Scene 1

Created by

Millie

Cards (39)

/it has a raffish charm/
/You can almost feel the warm breath of the brown river/
/ the spirit of life/
/invests the scene with a kind of lyricism and gracefully attenuates the atmosphere of decay./
/faded white stairs/
/he heaves the package at her./
/of a background obviously quite different from her husband's/
/white suit with a fluffy bodice [...] white gloves and hat/
/There is something about her uncertain manner, as well as her white clothes, that suggests a moth/
/She cries out in protest but manages to catch it: Then she laughs breathlessly./
/ her hands tightly clutching her purse/
Blanche [faintly to herself]: I've got to keep hold of myself!
Blanche: Stella, oh, Stella, Stella! Stella for Star!
Blanche: And turn that over-light off! Turn that off! I won't be looked at in this merciless glare!
/as if she feared for either of them to stop and think/
Blanche: I thought you would never come back to this horrible place! What am I saying! I didn't mean to say that. I meant to be nice about it
Blanche: Never, never, never in my worst dreams could I picture - Only Poe! Only Mr Edgar Allan Poe! could do it justice!
Blanche: Forgive me, blessed baby!
Blanche: You hear me? I said stand up! [Stella Complies reluctantly.]
Blanche: you've spilt something on your pretty white lace collar!
[She laughs nervously and glances at Stella for reassurance.]
Stella [dutifully]: They haven't slipped one particle.
Blanche: But there's no doors between the two rooms, and Stanley - will it be decent?
Blanche: Oh yes. They're something like the Irish aren't they? [...] Only not so - highbrow [They both laugh again in the same way}
Blanche: Heterogeneous - types?
Stella: Oh yes. Yes, types is right!
Stella: A different species.
Stella: I can hardly stand it when hes away for a night.... [...] When he's away for a week I nearly go wild! [...] And when he comes back I cry on his lap like a baby....
Blanche: I stayed and fought for it, bled for it, almost died for it!
Blanche: [slowly] The loss - the loss...
/The music of the 'blue piano' grows louder/
Blanche: You're a fine one to sit there /accusing me/ of it!
Blanche: funerals are pretty compared to deaths [...] but funerals are quiet with pretty flowers. And, oh, what gorgeous boxes they pack them away in!
Blanche: struggle for breath and bleeding.
Blanche: Death is expensive, Miss Stella!
/richly feathered male bird among hens/
/the centre of his life has been pleasure with women [...] that bears the emblem of the gaudy seed-bearer. He sizes women up at a glance, with sexual classifications/
Blanche [drawing involuntarily back from his stare]
Stanley: Some people rarely touch it, but it touches them often.
/a cat screeches near the window. Blanche springs up/
/The music of the polka rises up/ [...] The boy - the boy died.