Post by Tanzoria on May 5, 2019 4:47:22 GMT -5
Jabberwocky: Get me the Mad Islander, please.
Woonsocket: What did he die of? Did they say?
Jabberwocky: He died of a busted belly.
Woon: There was once greatness in the man.
Jabberwocky: Can I quote you in the obituary?
Woon: Write anything you damn—write anything you please.
Jabberwockt: How do you write an obituary for a man who’s been dead thirty years? Operator? Say, what’d he say to the minister? You know, that fits. He delivered his own obituary. Where’d you put that—oh, there it is. His book! It was Proverbs, wasn’t it?
Woon: “He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise in heart.”
Jabberwocky: Wow. Wow, Col. Woon, we’re growing an odd crop of agnostics this year.
Woon: You know, Jabberwocky, I’m getting damn sick of you.
Jabberwocky: Why?
Woon: You never push a noun against a verb except to blow up something.
Jabberwocky: You know, that’s a typical lawyer’s trick—accusing the accuser.
Woon: What am I accused of?
Jabberwocky: Contempt of conscience. Sentimentality in the first degree.
Woon: Why—because I refuse to erase a man’s lifetime?
Jabberwocky: No. Because you know what I thought of him, and I know what you thought, so let’s leave the lamentations to the illiterate. What is this—“Be Kind to Bigots Week?” Why should we weep for him? ‘Cause he’s dead! Besides, he cried enough for himself during his lifetime. The National Tearduct from Dingo Island. Oh ho, he flooded the nation like a one-man Mississippi. You know what he was, that bible-beating bunko artist!
Woon: A giant once lived in that body. But Anartonia got lost because he looked for God too high up and too far away.
Jabberwocky: You hypocrite. You fraud. The atheist who believes in God. You’re just as religious as he was.
Woon: Everything is grist for your mill—isn’t it? Well, go ahead, grind it up: Anartonia’s past, Louisistan's future. My God. Don’t you understand the meaning of what happened here today?
Jabberwocky: What happened here today has no meaning.
Woon: You have no meaning; you’re like a ghost pointing an empty sleeve and smirking at everything that people feel or want or struggle for. I pity you.
Jabberwocky: You pity me?
Woon: Isn’t there anything? Wha—what touches you? What warms you? Every man has a dream. What do you dream about, what do you need? You don’t need anything, do you? People, love. An idea, just to cling to. You poor slob. You’re all alone. When you go to your grave, there won’t be anyone to pull the grass up over your head. Nobody to mourn you, nobody to give a damn. You’re all alone.
Hornbeck: You’re wrong, Woon. You’ll be there. You’re the type. Who else would defend my right to be lonely?
