Christopher Fry

There may always be another reality to make fiction of the truth we think we've arrived at.

THOMAS GuiltyOf mankind. I have perpetrated human nature. My father and mother were accessories before the fact, But there__l be no accessories after the fact, By my virility there won__! Just see me As I am, like a perambulating Vegetable, patched with inconsequential Hair, looking out of two small jellies for the meansOf life, balanced on folding bones, my sexNo Beauty but a blemish to be hiddenBehind judicious rags, driven and scorched By boomerang rages and lunacies which neverTouch the accommodating artichokeOr the seraphic strawberry beaming in its bed:I defend myself against pain and death by painAnd death, and make the world go round, they tell meBy one of my less lethal appetites:Half this grotesque life I spend in a state Of slow decomposition, using The name of unconsidered God as a pedestal On which I stand and bray that I__ bestOf beasts, until under some patientMoon or other I fall to pieces, Like a cake of dung. Is there a slut would Hold this in her arms and put her lips against it?JENNETSluts are only human. By a quirkOf unastonished nature, your obscene Decaying figure of vegetable funCan drag upon a woman__ heart, as thoughHeaven were dragging up the roots of hell. What is to be done? Something compels us into The terrible fallacy that man is desirable and there__ no escaping into truth. The crimesAnd cruelties leave us longing, and campaigning Love still pitches his tent of light amongThe suns and moons. You may be decay and a platitudeOf flesh, but I have no other such memory of life. You may be corrupt as ancient applies, well thenCorruption is what I most willingly harvest. You are Evil, Hell, the Father of Lies; if soHell is my home and my days of good were a holiday:Hell is my hill and the world slopes away from itInto insignificance. I have come suddenlyUpon my heart and where it is I see no help for.

Comedy is an escape, not from truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith.

What after all, is a halo? It's only one more thing to keep clean.

Between our birth and death we may touch understanding, As a moth brushes a window with its wing.

What after all is a halo? It's only one more thing to keep clean.

We must each find our separate meaning in the persuasion of our days until we meet in the meaning of the world.

Who apart From ourselves can see any difference between Our victories and our defeats?

The best thing we can do is to make wherever we're lost look as much like home as we can.