Luigi Pirandello

“ If death, my dear sir, were like one of those strange, loathsome insects you sometimes find walking up your coat sleeve. . . . Here you are, going along the side-walk. . . . A man comes up to you, all of a sudden—stops you, and then, cautiously, holding out two fingers of his hand, says to you—"Beg pardon—may I?" . . . And with those two fingers he skips the insect off! . . . Ah! . . . That would be fine! . . . But death isn't like one of those loathsome insects. Many people walk by you, but no one notices anything. They are all absorbed in what they are going to do to-morrow or the next day. ”

“ And yet, oftentimes some of them sit there, looking so carefully at one of their fingers, which is going round and round, making letters and numbers that have no meaning, on the varnished arm of the chair where they are sitting. They're thinking. They don't really see. (A pause.) But what a strange impression it makes on you, when, as you go through the waiting-room again, after you are through with the doctor, you catch a glimpse of that chair where you were sitting just a few moments before—anxious to have some opinion on your mysterious disease. ”

“ The pleasures we take in imagination—how do you suppose I came to think of a chair in one of those waiting-rooms in a doctor's office, where the patients sit waiting for their turn?
THE CUSTOMER: Yes—in fact—
MAN WITH THE FLOWER: You don't understand?—Neither do I. (A pause.) But the fact is that certain mental associations—oh! between things worlds apart—are so peculiar to each of us, and they are determined by considerations, experiences, habits of mind, so individual that people would never understand one another unless they avoided them when they talked. ”

“ Even this great misfortune—a real misfortune—yes, sir—four, five, ten years hence will have, who knows, what flavour for us? Who knows what keen enjoyment, mingled with its tears! And life—God! Life—the moment we think of losing it—especially when it is only a matter of days— (At this point, a woman, dressed in black, appears around the corner on the right.) ”

“ MAN WITH THE FLOWER: Well, you ought to thank God that you've nothing worse than annoyances!— (A pause.) Some of us, you know, are worse off than that! (A pause.) I'm telling you that I need to attach myself in my imagination to the lives other people lead. But—in my peculiar way—without pleasure—without any real interest, even—in such a way, in fact—yes, just so—in such a way, precisely, as to sense the annoyances they encounter. ”

“ Oh, I imagine so. Boys in the shops these days can wrap a bundle up quick as scat. (A pause.) What hands they have! . . . Here's a long strip of doubled paper—pink—with wavy lines—Ah! a sight for sore eyes! ”