monologue

She loves me, loves me not; loves—loves me not; loves—loves me not…[Laughing]

You see, my mother doesn’t love me, and why would she?

She likes life, and love, and gay clothes, and I’m already twenty five years old; a sufficient reminder to her that she is no longer young.

When I am away she is only thirty two, in my presence she is forty-three and she hates me for it.

She knows too, that I despise the modern stage. She adores it-

-and imagines that she’s working on it for the benefit of humanity and her sacred art, but to me the theatre is merely a vehicle of convention and prejudice.

When the curtain rises on that little three walled room,

When those mighty geniuses, those high priests of art, show us people in the act of eating, drinking, loving, walking, and wearing their coats,

and attempt to extract a moral from their insipid talk;

When playwrights give us under a thousand different guises the same, same, SAME old stuff, then I must needs run from it.

As maupassant ran from the Eiffel Tower that was about to crush him by its vulgarity

What we need are different artistic forms, and if we don’t get new ones, then just…it would be better if we had nothing at all.