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16 Cards in this Set
- Front
- Back
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I'm rather proud; I taught her all the rhetoric she knows. |
So you want me back. |
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She thinks I do. She thinks the need for loving never stops. |
She's got a point. I marvel at you: after all these years, still like a democratic drawbridge, going down for everybody. |
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At my age, there's not much traffic any more. |
To your interminable health. Well, wife, what's on your mind? |
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Oh, Henry, we have made a mess of it. |
Yes, haven't we. |
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Could we have done it worse? |
You look like Doomsday. |
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Late nights do that to me. Am I puffy? |
Possibly: it's hard to tell; there's all that natural sag. |
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I've just seen Richard. |
Splendid boy. |
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He says you fought. |
We always do. |
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It's his impression that you plan to disinherit them. |
I fancy I'll relent. Don't you? |
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I don't much care. In fact, I wonder, Henry, if I care for anything. I wonder if I'm hungry out of habit and if all my lusts, like passion in a poem, aren't really recollections. |
I could listen to you lie for hours. So your lust is rusty. Gorgeous. |
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I'm so tired, Henry. |
Sleep, then. Sleep and dream of me with croutons. Henri a la mode de Caen. |
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Henry, stop it. |
Eleanor, I haven't even started. |
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What is it you want? You want the day? You've carried it. It's yours. I'm yours. |
My what? You are my what? |
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Your anything at all. You want my name on paper? I'll sign anything. You want the Aquitaine for John? It's John's. It's his, it's yours, it's anybody's. Take it. |
In exchange for what? |
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For nothing, for a little quiet, for an end to this, for God's sake sail me back to England, lock me up and lose the key and let me be alone. You have my oath. I give my word. Oh. Well. Well, well. |
Would you like a pillow? Footstool? What about a shawl? Your oaths are all profanities. Your word's a curse. Your name on paper is a waste of pulp. I'm villifying you, for God's sake. Pay attention. Eleanor! Don't do that. |
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Like any thinking person, I should like to think there was - I don't care whose or which - some God. Not out of fear: death is a lark; it's life that stings. But if there were some God, then I'd exist in his imagination, like Antigone in Sophocles. I'd have no contradictions, no confusions, no waste parts or misplaced elements and then, oh, Henry, then I'd make some sense. I'd be a queen in Arcady and not an animal in chaos. How, from where we started, did we ever reach this Christmas? |
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