verbava все записи автора David Henry Hwang – M. Butterfly

The sad truth is that all men want a beautiful woman, and the uglier the man, the greater the want.

***

Gallimard: It's... a pure sacrifice. He's unworthy, but what can she do? She loves him... so much. It's a very beautiful story.
Song: Well, yes, to a Westerner.
Gallimard: Exuse me?
Song: It's one of your favotite fantasies, isn't it? The submissive Oriental woman and the cruel white man.

***

Consider it this way: what would you say if a blond homecoming queen fell in love with a short Japanese businessman? He treats her cruelly, then goes home for three years, during which time she prays to his picture and turns down marriage from a young Kennedy. Then, when she learns he has remarried, she kills herself. Now I believe you should consider this girl to be a deranged idiot, correct? But because it's an Oriental who kills herself for a Westerner–ah!–you find it beautiful.

***

Helga: What is that Madame Su says? "We are a very old civilization." I never know if she's talking about her country or herself.
Gallimard: I walk around here, all I hear every day, everywhere is how old this culture is. The fact that "old" may be synonymous with "senile" doesn't occur to them.

***

We are all prisoners of our time and place.

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Perhaps there is nothing more rare than to find a woman who passionately listens.

***

It just hangs there. This little... flap of flesh. And there's so much fuss that we make about it. I think the reason we fight wars is because we wear clothes. Because no one knows–between the men, I mean–who has the bigger... weenie. So. if I’m a guy with a small one, I’m going to build a really big building or take over a really big piece of land or write a really long book so the other men don’t know, right? But see, it never really works, that's the problem. I mean, you conquer the country, or whatever, but you’re still wearing clothes, so there’s no way to prove absolutely whose is bigger or smaller. And that’s what we call a civilized society. The whole world run by a bunch of men with pricks the size of pins.

***

Even the softest skin becomes like leather to a man who's touched it too often. I confess I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to become another woman.

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Now I see – we are always most revolted by the things hidden within us.

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Happiness is so rare that our mind can turn somersaults to protect it.

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Song: Miss Chin? Why, in the Peking Opera, are women's roles played by men?
Chin: I don't know. Maybe, a reactionary remnant of male—
Song: No. Because only a man knows how a woman is supposed to act.

***

Gallimard: You have to do what I say! I'm conjuring you up in my mind!
Song: Rene, I've never done what you've said. Why should it be any different in your mind?

***

Tonight, I've finally learned to tell fantasy from reality. And, knowing the difference, I choose fantasy.

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