'And it's not even the play that's the thing,' he said. 'To continue the analogy, in the old days anyone who felt like it could fling a rotten egg at the stage. Today, however, it's the actors who are more likely to rake the hall with machine-gun fire -- they might even toss out a bomb. Think about it, who would you rather be right now? An actor or a member of the audience?'
This was a serious question.
p.6, in novel, Buddha's Little Finger, by Victor Pelevin,
Congress is audience. Citizens and ordinary people are paying for the play. The Supreme Court dresses as supporting extras called when needed. The rest of the world -- those not written into antagonist part in script -- serve at the will of lead actors and hidden producers. Earlier proponents of the Theater of the Absurd are surprised at their prescience. On stage thousands of lines echo in repetitive cavernous staccato, "Alas (Alas) poor (poor) Yorick (Yorick)!" We have to consider that the man of infinite jest remains in the melancholy hands of a sullen actor heading pell-mell toward a tragic conclusion.
Unfortunately the monologues of single-minded men mute intelligent dialogues of thoughtful casts of billions for whom the play is passing strange in its exclusion of their lives.
'And what was the poem about?'
'Oh, it was completely abstract. It was about the stream of time washing away the wall of the present so that new patterns keep appearing on it, and we call some of them the past. Our memory tells us that yesterday really existed, but how can we be sure that all these memories did not simply appear with the first light of dawn?'
'I don't quite understand,' said Vorblei.
'Neither do I,' I said. 'But that's not the point.'
Sara read a lime from her work in progress this afternoon -- it spoke about a pointing finger that thought of itself as a knife. In the case of the absurd drama being enacted at America's National House Theater -- the star actor thinks of himself as Fantasy Marquee Idol. Act two is ending.
The curtain parts. He stands alone.
There is no third act. No ovation.
Only blank stare into footlights.
Who is the joker?
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
(-- Hamlet | Act 5, Scene 1)
I always thought the ending was such a waste.
Would we not the same...