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MAGIC THEATER
ENTRANCE NOT FOR EVERYBODY
I tried to open the door, but the heavy old latch would not stir. The display too was over. It had suddenly ceased, sadly convinced of its uselessness. I took a few steps back, landing deep into the mud, but no more letters came. The display was over. For a long time I stood waiting in the mud, but in vain.
Then, when I had given up and gone back to the alley, a few colored letters were dropped here and there, reflected on the asphalt in front of me. I read:
FOR MADMEN ONLY!

 

Hermann Hesse

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I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!"

 

Bram Stoker

 

But I well remember, as a young teenager, seeing signs printed in large black letters at the fronts of buses: "White seat from front, colored seat from rear." One day when I was thirteen, my friends and I were riding home from school in a half-empty bus — this was at the time that the civil rights movement was just getting off the ground and some police officers were just looking for a reason to shoot a black person who "got out of line." So, counter to our real feelings, we decided to avoid trouble by moving to the back of the bus when the driver told us to.
By that time, the sit-ins and the Freedom Rides had kind of broken the ice, even though things hadn't fully changed. So we saw it every day on TV and read about it in the news. Dad always said, "Stay out of trouble," and we did.

 

Herman Cain

 

There are three things that they could conceivably do... They could replace me immediately and have somebody else play Dillon. I’m okay with that because I think Dillon needs a reboot. It would be interesting to see somebody else’s take on him. Two, they could kill him, which I would hope they wouldn’t do, just because I would like the opportunity to maybe come back. Depending how they did that, I’d have to go back and shoot that. It would give me a chance to say goodbye and the opportunity to try to pull it together and act well one last time. That would be really profound for me. Or three, they’d have Dillon leave town. I would be wholly and entirely complimented if the door stayed open. I know that’s a lot to ask of them and the door can’t stay open for long. That’s just the rules of the game.

 

Scott Clifton

 

Consistent poetry is made of letters. Letters have no idea. Letters as such have no sound, they offer only tonal possibilities, to be valuated by the performer. The consistent poem weighs the value of both letters and groups.

 

Kurt Schwitters

 

And in the back, behind there, not giving a damn … and all the bright colours and stuff just drops off when you get to this section. White wrap-up, big red letters; LARD! Eat this shit and die! LARD! Kills you stone dead! Does blood move through your arteries? Block it up with LARD! Nutritional advice? No! Proteins? What the hell are they? Carbohydrates? Never heard of them, Guv! Fat? You bet your bum! We've got some some of that, yes sirree Bob! Oh, we're full of that, mate … [later on] Remember that campaign for butter, "Welcome back to butter"? "Welcome back to LARD!" We never went nowhere! Just been sitting at the back, quietly waiting … like Jack Nicholson …

 

Eddie Izzard