Well, sooner or later it's bound to soften you up. It was just beginning to soften up Skipper when—
[She stops short.]
I'm sorry. I never could keep my fingers off a sore—I wish you would lose your looks. If you did it would make the martyrdom of Saint Maggie a little more bearable. But no such goddam luck. I actually believe you've gotten better looking since you've gone on the bottle. Yeah, a person who didn't know you would think you'd never had a tense nerve in your body or a strained muscle.
[There are sounds of croquet on the lawn below | the click of mallets, light voices, near and distant.]
Of course, you always had that detached quality as if you were playing a game without much concern over whether you won or lost, and now that you've lost the game, not lost but just quit playing, you have that rare sort of charm that usually only happens in very old or hopelessly sick people, the charm of the defeated.—You look so cool, so cool, so enviably cool.
[Music is heard.]
They're playing croquet. The moon has appeared and it's white, just beginning to turn a little bit yellow.... You were a wonderful lover.... Such a wonderful person to go to bed with, and I think mostly because you were really indifferent to it. Isn't that right? Never had any anxiety about it, did it naturally, easily, slowly, with absolute confidence and perfect calm, more like opening a door for a lady or seating her at a table than giving expression to any longing for her. Your indifference made you wonderful at lovemaking— strange? —but true.... You know, if I thought you would never, never, never make love to me again—I would go downstairs to the kitchen and pick out the longest and sharpest knife I could find and stick it straight into my heart, I swear that I would!
But one thing I don't have is the charm of the defeated, my hat is still in the ring, and I am determined to win!
[There is the sound of croquet mallets hitting croquet balls.]
—What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?—I wish I knew....
Just staying on it, I guess, as long as she can....
[More croquet sounds.]
Later tonight I'm going to tell you I love you an' maybe by that time you'll be drunk enough to believe me. Yes, they're playing croquet.... Big Daddy is dying of cancer....
What were you thinking of when I caught you looking at me like that? Were you thinking of Skipper?
[Brick takes up his crutch, rises.]
Oh, excuse me, forgive me, but laws of silence don't work! No, laws of silence don't work....
[Brick crosses to the bar, takes a quick drink, and rubs his head with a towel.]
Laws of silence don't work.... When something is festering in your memory or your imagination, laws of silence don't work, it's just like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn't put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it. It grows and festers in silence, becomes malignant.... Get dressed, Brick.
[He drops his crutch.]
BRICK : I've dropped my crutch.
[He has stopped rubbing his hair dry but still stands hanging on to the towel rack in a white towel-cloth robe.]
MARGARET : Lean on me.
BRICK : No, just give me my crutch.
MARGARET : Lean on my shoulder.
BRICK : I don't want to lean on your shoulder, I want my crutch! [This is spoken like sudden lightning.]
Are you going to give me my crutch or do I have to get down on my knees on the floor and—
MARGARET : Here, here, take it, take it!
[She has thrust the crutch at him.]
BRICK [hobbling out] : Thanks...
MARGARET : We mustn't scream at each other, the walls in this house have ears....
[He hobbles directly to liquor cabinet to get a new drink.]
— but that's the first time I've heard you raise your voice in a long time, Brick. A crack in the wall?—Of composure?—I think that's a good sign.... A sign of nerves in a player on the defensive!
[Brick turns and smiles at
[She stops short.]
I'm sorry. I never could keep my fingers off a sore—I wish you would lose your looks. If you did it would make the martyrdom of Saint Maggie a little more bearable. But no such goddam luck. I actually believe you've gotten better looking since you've gone on the bottle. Yeah, a person who didn't know you would think you'd never had a tense nerve in your body or a strained muscle.
[There are sounds of croquet on the lawn below | the click of mallets, light voices, near and distant.]
Of course, you always had that detached quality as if you were playing a game without much concern over whether you won or lost, and now that you've lost the game, not lost but just quit playing, you have that rare sort of charm that usually only happens in very old or hopelessly sick people, the charm of the defeated.—You look so cool, so cool, so enviably cool.
[Music is heard.]
They're playing croquet. The moon has appeared and it's white, just beginning to turn a little bit yellow.... You were a wonderful lover.... Such a wonderful person to go to bed with, and I think mostly because you were really indifferent to it. Isn't that right? Never had any anxiety about it, did it naturally, easily, slowly, with absolute confidence and perfect calm, more like opening a door for a lady or seating her at a table than giving expression to any longing for her. Your indifference made you wonderful at lovemaking— strange? —but true.... You know, if I thought you would never, never, never make love to me again—I would go downstairs to the kitchen and pick out the longest and sharpest knife I could find and stick it straight into my heart, I swear that I would!
But one thing I don't have is the charm of the defeated, my hat is still in the ring, and I am determined to win!
[There is the sound of croquet mallets hitting croquet balls.]
—What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?—I wish I knew....
Just staying on it, I guess, as long as she can....
[More croquet sounds.]
Later tonight I'm going to tell you I love you an' maybe by that time you'll be drunk enough to believe me. Yes, they're playing croquet.... Big Daddy is dying of cancer....
What were you thinking of when I caught you looking at me like that? Were you thinking of Skipper?
[Brick takes up his crutch, rises.]
Oh, excuse me, forgive me, but laws of silence don't work! No, laws of silence don't work....
[Brick crosses to the bar, takes a quick drink, and rubs his head with a towel.]
Laws of silence don't work.... When something is festering in your memory or your imagination, laws of silence don't work, it's just like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn't put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it. It grows and festers in silence, becomes malignant.... Get dressed, Brick.
[He drops his crutch.]
BRICK : I've dropped my crutch.
[He has stopped rubbing his hair dry but still stands hanging on to the towel rack in a white towel-cloth robe.]
MARGARET : Lean on me.
BRICK : No, just give me my crutch.
MARGARET : Lean on my shoulder.
BRICK : I don't want to lean on your shoulder, I want my crutch! [This is spoken like sudden lightning.]
Are you going to give me my crutch or do I have to get down on my knees on the floor and—
MARGARET : Here, here, take it, take it!
[She has thrust the crutch at him.]
BRICK [hobbling out] : Thanks...
MARGARET : We mustn't scream at each other, the walls in this house have ears....
[He hobbles directly to liquor cabinet to get a new drink.]
— but that's the first time I've heard you raise your voice in a long time, Brick. A crack in the wall?—Of composure?—I think that's a good sign.... A sign of nerves in a player on the defensive!
[Brick turns and smiles at
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