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The Doctor (Margaretha Krook) I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of
being--not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you
are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be
exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a
lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to
talk, so that you don't have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn't play any
parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical.
Your hiding place isn't watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and
you're forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you're genuine
or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either.
I understand why you don't speak, why you don't move, why you've created a part
for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with
this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you
can leave it, just as you've left your other parts one by one. |
