Tag: acting, art, love, pain, sorrow

And what does he feel?””He feels uneasy. A little afaid. Angry. Oddly, a hint of pride.””Good,” Henry said. “ANd where are you?””Backstage.”Henry shook his head gravely. “THere’s no such thing as backstage. The play begins, and there’s only the world it dramatizes. Now, where are you?””With my father, the president. In his chambers.””Right. With me. Your father. And now–this is important–do you love me?”Nelson considered this; or rather, Nelson, as Alejo, considered this.”Yes,” he said after a moment. “I do.””Good. Remember that. In every scene–even when you hate me, you also love me. That’s why it hurts. Got it?”Nelson said that he did.”Are you sure?””Yes.””Good. Because it does hurt,” Henry said. “DOn’t forget that. It’s supposed to. Always.