Topless
Miles Tredinnick
Sandie
2006

Bienvenue a Londres et Bienvenue chez “London Topless Buses.” Le “topless”. Je m’appelle

Sandie et notre Chauffeur est Sid… Sid? Are you sure this is the group from Calais? Because
they don’t look particularly French to me. They’ve what? Cancelled? Oh. Well thanks for telling
me. So you all speak English do you? Well I won’t be needing that. Hi everyone and welcome to
London.
My name’s Sandie and I’m your tour guide. How are you all? Everyone OK? I’m feeling
absolutely brilliant today. I am. Honestly. Now I know what you’re thinking. The wheel’s turning
but the hamsters dead. But don’t worry, I haven’t even got going yet. I’m building up to my tour
de force and believe me it’ll be worth waiting for. We’re going to have a fabulous tour. Now ‘cos
I thought you were all going to be foreign I’ve brought along a few visual aids to jazz things up a
bit. This is Big Ben which we’ll be seeing later. Who wants Big Ben? And here’s one of them
Yeoman Warders you’ll see down the Tower. Evening all! Love your helmet sir. Smashing. And
what’s with this one?

It’s Winston Churchill ain’t it. You hold that and wave it when I get to my Churchill bit. And what
we got ‘ere? Oh me Sandwiches. Only cheese and tomato I’m afraid. If anyone wants to do a
swap later I’m game. Provided it’s not meat. I’m a veggie. Right, that’s the basics dealt with so
off we go.
Now our driver is called Sid, he’s the best driver in the country. Hopeless in the town but in the
country he’s brilliant! See what I mean!! Hold on tight! Right, now I’m going to take you on a
fabulous trip around
London. I’m going to show you the big sights. Trafalgar Square, Big Ben, The London Eye, St
Paul’s Cathedral, all the way down to the Tower of London. So sit back and enjoy yourselves. If
you’ve got questions keep them to yourselves! I haven’t got time for questions; I’ll be too busy
talking! I’m the original motor mouth, me.

Behind the electric signs is Soho. Oh yes? I see a few of you men smiling at the mere mention
of the name. It’s a night place ladies. You know, clubs and stuff. I used to be a stripper once you
know. I did. I’m not ashamed of it. I used to work in this dump called Madame Bridget’s Hot
Bodies
A Go-Go Club. I was a topless table dancer. I was. I only did it for the money. I was a bit
desperate
I have to admit. I’d been on the dole for twelve months and then I saw this as in the paper for
dancers and went along. Had to jack it in though. I used to get giddy standing on the table tops
in me high heels, to say nothing of the sparks I got off the pole! So I’m still topless but this way
I’m out in the open air. T’riffic! Over on your right there is the statue Londoners call Eros, the
Greek God of Lurve. They say that if you stand underneath it on the stroke of midnight and
declare your love to your beloved, the love with last a lifetime. Aaaahhhh. I’m not sure that true.
I met my husband Duncan under there one night and my goodness we’ve had our share of
problems. Still you don’t want to hear about my troubles with Duncan do you? Of course you
don’t, you’re all here to see the sights.On the left is Shaftesbury Avenue, that’s where all the
theatres are. Actually the first time I Duncan wasn’t under Eros, it was on this bus. Not that he
was actually on the bus, he sort of ran into it. On his motorbike. Made a big dent at the front. It
was over there on the corner of Regent Street wasn’t it
Sid? My goodness, what a carry on that was. Duncan claimed it was Sid’s fault but we won't go
into that. Anyway I got talking to Duncan and I found I really really liked him. He was gorgeous.
The spitting image of Mel Gibson. He had long hair and the most beautiful green eyes. And he
was all leathered up. Of course he didn’t sound like Mel Gibson ‘cos he came from Manchester.
Spoke like that. You know like the Oasis boys. And of course he was half Chinese on his
Mother’s side. So if you can image a leathered up half Chinese, long haired Mel Gibson look-
alike who sounded like that, well that was Duncan.
People, Places and Things
Duncan Macmillan
Emma
2015

With a play you get instructions. Stage directions. Dialogue. Someone clothes you. Tells you
where to be and when. You get to live the most intense moments of life over and over again,
with all the boring bits left out. And you get to practise for weeks. And you’re applauded. Then
you get changed. Leave through stage door. Bus home. Back to the real life. All the boring bits
left in. Waiting. Temping. Answering phones and serving canapés. Nothing permanent. Can’t
plan. Can’t get a mortgage or pay for a car. Audition comes in. Try to look right. Sit in a room
surrounded by people who look exactly like you, all after the same part. Never hear back. Or
even if you do hear back back it’ll be sitting around in rehearsal and backstage making less than
you did when you were temping. Make these friendships with people, a little family, fall in love
onstage and off and then it’s over and you don’t see them again. You try not to take it personally
when people who aren’t as good as you get the parts. Or when you go from being the sexy
ingenue to the tired mother of three.

But you keep going because sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you get to be onstage and say
things that are absolutely true, even if they’re made up. You get to do things that fell more real
to you, more authentic, more meaningful than anything in you’re own life. You get to speak
poetry, words you would never think to say but which become yours as you speak them.

When he shall die

take him and cut him out in little stars,
and he will make the face of heaven so fine
that all the world will be in love with night,
and pay no worship to the garnish sun.

It feels like Lydia is trying to make me acknowledge some deep buried trauma when the truth in
there just isn’t one. I played Antigone and overnight my heart broke about her dead brother.
Then my own brother died and I didn’t feel anything. I missed the funeral because I had a
matinee. I’m not avoiding the group because I’ve got something to hide. It’s the opposite. If I’m
not a character I’m not sure I’m really there. I’m already dead. I’m nothing.

Acting gives me the same thing I get from drugs and alcohol. Good parts are just harder to
come by.
Terminus
Mark O’Rowe
B
2007

Every night at five… […] I leave work… […] and meander the minute or so to McGurk’s; sink
one, sink two, then bid adieu to the barman – his reply to me each and every time, ‘God bless’ –
depart then, head to the M&S, my dinner to purchase, my day-to-day to adhere to, near to
identical all, said days, near rote, you know? Near reflex now. The bus home then, the silent
flat. No cat nor any kind of pet. The sofa – sit. The telly – hit the remote. Reward – the illusion of
presence through voices. Unpack my choices of purchase. Wine: pour, then sip it. My meal:
unseal, then flip it into the microwave: shepherd’s pie, my favourite dish. Now, why on earth
would I think that mattered? Shattered as shit tonight, I sit, sort through some bills. The
telephone trills, my wine spills on my lap. I curse, say, ‘Fuck,’ pick up. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello!’ It’s Lee,
who wants to know if I’d like to go for a drink with herself and Lenny, her loving hubby. I refuse
politely. Lonely as I might be, as I am, I can’t abide or suffer the fucker, his swagger, his subtle
suggestions; insinuations intimating coupling, couple of times a touch in passing – my behind,
my back – Lee’s lack of acknowledgement disappointing. But, what’s worse is that his vying for
me’s not just fun. He’s overcome when I’m around with a want that’s potent and profound,
which, bound together with his sleaziness, causes me a great deal of unease, I guess. My
shepherd’s pie beeps and I take it, make to unwrap it. The covering jams so I jerk and unjam it
with too much force, so it flips and falls – face first, I predict, and am proved correct – the
plummet’s conclusion a meeting of meat and floor, in effect, aborting my dinner. I stare at the
mess a moment, unmoving, the checking of tears proving fruitless. Doubtless a symptom of
self-isolation, the crushing frustration that ushers one night to the next. Tonight more
pronounced, the attack unannounced; my reaction surprising me equally. ‘Fuck it,’ I utter, and
phone Lee back, tell her I’ve changed my mind in fact. She says, ‘Great. How’s nine?’ An hour.
Enough time to shower and so forth, check before I go forth, for keys. Pockets. I can’t leave
without them. Empty. Now, where the hell did I put them? The kitchen, the counter, swipe them,
stop. The slop. I won’t bother cleaning it up. The bus, the seat behind the driver; tactics for the
immediate future: forebearance, endurance, tolerate Lenny; have patience when he tries to
harass me. He doesn’t, surprisingly. Half an hour there, or here, so far, he’s behaving.
We’re drinking beer, Lee raving on about saving, the fact that she can’t, when her rant is cut
short by this dude exhuding sex appeal, who steals a look in passing, stops and curses, ‘Fuck!’
reverses, and, of course, is a friend of Lenny and Lee’s. ‘Jesus, what are the chances?’ he
says, and glances at me with a smile to be filed under, ‘Most attractive I’ve seen in a while’.
Fleabag
2013
Phoebe Waller-Bridge
Fleabag

I’m not obsessed with sex I just can’t stop thinking about it.
The performance of it the, awkwardness of it, the drama of it. The moment you realise someone
wants your body. Not to mention the feeling of it. I’ve probably got a week before Harry gets
back. I should get on it. Okay, Into the shower. Boom. Bedroom, makeup. Boom. Going to really
try and make an effort. I take about half an hour trying to look nice and I end up looking…
Amazing, I mean best in ages, one of those days. Boom. Gorgeous, fresh-faced, heels, wearing
a skirt, new top little bit sexy, on my way to save my cafe and yes, I’m strutting.
I see a man walking towards me from the bus-stop. He can’t take his eyes off me. I’m walking
like I’ve got a paint brush-up my arse thinking yeah, check me out cause it’s never gonna
happen. Chub Chub.
I open the café with my friend Boo. She’s dead now. She accidentally killed herself. It wasn’t her
intention but it was a total accident, she didn’t think she’d actually die. She found her boyfriend
had slept with someone else and wanted to punish him for it by ending up in hospital and not
letting your visit for a bit. So she decided to walk out into a busy cycle lane, wanting to get
tangled in a bike. brake a finger maybe, but it turns out bikes can go really fast and flip you out
into the road. Three people died she was such a Dick. I didn’t her parents the truth I told her
boyfriend though. he cried, a lot.
Chub Chubs getting closer. Oversize jacket, meaty face. Looks me up-and-down. It’s like he’s
confused about how attractive I am, he can’t quite believe it. I worry for a second I’m going to
make a sex offender of the poor guy. He’s about to say something. Here we fucking go, this
better be good. He’s passing. He’s passing. Brings his hand to his mouth and coughs. It’s too
late to go home and change. I have some Flat shoes in my bag, and anyway he’s fat.
And he can’t take that off at night
Harry’s a bit fat. he gently pats his belly like he’s a little bear proud of what is achieved. 
Hunted. Gathered. Eaten. Pat. Evidence. It makes me laugh. A pretty girl at a party once asked
me if I secretly light that Harry had a little paunch, because it made him less attractive to other
women. Her boyfriend was the whale in the corner, blocking the door to the toilets. I asked her if
he made her Awash the bits he can't reach. She slapped me. Sctual slap which means he did.
Boo’s death hit the papers. ‘Local cafe girl is hit by a bike a car and another bike’ There was a
buzz around a cafe all of a sudden. Flowers, notes, Guinea pig mirabilia for all left outside in a
memory. Boo who made sense of the whole Guinea pig theme. She was all small and cute and
put pictures of Guinea pigs everywhere. I pretend they're not there which I suspect makes the
whole Guinea pig cafe experience rather creepy. Boo was even built like a Guinea pig no waist
or hips straight down she rocked it. And she was beautiful. Tricky thought. Jealous, sensitive but
beautiful. And my best-friend.
Yoga Fart
Gabriel Davis
Amy

I farted in Yoga class. It was loud. And I didn't die. My heart started pounding but it did not
explode. I thought I would be devastated but I was not. Instead something unexpected
happened. I laughed. At first a little giggle and then a full blown belly laugh. In fact, I laughed
so hard that I farted again. And again, and again. Embarrassing, no? No. No.

I could feel people staring but I didn't care. I thought I would care. Feel my palms grow
clammy, my chest tighten. No. I felt a lightness, wonder, awe. Who knew I had so much air
inside me. My body had deflated but my spirit had inflated! I waited for the self-loathing to
come. But there was only... Stillness. Silence. Then in that silence, a little voice. I love you.
Your body is amazing.

I realized, this was why I'd come to yoga in the first place. No, not to fart publicly. To fart
publicly and survive it. I know, it's unladylike. But in the depth of this indignity, I had found my
greatest strength. Here I was looking my fear in the face and believe me, I had feared this
moment. I had played it out in my mind. And it always ended with all the ladies around me
pulling hidden rocks out of their lululemon attire and stoning me mercilessly. But not much
happened. Here I was staring fear in the face and realizing...it was a bunch of hot air. And I
could release it!

I breathed in deep, so deep another loud exclamation of my new found freedom erupted from
my behind. "Excuse me," the woman behind me said. "But could you step outside for a
moment. Some of us are trying to practice yoga..." This should have destroyed me. It should
have sent me whimpering out of the room. But I felt my calm breath, heard myself say:
"Excuse me, but I am practicing my fartnassanas thank you very much."

Then something amazing happened. A little noise erupted from another corner of the room. A
few other people giggled, then laughed, and then more noises erupted. And it was beautiful. A
symphony of fartnassanas. I was free, they were free. And I realized in that moment...I was free
of you, too. You can't hurt me anymore.