smoke and his bulk, pleased with his legs and his ring and his hand and his body in the lamp. Sees himself speaking, the words arranged on his lips, sees himself with pleasure silent.
Under the twigs they slide, by the lilac bush, break thestems, sit, scutter to the edge of the lawn and there wait, capable, industrious, put up their sunshades, watch. Mark lies, heavy, content, watches his smoke in the window, times his puff out, his hand fall, [ with growing disgust ] smiles at absent guests, sucks in all comers, arranges his web, lies there a spider.
LEN moves to above armchair in MARK’S room as lights fade up. Down centre area fades out.
What did you say?
MARK: I never said anything.
LEN: What do you do when you’re tired, go to bed?
MARK: That’s right.
LEN: You sleep like a log.
MARK: Yes.
LEN: What do you do when you wake up?
MARK: Wake up.
LEN: I want to ask you a question.
MARK: No doubt.
LEN: Are you prepared to answer questions?
MARK: No.
LEN: What do you do in the day when you’re not walking about?
MARK: I rest.
LEN: Where do you find a resting place?
MARK: Here and there.
LEN: By consent?
MARK: Invariably.
LEN: But you’re not particular?
MARK: Yes, I’m particular.
LEN: You choose your resting place?
MARK: Normally.
LEN: That might be anywhere?
MARK: Yes.
LEN: Does that content you?
MARK: Sure! I’ve got a home. I know where I live.
LEN: You mean you’ve got roots. Why haven’t I got roots? My house is older than yours. My family lived here. Why haven’t I got a home?
MARK: Move out.
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: What?
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: Who?
LEN: God.
MARK: God?
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: Do I believe in God?
LEN: Yes.
MARK: Would you say that again?
LEN goes swiftly to shelf. Picks up biscuit jar. Offers to MARK .
LEN: Have a biscuit.
MARK: Thanks.
LEN: They’re your biscuits.
MARK: There’s two left. Have one yourself.
LEN puts biscuits away.
LEN: You don’t understand. You’ll never understand.
MARK: Really?
LEN: Do you know what the point is? Do you know what it is?
MARK: No.
LEN: The point is, who are you? Not why or how, not even what. I can see what, perhaps, clearly enough. But who are you? It’s no use saying you know who you are just because you tell me you can fit your particular key into a particular slot, which will only receive your particular key because that’s not foolproof and certainly not conclusive. Just because you’re inclined to make these statements of faithhas nothing to do with me. It’s not my business. Occasionally I believe I perceive a little of what you are but that’s pure accident. Pure accident on both our parts, the perceived and the perceiver. It’s nothing like an accident, it’s deliberate, it’s a joint pretence. We depend on these accidents, on these contrived accidents, to continue. It’s not important then that it’s conspiracy or hallucination. What you are, or appear to be to me, or appear to be to you, changes so quickly, so horrifyingly, I certainly can’t keep up with it and I’m damn sure you can’t either. But who you are I can’t even begin to recognize, and sometimes I recognize it so wholly, so forcibly, I can’t look, and how can I be certain of what I see? You have no number. Where am I to look, where am I to look, what is there to locate, so as to have some surety, to have some rest from this whole bloody racket? You’re the sum of so many reflections. How many reflections? Whose reflections? Is that what you consist of? What scum does the tide leave? What happens to the scum? When does it happen? I’ve seen what happens. But I can’t speak when I see it. I can only point a finger. I can’t even do that. The scum is broken and sucked back. I don’t see where it goes. I don’t see when, what do I see, what have I seen? What have I seen, the scum or the essence? What about it? Does all this give you the right to stand there and tell me you know who
Under the twigs they slide, by the lilac bush, break thestems, sit, scutter to the edge of the lawn and there wait, capable, industrious, put up their sunshades, watch. Mark lies, heavy, content, watches his smoke in the window, times his puff out, his hand fall, [ with growing disgust ] smiles at absent guests, sucks in all comers, arranges his web, lies there a spider.
LEN moves to above armchair in MARK’S room as lights fade up. Down centre area fades out.
What did you say?
MARK: I never said anything.
LEN: What do you do when you’re tired, go to bed?
MARK: That’s right.
LEN: You sleep like a log.
MARK: Yes.
LEN: What do you do when you wake up?
MARK: Wake up.
LEN: I want to ask you a question.
MARK: No doubt.
LEN: Are you prepared to answer questions?
MARK: No.
LEN: What do you do in the day when you’re not walking about?
MARK: I rest.
LEN: Where do you find a resting place?
MARK: Here and there.
LEN: By consent?
MARK: Invariably.
LEN: But you’re not particular?
MARK: Yes, I’m particular.
LEN: You choose your resting place?
MARK: Normally.
LEN: That might be anywhere?
MARK: Yes.
LEN: Does that content you?
MARK: Sure! I’ve got a home. I know where I live.
LEN: You mean you’ve got roots. Why haven’t I got roots? My house is older than yours. My family lived here. Why haven’t I got a home?
MARK: Move out.
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: What?
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: Who?
LEN: God.
MARK: God?
LEN: Do you believe in God?
MARK: Do I believe in God?
LEN: Yes.
MARK: Would you say that again?
LEN goes swiftly to shelf. Picks up biscuit jar. Offers to MARK .
LEN: Have a biscuit.
MARK: Thanks.
LEN: They’re your biscuits.
MARK: There’s two left. Have one yourself.
LEN puts biscuits away.
LEN: You don’t understand. You’ll never understand.
MARK: Really?
LEN: Do you know what the point is? Do you know what it is?
MARK: No.
LEN: The point is, who are you? Not why or how, not even what. I can see what, perhaps, clearly enough. But who are you? It’s no use saying you know who you are just because you tell me you can fit your particular key into a particular slot, which will only receive your particular key because that’s not foolproof and certainly not conclusive. Just because you’re inclined to make these statements of faithhas nothing to do with me. It’s not my business. Occasionally I believe I perceive a little of what you are but that’s pure accident. Pure accident on both our parts, the perceived and the perceiver. It’s nothing like an accident, it’s deliberate, it’s a joint pretence. We depend on these accidents, on these contrived accidents, to continue. It’s not important then that it’s conspiracy or hallucination. What you are, or appear to be to me, or appear to be to you, changes so quickly, so horrifyingly, I certainly can’t keep up with it and I’m damn sure you can’t either. But who you are I can’t even begin to recognize, and sometimes I recognize it so wholly, so forcibly, I can’t look, and how can I be certain of what I see? You have no number. Where am I to look, where am I to look, what is there to locate, so as to have some surety, to have some rest from this whole bloody racket? You’re the sum of so many reflections. How many reflections? Whose reflections? Is that what you consist of? What scum does the tide leave? What happens to the scum? When does it happen? I’ve seen what happens. But I can’t speak when I see it. I can only point a finger. I can’t even do that. The scum is broken and sucked back. I don’t see where it goes. I don’t see when, what do I see, what have I seen? What have I seen, the scum or the essence? What about it? Does all this give you the right to stand there and tell me you know who
Similar Books
