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George (savagely): That's good! Oh yes! And what about you?

Ruth (off her balance): What about me?

George: What are you doing here? All right, you've had your go at me. But what about yourself?

Ruth: Well?

George: Oh, don't be so innocent, Ruth. This house! This room! This hideous. God-awful room!

Ruth: Aren't you being just a little insulting?

George: I'm simply telling you what you very well know. They may be your relations, but have you honestly got one tiny thing in common with any of them? These people

Ruth: Oh, no! Not these people! Please not that! After all, they don't still keep coals in the bath.

George: I didn't notice. Have you looked at them? Have you listened to them? They don't merely act and talk like caricatures! That's what is so terrifying. Put any of them on a stage, and no one would take them seriously for one minute! They think in cliches, they talk in them, they even feel in them and, brother, that's an achievement! Their existence is one great lich that they carry about with them like a snail in his little house and they live in it and die in it!

 

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, , , . , , , : a truth, a faith, a generation of men goes and is forgotten, and it does not matter! (J. Conrad. The Nigger of the Narcissus).

, : Please not that! (suspension marks). . , , , :

Pozzo: You took me for Godot. Estragon: Oh no, sir, not for an instant, sir. Pozzo: Who is he?

Vladimir: Oh, he's a... he's a kind of acquaintance.

Estragon: Nothing of the kind, we hardly know him.

Vladimir: True... we don't know him very well... but all the same...

Estragon: Personally I wouldn't even know him if I saw him.

Pozzo: You took me for him.

Estragon (recoiling before Row): That's to say... you understand... the dusk... the strain... waiting... I confess... I imagined... for a second...

Pozzo: Why, it's very natural, very natural. I myself in your situation, if I had an appointment with a Godin... Godet... Godot... anyhow you see who I mean, I'd wait till it was black night before I gave up.

(S. Becket. Waiting for Godot)

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You'd try. I know you'd try. Perhaps... But he had no idea himself how that sentence was supposed to finish.

(Gr. Greene. The Heart of the Matter}

 

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Olwen: Martin didn't shoot himself.

Freda: Martin didn't

Olwen: Of course he didn't. I shot him.

 

(J.B. Priestley. Dangerous Corner)

 

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Billy: Jean, if ever you're in any kind of trouble, you will come to

me now, won't you?

Jean: I will.

Billy: I mean it. Now look there's just the two of us here. Promise

me you'll come and tell me.

Jean: Of course I will, but there's nothing

Billy: I'm not fooling about, I'm serious. Phoebe will be back any

minute, and I don't want her to know. I want you to promise me...

Jean: I promise you. If there is anything

Billy: If it's money, mind

Jean: Well, I tell you I've just

Billy: I've got a few pounds in the Post Office. Not much, mind you, but I've got a few pounds. Nobody knows, so not to say a word, mind.

 

(J. Osborne. The Entertainer}

 

- , . - (time filler) er, ugh, well, so: You come here after dark, and you go after dark. It's so so ignoble (Gr. Greene. The Heart of the. Matter).

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After great pain, a formal feeling comes

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs

The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,

And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

 

The Feet, mechanical, go round

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought

Regardless grown,

A Quarts contentment, like a stone

 

This is the Hour of Lead

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow

First Chill then Stupor then the letting go

 

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TRIUMPHAL MARCH

 

Stone, bronze, stone, steel, stone, oakleaves, horses' heels over the paving.

And the flags. And the trumpets. And so many eagles.

How many? Count them. And such a press of people.

We hardly knew ourselves that day, or knew the City.

This is the way to the temple, and we so many crowding the way.

So many waiting, how many waiting? What did it matter, on such a day?

Are they coming? No, not yet. You can see some eagles.

And hear the trumpets.

Here they come. Is he coming?

 

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Stone. Bronze. Stone. Steel. Stone. Oakleaves. Horses' heels.

Over the paving.

 

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The telegram from the War Office regret to inform... killed in action... Their Majesties' sympathy... went to the home address in the country, and was opened by Mrs Winterbourne. Such an excitement for her, almost a pleasant change, for it was pretty dull in the country just after the Armistice. She was sitting by the fire, yawning over her twenty-second lover the affair had lasted nearly a year when the servant brought the telegram. It was addressed to Mr Winterbourne, but of course she opened it; she had an idea that one of those women was after her husband, who however, was regrettably chaste, from cowardice.

Mrs Winterbourne liked drama in private life. She uttered a most creditable shriek, clasped both hands to her rather soggy bosom, and pretended to faint. The lover, one of those nice, clean, sporting Englishmen with a minimum of intelligence and an infinite capacity of being gulled by females, especially the clean English sort, clutched her unwillingly and automatically but with quite an Ethel M. Dell appearance of emotion, and exclaimed:

Darling, what is it? Has he insulted you again?

Poor old Winterbourne was incapable of insulting anyone, but it was a convention always established between Mrs Winterbourne and her lovers that Winterbourne insulted her, when his worst taunt had been to pray earnestly for her conversion to the True Faith, along with the rest of poor misguided England.

In low moaning tones, founded on the best tradition of sensational fiction, Mrs Winterbourne feebly ejaculated:

Dead, dead, dead!

Who's dead? Winterbourne?

(Some apprehension perhaps in the attendant Sam Browne he would have to propose, of course, and might be accepted.)

They've killed him, those vile, filthy foreigners. My baby son.

Sam Browne, still mystified, read the telegram. He then stood to

attention, saluted (although not wearing a cap), and said solemnly:

A clean sportin' death, an Englishman's death.

(When Huns were killed it was neither clean nor sportin', but served the beggars (......, among men) right.)

 

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