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“Are we to be killed by our own acquaintances?”
Virtue means doing the right thing, in relation to the right person, at the right time, to the right extent, in the right manner, and for the right purpose.
“I’m saying if everyone thinks I’m dead, I might finally be able to be free.”
That’s usually how it goes in the theater. Pick a play. Whenever one of the characters knows too much, he gets expended.
“You listen to me, Sally Campbell. There is always a reason to live.”
When everyone talks at once, their voices fill the cavernous space, and it is hard to believe that anyone can hear the voice of God.
Gilbert could have argued the unfairness of the entire institution, but he knows Mrs. Johnston is not standing in front of him trying to solve that particular injustice.
Could the key to securing Sara’s freedom really have been as simple as showing up at the theater and doing the right thing? It seems hard to believe, but right about now, Gilbert could stand to believe in something.
“I do not wish to topple any empires, only to see the record reflect my experiences and the experiences of women in my position.”
Jack’s father could never have helped him establish a career on the stage, but he was an honorable man, and Jack is beginning to see that that counts for more than he ever realized.
She’s spent all this time thinking about how hard it will be to leave her mama and papa and brother and sisters behind. But maybe what she should have been thinking about was how hard her leaving was going to be on them.
“And it will be to your advantage to forget that you are actors, intent on swaying public opinion, and instead remember that you are human beings who want to provide answers to scores of grieving families.”
“Jesus, Twaits,” says Jack. “Do you have so little regard for human life?”
Why does Sally continue to be surprised by the depravity of men?
She thinks of Hawkins’s last rule, which was so often repeated in her childhood home that she had once embroidered it onto a pillow: Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience. These men have no consciences.
They pay lip service to the idea of civility, while doing whatever they want at all times.
Somehow, it seems doubly unfair that Elliott should be able to both break the bone and then use the injury against her.
“It’s like he wasn’t hearing me. He was completely focused on the fact that the chandelier was ruining this important scene.” “Was it an important scene?” The question hardly bears considering. “Aren’t they all important?”
“It don’t matter what I say at this point. It only matters what he thinks.”
“This isn’t an ending,” says West. “It’s just an intermission.”
Poe’s young son grew up to become the poet Edgar Allan Poe.
For many, the Richmond Theater fire spelled the end of everything that mattered, but I like to think that, for one brave woman, maybe it didn’t.
