Four files so far.
LESSONS:
Mono Studies: Chekhov, Uncle Vanya
VOITSKI: He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches, and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired, absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth like a demi-god! And look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her. His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom to him. Why? What for? Such fidelity is false and unnatural. It is thought immoral for a woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire from her heart--this is allowed!
From THR121:
Keri Iles' interesting little monologue...I hope I don't butcher it in class.
Slow Dance on the Killing Ground, by William Hanley
The scene in which this monologue takes place finds Rosie(my character), a
young, pregnant girl, in a store in a bad neighborhood in New York City at
midnight. The shopkeeper takes her into the store after she faints outside. In
the monologue, Rosie explains her situation to those present.
"If you knew me better, you'd see that this is exactly this kind of thing that's
likely to happen to me. Getting knocked up, I mean. The point is it was my first
time, I was a virgin before that. Wouldn't you know it, I'd get caught? Aside
from everything else, I'm not very lucky either. You see, if I was lucky, Harold
and I could've succumbed to our silly little passion and that would've been
that, the end of it. And New Rochelle, of all places. At least if it'd been in some
nice apartment in the Village, say, with the sounds coming through the
window of traffic and people, the breeze blowing the curtains by the bed, like
in the movies. But no. I lost my virginity in the attic of an old house in New
Rochelle. Harold's grandmother's house. On a rainy day in spring on the floor
of the attic in his grandmother's house, listening to the rain on the roof,
breathing the dust of old things....And what comes next but his grandmother
who was supposed to be in the city for the day. But instead she's suddenly
standing in the door to the attic, attracted there, no doubt, by the scuffling
sounds of the imminent consummation. So she's standing ther, screaming:
'Stop that! Stop that this instant!' Needless to say, it was out of the question.
Stopping. At that particular moment. I mean, sex is like a flight over the sea,
one reaches the point of no return....I guess it sounds funny now, but, you
know, at the time....it was pretty rotten. Sordid, I mean....it wasn't at all the way
it's supposed to be. And Harold, of all people. A girl finds herself in this
predicament, this condition, she'd at least like to be able to think of the cause
of it as being some clever, handsome guy with charm and experience, just
returned from spending a year in Rome, say, on a Guggenheim fellowship.
But Harold,....Harold is six foot two, about a hundred and twenty five pounds,
tops, an Economics major at CCNY....That's about the best I'll ever be able to
do, I know it. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I've been walking around
with my face down to here and my mother kept saying, 'What's the matter with
you, anyway, I just don't know what's gotten into you lately.' So, finally, I told
her: a kid named Harold, as a matter of fact....Oh, well, I just keep telling
myself: 'Remember Rosie, like in the song...someday my prince will
come...Snow White...."
