Symphony for Twelve Instruments.
The Strange and Interesting Man. Eurydice. . . . Orpheus is too busy listening to his own thoughts. There's music in his head. Try to pluck the music out and it bites you. . . . Orpheus has long fingers that would tremble to pet a bull or pluck a bee from a hive. . . .
If a drop of water enters the soil at a particular angle, with a particular pitch, what's to say man can't ride one note into the earth like a fireman's pole.
Orpheus never liked words. He had his music. . . . . This is what it is like to love an artist: This moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in the moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful.
The music sounds better in my head than it does in the world. When songs are pressing against my throat, then, and only then will I go down and sing for the devils and they will cry through their parched throats.
I remember when you wanted your name in a song.
[(Sarah Ruhl's play Eurydice)]
I'm Sorry. I'm no strange or interesting man. I need to play. I need to write. I need to carry a tune. To make stones cry. To lead someone away from Hell. To sail off the edge of the world. But there is something more beautiful outside. There has to be. To find it. Show me. It's so quiet. Make it not quiet. Please.