DRAMA CAMP
Sample Monologues for Men
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William Shakespeare: Henry V
King
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household wordsHarry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and GloucesterBe in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberedWe few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
William Shakespeare: Twelfth Night
Claudio
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thought
Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Sweet sister, let me live:
What sin you do to save a brother's life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far
That it becomes a virtue.
William Shakespeare: The Tempest
Trinculo
Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off
any weather at all, and another storm brewing;
I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black
cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul
bombard that would shed his liquor. If it
should thunder as it did before, I know not
where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot
choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we
here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish:
he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest PoorJohn. A strange fish! Were I in England now,
as once I was, and had but this fish painted,
not a holiday fool there but would give a piece
of silver: there would this monster make a
man; any strange beast there makes a man:
when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame
beggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead
Indian. Legged like a man and his fins like
arms! Warm o' my troth! I do now let loose
my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish,
but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a
thunderbolt.
[Thunder]
Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to
creep under his gaberdine; there is no other
shelter hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past.
William Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Bottom
[Awaking] When my cue comes, call me, and I will
answer: my next is, 'Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho!
Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout,
the tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stolen 1765
hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare
vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to
say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go
about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there
is no man can tell what. Methought I was,—and
methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if
he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye
of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not
seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue
to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream
was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of
this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream,
because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the
latter end of a play, before the duke:
peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall
sing it at her death.
William Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Puck
My mistress with a monster is in love.
Near to her close and consecrated bower,
While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,
That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,
Were met together to rehearse a play
Intended for great Theseus' nuptial-day.
The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,
Who Pyramus presented, in their sport
Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake
When I did him at this advantage take,
An ass's nole I fixed on his head:
Anon his Thisbe must be answered,
And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,
Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,
Rising and cawing at the gun's report,
Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,
So, at his sight, away his fellows fly;
And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls;
He murder cries and help from Athens calls.
Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears
thus strong,
Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;
For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;
Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all
things catch.
I led them on in this distracted fear,
And left sweet Pyramus translated there:
When in that moment, so it came to pass,
Titania waked and straightway loved an ass.
William Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Oberon
I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady: thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove
More fond on her than she upon her love:
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
William Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Lysander
I am, my lord, as well derived as he,
As well possess'd; my love is more than his;
My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,
If not with vantage, as Demetrius';
And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
I am beloved of beauteous Hermia:
Why should not I then prosecute my right?
Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,
Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,
And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,
Upon this spotted and inconstant man.
William Shakespeare: Julius Caesar
Brutus
Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that
you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar
was no less than his. If then that friend demand
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:
--Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live
all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;
as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was
valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I
slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his
fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his
ambition. Who is here so base that would be a
bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If
any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so
vile that will not love his country? If any, speak;
for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
William Shakespeare: Julius Caesar
Antony
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men-Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
Oscar Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Dorian
This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I must admit that I was
rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place.
Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act.
There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a cracked
piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the play
began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice,
and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the lowcomedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the
pit. They were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a
country booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little
flower-like face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were
violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I
had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty,
mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for
the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very
low at first, with deep, mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. Then it
became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. In the garden scene it
had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are
singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violets. You know
how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall
never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different.
I don't know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is
everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind,
and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb,
sucking the poison from her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest
of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad,
and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter herbs
to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never
appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever
transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can
always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the Park in the morning,
and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile, and their
fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is!
Harry! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"
Neil Simon: Lost in Yonkers
Jay
Don't do it , Arty...Leave him alone, Uncle Louie. You want the bag open, do it yourself.
Maybe you don't rob banks or grocery stores or little old women. You're worse than that.
You're a bully. You pick on a couple of kids. Your own nephews. You make fun of my father
because he cried and was afraid of Grandma. Well, everyone in Yonkers is afraid of
Grandma...And let me tell you something about my father. At least he's doing something in
this war. He sick and he's tired but he's out there selling iron to make ships, and tanks and
cannons, and I'm proud of him. What are you doing? Hiding in your mother's apartment
and scaring little kids and acting like Humphrey Bogart...Well, you're no Humphrey
Bogart...And I'll tell you something else-No. That'sall.
William Shakespeare: The Merchant of Venice
Shylock
To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,
it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,
what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian
wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by
Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you
teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I
will better the instruction.
William Shakespeare: Much Ado About Nothing
Benedick
O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! 620
an oak but with one green leaf on it would have
answered her; my very visor began to assume life and
scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been
myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was
duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest 625
with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood
like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at
me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs:
if her breath were as terrible as her terminations,
there were no living near her; she would infect to 630
the north star. I would not marry her, though she
were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before
he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have
turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make
the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find 635
her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God
some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while
she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a
sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they
would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror 640
and perturbation follows her.
William Shakespeare: Much Ado About Nothing
Benedick
This can be no trick: the
conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of
this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it
seems her affections have their full bent. Love me!
why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: 1030
they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive
the love come from her; they say too that she will
rather die than give any sign of affection. I did
never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy
are they that hear their detractions and can put 1035
them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a
truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis
so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving
me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor
no great argument of her folly, for I will be 1040
horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,
because I have railed so long against marriage: but
doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat
in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. 1045
Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of
the brain awe a man from the career of his humour?
No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would
die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I
were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! 1050
she's a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in
her.
Sophocles: Antigone
Creon
Yea, this, my son, should by thy heart's fixed law--in all things to obey thy father's will. 'Tis
for this that men pray to see dutiful children grow up around them in their homes--that
such may requite their father's foe with evil, and honour, as their father doth, his friend.
But he who begets unprofitable children--what shall we say that he hath sown, but troubles
for himself, and much triumph for his foes? Then do not thou, my son, at pleasure's beck,
dethrone thy reason for a woman's sake; knowing that this is a joy that soon grows cold in
clasping arms--an evil woman to share thy bed and thy home. For what wound could strike
deeper than a false friend? Nay, with loathing, and as if she were thine enemy, let this girl
go to find a husband in the house of Hades. For since I have taken her, alone of all the city,
in open disobedience, I will not make myself a liar to my people--I will slay her. So let her
appeal as she will to the majesty of kindred blood. If I am to nurture mine own kindred in
naughtiness, needs must I bear with it in aliens. He who does violence to the laws, or thinks
to dictate to his rulers, such a one can win no praise from me. No, whomsoever the city may
appoint, that man must be obeyed, in little things and great, in just things and unjust; and I
should feel sure that one who thus obeys would be a good ruler no less than a good subject,
and in the storm of spears would stand his ground where he was set, loyal and dauntless at
his comrade's side. But disobedience is the worst of evils. This it is that ruins cities; this
makes homes desolate; by this, the ranks of allies are broken into headlong rout: but, of the
lives whose course is fair, the greater part owes safety to obedience. Therefore we must
support the cause of order, and in no wise suffer a woman to worst us. Better to fall from
power, if we must, by a man's hand; then we should not be called weaker than a woman.
Sophocles: Antigone
Haemon
Father, the gods implant reason in men, the highest of all things that we call our own. Not
mine the skill--far from me be the quest!--to say wherein thou speakest not aright; and yet
another man, too, might have some useful thought. At least, it is my natural office to watch,
on thy behalf, all that men say, or do, or find to blame. For the dread of thy frown forbids
the citizen to speak such words as would offend thine ear; but I can hear these murmurs in
the dark, these moanings of the city for this maiden; "No woman," they say, "ever merited
her doom less--none ever was to die so shamefully for deeds so glorious as hers; who, when
her own brother had fallen in bloody strife, would not leave him unburied, to be devoured
by carrion dogs, or by any bird:--deserves not she the meed of golden honour?" Such is the
darkling rumour that spreads in secret. For me, my father, no treasure is so precious as thy
welfare. What, indeed, is a nobler ornament for children than a prospering sire's fair fame,
or for sire than son's? Wear not, then, one mood only in thyself; think not that thy word,
and thine alone, must be right. For if any man thinks that he alone is wise--that in speech,
or in mind, he hath no peer--such a soul, when laid open, is ever found empty. No, though a
man be wise, 'tis no shame for him to learn many things, and to bend in season. Seest thou,
beside the wintry torrent's course, how the trees that yield to it save every twig, while the
stiff-necked perish root and branch? And even thus he who keeps the sheet of his sail taut,
and never slackens it, upsets the boat, and finishes his voyage with keel uppermost. Nay,
forego thy wrath; permit thyself to change. For if I, a younger man, may offer my thought, it
were far best, I ween, that men should be all-wise by nature; but, otherwise--and oft the
scale inclines not so--'tis good also to learn from those who speak aright.
William Shakespeare: Macbeth
Macbeth
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.]
I go, and it is done. The bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
Mark Twain: The Diaries of Adam and Eve
Adam
She has no discrimination. She takes to all the animals--all of them! She thinks they are all
treasures, every new one is welcome. When the brontosaurus came striding into camp, she
regarded it as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that is a good sample of the lack of
harmony that prevails in our views of things. She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to
make it a present of the homestead and move out. She believed it could be tamed by kind
treatment and would be a good pet; I said a pet twenty-one feet high and eighty-four feet
long would be no proper thing to have about the place, because, even with the best
intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down on the house and mash it, for
any one could see by the look of its eye that it was absent-minded. Still, her heart was set
upon having that monster, and she couldn't give it up. She thought we could start a dairy
with it, and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky. The sex wasn't right,
and we hadn't any ladder anyway. Then she wanted to ride it, and look at the scenery.
Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she thought she
could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got to the steep place it was too slick and
down she came, and would have hurt herself but for me. Was she satisfied now? No.
Nothing ever satisfies her but demonstration; untested theories are not in her line, and she
won't have them. It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I feel the influence of it; if I
were with her more I think I should take it up myself. Well, she had one theory remaining
about this colossus: she thought that if we could tame it and make him friendly we could
stand in the river and use him for a bridge. It turned out that he was already plenty tame
enough--at least as far as she was concerned--so she tried her theory, but it failed: every
time she got him properly placed in the river and went ashore to cross over him, he came
out and followed her around like a pet mountain. Like the other animals. They all do that.
Read more at
Mark Twain: The Diaries of Adam and Eve
Adam
This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way. It is always hanging around
and following me about. I don't like this; I am not used to company. I wish it would stay
with the other animals. I get no chance to name anything myself. The new creature names
everything that comes along, before I can get in a protest. And always that same pretext is
offered--it LOOKS like the thing. There is a dodo, for instance. Says the moment one looks at
it one sees at a glance that it "looks like a dodo." It will have to keep that name, no doubt. It
wearies me to fret about it, and it does no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo
than I do. I built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to myself in peace. The
new creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with,
and wiped it away with the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other
animals make when they are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is always talking. The
naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do. I had a very good name for the
estate, and it was musical and pretty--GARDEN OF EDEN. Privately, I continue to call it that,
but not any longer publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery,
and therefore has no resemblance to a garden. Says it LOOKS like a park, and does not look
like anything BUT a park. Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named
NIAGARA FALLS PARK. This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me. And already there
is a sign up: KEEP OFF THE GRASS. My life is not as happy as it was. She has littered the
whole estate with execrable names and offensive signs: THIS WAY TO THE WHIRLPOOL;
THIS WAY TO GOAT ISLAND; CAVE OF THE WINDS THIS WAY. I escaped last Tuesday
night, and traveled two days, and built me another shelter in a secluded place, and
obliterated my tracks as well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which
she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise again, and shedding that
water out of the places she looks with. I was obliged to return with her, but will presently
emigrate again when occasion offers. She engages herself in many foolish things; among
others; to study out why the animals called lions and tigers live on grass and flowers, when,
as she says, the sort of teeth they wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each
other. This is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each other, and that would
introduce what, as I understand, is called "death"; and death, as I have been told, has not
yet entered the Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.
Fyodor Dostoevsky: Crime and Punishment
Marmeladov
Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina
Ivanovna, my spouse is a person of education and an officer’s daughter. Granted, granted, I
am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by
education. And yet … oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every
man ought to have at least one place where people feel for him!! But Katerina Ivanovna,
though she is magnanimous, she is unjust.… And yet, although I realise that when she pulls
my hair she only does it out of pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair,
young man, but, my God, if she would but once.… But no, no! It’s all in vain and it’s no use
talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more than once she
has felt for me but … such is my fate and I am a beast by nature! Do you know, sir, do you
know, I have sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes—that would be more or less
in the order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair
shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live in
a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too.
We have three little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she
is scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she’s been used to cleanliness from
a child. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you
suppose I don’t feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try
to find sympathy and feeling in drink.… I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!