Satine. Still, after this time and after she - betrayed me. . . her very name has magic. The beautiful, untouchable Satine.
Did they really think I did not see their glances at each other? Even at first, in that silly, that stupid song. How did it go? So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer- well, they certainly did that. My very thoughts were drowned out by their madness. Did it run for fifty years? Well, that remains to be seen, but as yet, there have been no more showings since That Night. No one could replace Satine.
I asked, at the beginning, should someone die? They had already begun their glances, their 'secret smiles.' I recognized the story. The penniless "sitar player." The "maharajah." The courtesan. There was no pretending there. And when she ended up with the sitar player, I knew that symbolized that writer. I asked if she should die, because I would rather she died than go to him. So what?
Later, I was even willing for them to keep their. . . cute. . . little ending. As long as she was mine, and mine only. And yet she still couldn't get enough of her writer. Well, she got what was coming to her. They all did. I could have made them great. Instead, all they have is a dead heroine and a play that will never go on, because no one will see a play put on by stupid radical bohemians and unrecommended by anyone of any sort, and no one of name starring in it. Just a bunch of stupid whores and their pimp, Zidler. They do not have Satine. Neither do I, and I wish I did, I wished it had been MY arms she had died in, so that I would have at least that to hold over that writer's head!
But I do not.
So I will have to settle with at least no one has her, if I do not.
Did they really think I did not see their glances at each other? Even at first, in that silly, that stupid song. How did it go? So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer- well, they certainly did that. My very thoughts were drowned out by their madness. Did it run for fifty years? Well, that remains to be seen, but as yet, there have been no more showings since That Night. No one could replace Satine.
I asked, at the beginning, should someone die? They had already begun their glances, their 'secret smiles.' I recognized the story. The penniless "sitar player." The "maharajah." The courtesan. There was no pretending there. And when she ended up with the sitar player, I knew that symbolized that writer. I asked if she should die, because I would rather she died than go to him. So what?
Later, I was even willing for them to keep their. . . cute. . . little ending. As long as she was mine, and mine only. And yet she still couldn't get enough of her writer. Well, she got what was coming to her. They all did. I could have made them great. Instead, all they have is a dead heroine and a play that will never go on, because no one will see a play put on by stupid radical bohemians and unrecommended by anyone of any sort, and no one of name starring in it. Just a bunch of stupid whores and their pimp, Zidler. They do not have Satine. Neither do I, and I wish I did, I wished it had been MY arms she had died in, so that I would have at least that to hold over that writer's head!
But I do not.
So I will have to settle with at least no one has her, if I do not.