A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE A monologue from the play by Oscar Wilde NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from A Woman of No Importance.

Oscar Wilde. London: Methuen & Co., 1916. MRS. ARBUTHNOT: I will never stand before God's altar and ask God's blessing on so hideous a mockery as a marriage between me and George Harford. I will not say the words the Church bids us to say. I will not say them. How could I swear to love the man I loathe, to honour him who wrought you dishonor, to obey him who, in his mastery, made me to sin? No; marriage is a sacrament for those who love each other. It is not for such as him, or such as me. Gerald, to save you from the world's sneers and taunts I have lied to the world. For twenty years I have lied to the world. I could not tell the truth. No, Gerald, no ceremony, Church-hallowed or State-made, shall ever bind me to George Harford. [Pause.] Men don't understand what mothers are. I am no different from other women except in the wrong done me and the wrong I did, and my very heavy punishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear you I had to look on death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it. Death fought with me for you. All women have to fight with death to keep their children. Death, being childless, wants our children from us. Gerald, when you were naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave you food. Night and day all that long winter I tended you. No office is too mean, no care too lowly for the thing we women love--and oh! how I loved you! And you needed love, for you were weakly, and only love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep any one alive. And boys are careless often, and without thinking give pain, and we always fancy that when they come to man's estate and know us better they will repay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from our side, and they make friends with whom they are happier than they are with us, and have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that are not ours; and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life bitter they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste its sweetness with them. . . . You made many friends and went into their houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the

sun and sat in darkness. My past was ever with me. . . . And you thought I didn't care for the pleasant things of life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them, feeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the poor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was I to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the love you did not need; lavished on them a love that was not theirs. . . . And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in Church duties. But where else could I turn? God's house is the only house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart, Gerald, too much in my heart. For though day after day, at morn or evensong, I have knelt in God's house, I never repented of my sin. How could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit. Even now that you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me than innocence. I would rather be your mother--oh! much rather!--than have been always pure. . . . Oh, don't you see? don't you understand! It is my dishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that has bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you--the price of soul and body--that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don't ask me to do this horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still!

THE FUGITIVE

A monologue from the play by John Galsworthy NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from The Fugitive: A Play in Four Acts. John Galsworthy. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1913. CLARE: My nerves have gone funny lately. It's being always on one's guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you, and dislike you being there. I curl up all the time. The only thing I know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him. The more I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been. I might come to anything-but not that. I'm spoilt. It's a curse to be a lady when you have to earn your living. It's not really been so hard, I suppose; I've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop girls. Lots of the girls are really nice. But somehow they don't want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here [She touches her breast] I don't want them! [Pause] Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping reduced gentlewomen to get work. I know now what they want: enough money not to work--that's all! Don't think me worse than I am--please! It's working under people; it's having to do it, being driven. I have tried, I've not been altogether a coward, really! But every morning getting there the same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every evening the same "Good evening, Miss Clare," "Good evening, Miss Simpson," "Good evening, Miss Hart," "Good evening, Miss Clare." And the same walk home, or the same bus; and the same men that you mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you. Oh! and the feeling--always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or anything. It was just like being ill, the way I've wanted to ride and dance and get out into the country. [Her excitement dies away into the old clipped composure] Don't think too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly!

THE CHOCOLATE AFFAIR

A monologue from the play by Stephanie Alison Walker download the complete text of The Chocolate Affair NOTE: This monologue is reprinted with the author's permission. All inquiries should be directed to the author at: stephawalker@gmail.com BEVERLY: I can't take it anymore!! I'm up every day at five. Every day. Up at five, go for a jog, take a shower, wake Sally, cook breakfastsomething healthyegg whites, flax, kale, organic coffee, sprouted wheat. Sit down with Dave and Sally for breakfast. Eat a tiny portion. Be sure to leave some on the plate. Always leave some on the plate. Get dressed. Something feminine, flattering. Kiss Dave goodbye. Make sure to give him a little something worth coming back home to. Check on Sally. Comb her hair. Pack her lunch. Wait with her for the bus. Hug her goodbye. Make sure that hug lasts all day long...that she feels your arms around her even at recess when the mean kids pick on her because their moms don't hug them enough. Then let go. Watch her walk away, board the bus. Choke back your tears. Taste the salt slide down the back of your throat. Go back inside. Check yourself in the mirror. Ugh. Turn around. Turn back hoping to see someone else. Cross through the kitchen. Pause. Feel the quiet of the empty house. No one watching. What can you eat? Open the pantry, look inside. Grab the jar of peanut butter. Unscrew the lid. Take a whiff. Stick your finger in the jar of peanut butter. Lick it off. Feel someone watching you. Shit. Turn around to face them. No one's there. Put the peanut butter away. Wash your hands, careful to remove any trace of peanut butter. Reapply lipstick. Head out the door. To work. Again. This isn't fun anymore. There's something wrong with me.

LOOK BACK IN ANGER by John Osborne

Alison explains to her husband, Jimmy, (whom she has not seen in months) how she lost their baby.

ALISON: It doesn't matter! I was wrong, I was wrong! I don't want to be neutral, I don't want to be a saint. I want to be a lost cause. I want to be corrupt and futile! (Her voice takes strength, and rises) Don't you understand? It's gone! It's gone! That - that helpless human being inside my body. I thought it was so safe, and secure in there. Nothing could take it from me. It was mine, my responsibility. But it's lost. (She slides to the floor) All I wanted was to die. I never knew what it was like. I didn't know it could be like that! I was in pain, and all I could think of was you, and what I'd lost. (Scarcely able to speak) I thought: if only - if only he could see me now, so stupid, and ugly and ridiculous. That is what he's been longing for me to feel. This is what he wants to splash about in! I'm in the fire, and I'm burning, and all I want to do is die! It's cost him his child, and any others I might have had! But what does it matter - this is what he wanted from me! (She raises her head to him) Don't you see! I'm in the mud at last! I'm groveling! I'm crawling! Oh, God(She collapses at his feet.)

Blanche du Bois from A Streetcar Named Desire would be an excellent character for the assignment. She's slowly losing grip on reality when the play begins. One that is most often used is: Blanche: I,I,I took the blows on my face and my body! All those deaths! The long parade to the graveyard. Father, Mother, Margaret that dreadful way. So big with it, she couldnt be put in a coffin, but had to be burned like rubbish! You came just in time for funerals Stella. And funerals are pretty compared to death. Funerals are quiet, but deaths not always. Sometimes their breathing is hoarse, sometimes it rattles, sometimes they cry out to you, "Dont let me go!" Even the old sometimes say it- "Don't let me go". As if you could stop them! Funerals are quiet, with pretty flowers. And oh, what lovely boxes they pack you away in! Unless you were there at the bed when they cried out "Hold me" you'd never suspect there was struggle for breath and bleeding. You didn't dream, but I saw! Saw! And now you sit there telling me with your eyes that I let the place go. How in hell do you think all that sickness and dying was paid for? Death is expensive Miss Stella! And old Cousin Jessie, right after Margaret's, hers! The Grim Reaper put his tent up on our doorstep! Stella, Belle Reve was his headquarters. Honey, that's how it slipped through my fingers. Which of them left us a fortune? Which of them left us a cent of insurance even? Only poor Jessie- one hundred to pay for her coffin. That was it Stella! And I with my pitiful salary at the school! Yes, accuse me! Sit there and stare at me, thinking I let the place go. I let the place go!

Where were you Stella? In bed with your Polack!

THE SERPENT'S TALE

A monologue from the play by Leonid Andreyev

Adapted for the stage by Walter Wykes NOTE: This monologue is reprinted with the author's permission. All inquiries should be directed to the author at: sandmaster@aol.com [A WOMAN sways rhythmically. Her eyes closed, she seems to be aware of nothing but the hypnotic movement of her own body. She is terribly beautiful.] [After a few moments, her eyes flash open, and a half-smile creeps across her face. She places a finger gently to her lips.] WOMAN: Shhh! Shhh! Shhh! Come closer. Look into my eyes! I always was a fascinating creature, you know. Tender, sensitive, thoughtful. I was wise beyond my years. And so flexible in the writhing of my graceful body. It will give you pleasure to watch me dancewill it not? Shall I dance for you? Shall I coil up into a ring? Shall I flash my scales and wind myself around? Shall I clasp you to my steel body in a gentle, cold embrace? One of many! One of many! Shhh! Shhh! Look into my eyes! Why do you look away? Dont you like my writhing and my straight, piercing gaze? Come closer. Come. Do you see my teeth? My white, sharp, enchanting little teeth? I used to bite when I kissed, you know. Not painfully, nojust a nibble. A tender caress. I would bite until the first bright drops of blood appeared, until a cry came forth which sounded like the tinkling of a bell. It was very pleasantdo not think otherwise; if my little bite was unwelcome, those whom I kissed would not have come back for morewould they? And they did come back! They came as if drawn by some irresistible forceby the pull of the

moon! They could not help themselves! And I kissed them many times! It is only now that I can kiss but oncehow sadonly once! One kiss for eachhow little that is for a loving heart, for a sensitive soul, striving for a perfect union! But it is only I, the sad one, who kiss but once, and must seek love againmy lover knows no other love after mine: to him my one, tender, nuptial kiss is binding and eternal. I will not deceive you. Be patient, and when my story is endedI will kiss you too. I love you. Look into my eyes. Is it not true that my eyes are magnificent and enchanting? Have you ever seen such a firm look, a straight look? It is steadfast, like steel forced against your heart. I look ahead and sway myself, I look and I enchant; in my green eyes I gather your fear, your loving, fatigued, submissive longing. Come closer. I am a queen now and you cannot fail to see my beauty; look into my pupil; I will narrow and widen it, and give it a peculiar glitterthe twinkling of a star at night, the playfulness of all precious stonesof diamonds, of green emeralds, of yellowish topaz, of blood-red rubies. Look into my eyes: It is I, the queenI am crowning myself, and that which is glittering, burning and glowingthat robs you of your reason, your freedom and your lifeit is poison. It is a drop of my venom. But I warned youdid I not? How has this happened? I cannot say. I bear you no ill-willyou nor the others. One of many! I love you. Do not laugh. If you do, I shall be cross. I shall not give myself to you. And I want to open my heart, my sensitive heart, I want to share with you everything, my whole being, my essence! I want you to understand my suffering. I want a consort, an equal, a perfect union but it is not possible. All my efforts are in vainI am alone. I will always be alone. My first and final kiss is full of rippling sorrow and the one I love is not here, and I must seek love again, and tell my tale from the beginning, if only to hear a familiar voicemy heart cannot bare itself, and the poison torments me and my head grows heavier. Am I not beautiful in my despair? Come closer. I am almost ready to kiss you.

Even now, I can taste the venom. I am preparing it for you. I am a queen! In this tiny drop, I carry death unto the living, and my kingdom is limitless, even as grief is limitless, even as death is limitless. I am a queen! My look is inexorable. My dance is terrible! I am beautiful! One of many! One of many! Look into my eyes. Do you see in them anything frighteninga terrible glimmer and a flash? Do you feel fear? Do the rays of my crown blind your eyes? Are you petrified? Are you lost? I shall soon dance my last dancedo not fall. I shall coil into rings, I shall flash my scales dimly, and I shall clasp my steel body to you in a gentle, cold embrace. Here I am! Accept my only kiss, my nuptial kissit is the deadly grief of all oppressed lives. One of many! One of many! I love you. Die!

THE MOB A monologue from the play by John Galsworthy NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from The Mob. John Galsworthy. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1914. HELEN: I've seen--a vision! I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it there were-dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then I saw-Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound, an awful wound here. [She touches her breast] The blood was running from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from somewhere, calling out: "Oh, God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out: "I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man who's going to kill. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along, so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him, Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there, he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got black again--and I could see a dark womanthing creeping, first to the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it touched him, and sprang away, and it cried out. [Pause--strangely calm] He's dead.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS A monologue from the novel by Emily Bront NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Wuthering Heights. Emily Bront. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1848. MRS. LINTON: How long is it since I shut myself in here? It seems a weary number of hours ... it must be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn't explain to Edgar how certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he persisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to escape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I'll tell you what I thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and worried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the panels aside: it struck the tabletop! I swept it along the carpet, and then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been temporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me!

You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don't you move?

Agnes of God written by John Pielmeier Agnes: [to an imaginary friend] Why are you crying? But I believe you. I do. (silence) Please, don't you leave me too. Oh no. Oh my God, O sweet Lady, don't leave me. Please, please don't leave me. I'll be good. I won't be your bad baby anymore. [She "sees" someone else] No, Mummy, I don't want to go with you. Stop pulling me. Your hands are hot. Don't touch me like that! Oh my God, Mummy, don't burn me! DON'T BURN ME! (Silence) I stood by the window of my room every night for a week. And one night I heard the most beautiful voice imaginable. It came from the middle of the wheat field beyond my room, and when I looked I saw the moon shining down on Him. For six nights He sang to me. Songs I'd never heard. And on the seventh night He came to my room and opened His wings and lay on top of me. And all the while He sang. [singing] "Charlie's neat and Charlie's sweet, And Charlie he's a dandy, Every time he goes to town He get's his girl some candy. Over the river and through the trees, Over the river to Charlie's. Over the river and through the trees To bake a cake for Charlie"

The Search for Intelligent Life in the Universe written by Jane Wagner & Lily Tomlin Trudy the Bag Lady: (near the play's beginning) Dial-switch me outta this! I got enough worries of my own. These trances are entertaining but distracting, especially since someone else has the remote control, and if the pause button should somehow get punched, I could have a neurotransmitter mental meltdown. Causes "lapses of the synapses." I forget things. Never underestimate the power of the human mind to forget. The other day, I forgot where I put my house keys --- looked everywhere, then I remembered... I don't have a house. I forget more important things, too. Like the meaning of life. I forget that. It'll come to me, though. Let's just hope when it does, I'll be in... My space chums say they're learning so much about us since they've begun to time-share my trances. They said to me, "Trudy, the human mind is so-o-o strange." I told 'em, "That's nothin' compared to the human genitals." Next to my trances they love goin' through my shopping bags. Once they found this old box of Cream of Wheat. I told 'em, "A box of cereal." But they saw it as a picture of infinity. You know how on the front is a picture of that guy holding up a box of Cream of Wheat and on that box is a picture of that guy holding up a box of Cream of Wheat and on that box is a picture of that guy holding up a box of Cream of Wheat and on that box is a picture of that guy holding up a box of Cream of Wheat... We think so different. They find it hard to grasp some things that come easy to us, because they simply don't have our frame of reference. I show 'em this can of Campbell's tomato soup. I say, "This is soup." Then I show 'em a picture of Andy Warhol's painting of a can of Campbell's tomato soup. I say, "This is art." "This is soup." "And this is art." Then I shuffle the two behind my back. Now what is this? No, this is soup and this is art! (near the play's ending) Hey, what's this? "Dear Trudy, thanks for making our stay here so jam-packed and fun-filled. Sorry to abort our mission -- it is not over, just temporarily scrapped. We have ordered to go to a higher biovibrational plane. Just wanted you to know, the neurochemical imprints of our cardiocortical experiences here on earth will remain with us always, but what we take with us into space that we cherish

the most is 'goose bump' experience." Did I tell you what happened at the play? We were at the back of the theater, standing there in the dark, all of a sudden I feel one of 'em tug my sleeve, whispers, "Trudy, look." I said, "Yeah, goose bumps. You definitely got goose bumps. You really like the play that much?" They said it wasn't gave 'em goose bumps, it was the audience. I forgot to tell 'em to watch the play; they'd been watching the audience! Yeah, to see a group of strangers sitting together in the dark, laughing and crying about the same things...that just knocked 'em out. They said, "Trudy, the play was soup...the audience...art." So they're taking goose bumps home with 'em. Goose bumps! Quite a souvenir. I like to think of them out there in the dark, watching us. Sometimes we'll do something and they'll laugh. Sometimes we'll do something and they'll cry. And maybe one day we'll do something so magnifcent, everyone in the universe will get goose bumps.

Trudy: Now, since I put reality on the backburner, my days are jampacked and fun filled. Like some days, I go hang out around seventh avenue; I love to do this old joke: I wait for some music-loving tourist form one of the hotels on central park to go up and ask someone "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" Then I run up and yell, "PRACTICE!". The expression on peoples' faces is priceless. I never could have done that stuff whe I was in my right mind. I'd be worried people would think I was crazy. When I think of all the fun I missed, I try not to be bitter. See, the human mind is like a.. pinata. When it breaks open, theres a lot of surprises inside. once you get in the pinata perspective, you see that losing your mind can be a peak experience. I was not always a bag lady, you know. I used to be the creative consultant. For big companies! Who do you think thought up the color sheme for Howard Johnson's? At the time, no one was using orange and aqua in the same room together. With fried clams. The only idea I'm proud of - my umbrella hat. Protects me against sunstroke, rain and muggers. For some reason, muggers steer clear of people wearing umbrella hats. Ever since my shock treatments I started having these time-space continum shifts, I guess you'd call it. Suddenly, it was like my central nervous system had a patio addition out back. not only do I have a linkup to extraterrestrial channels, I also got a hookup with humanity

as a whole. Animals and plants too. I used to talk to plants all the time. Then one day, they started talking back. They said, "Trudy, shut up!"

Trudy: Here we are standing on the corner of "Walk, Don't Walk." You look away form me, trying not to catch my eye, but you didn't turn fast enough, did you? I know what you're thinkin'; You're thinkin' I'm crazy. You think I give a hoot? You people look at my shopping bags, call me crazy 'cause I collect this junk. What should we call the ones who buy it? It's my belief we all, one time or another secretly ask ourselves the question, "Am I crazy?" In my case the answer came back: A resounding YES! The symptoms are subtle but unmistakable to the trained eye. For instance, here I am standing at the corner of "walk, don't walk" waiting for these aliens from outer space to show up. I call that crazy don't you? if I were sane, I should be waiting for the light like everyone else. They're late, as usual. You'd think, as much as they know about time travel, they could be on time once in a while. I could kick myself. I told them I'd meet 'em on the corner of "walk, Dont walk" 'round lunchtime. Do they even know what lunch means? I doubt it. When they get here they'll probably dying to know what "lunchtime" means and when they find out it means going to Howard Johnson's for fried clams, I wonder, will they be a bit let down? I dread having to explain tartar sauce.