They brought a woman from the street And made her sit in the stalls By threats By bribes By flattery Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors
But I don't understand art
Sit still, they said
But I don't want to see sad things
Sit still, they said
And she listened to everything Understanding some things But not others Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again, said
If that's art I think it is hard work It was beyond me So much beyond my actual life
But something troubled her Something gnawed her peace And she came a second time, armoured with friends
Sit still, she said
And again, she listened to everything This time understanding different things This time untroubled that some things Could not be understood Laughing rarely but now without shame Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again said
This is art, it is hard work And one friend said, too hard for me And the other said, if you will I will come again Because I found it hard I felt honoured
“The
most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you
get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that
seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size
when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most
important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried,
like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And
you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look
at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why
you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were
saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked
within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”
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