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                              REMEMBER ME                              Writtenby                     William Fetters & Jenny Lumet                                           Revised April 16th, 20091   EXT. SMITHSTREET STATION -- BROOKLYN -- NIGHT                 1    It's very late. It's quiet. Just the sounds of The City    LINDA SANTANA CRAIG, an attractive Hispanic woman in her    thirties, waits atthe ELEVATED STATION for the F train.    Linda looks great. She's dressed festively but tastefully.    Next to her is her eleven year old DAUGHTER, ALICIA. She is    twirling about the platform, still jazzed fromthe birthday    party they attended in The City.    Alicia wears a black dress with a pink cardigan and has a pink    handbag. We notice a CHARM BRACELET with four-leaf clovers on    her rightwrist.    The mother and daughter wait alone at one end of the station    platform.    TWO TEENAGE BOYS wait at the other end. They speak soft,    SLURRED SPANISH to eachother.    Linda gives the boys a glance and evaluates. She watches them    as Alicia spits a wad of gum into her mom's open hand.    The Boys approach. Linda tenses. At the last second theboys    make a hard left turn and disappear down the stairwell. It's    quiet again. Linda relaxes, smiles at her daughter. The F    TRAIN is rounding the final bend into the station.    Their focus is on this train.It's getting closer, louder.    And so they don't see, don't hear the Boys coming back up the    stairwell behind them.    Not until the boys have the mother and daughter boxed in and    the one whocan hardly grow a mustache is showing them his    gun.    Linda puts her arm around her daughter. Alicia looks    terrified.    The train roars INTO THE STATION as Linda quickly hands over    herpurse, her watch. She hands over her engagement ring and    her wedding band.    One of the boys yanks Alicia's little purse away from her.    The other boy fumbles the wedding band. The ringCLANGS to    the ground and rolls to a stop a few feet away.    We hear MEN'S VOICES echoing up the stairwell.    Now the Boys are boxed in. And starting topanic.                                                                2.    -- THE TRAIN DOORS SLIDE OPEN --.    The Boys see their way out and step into the last empty rail    car,leaving the mother and daughter alone on the platform.    Through the window on the train, Linda stares at the boy    holding her daughter's purse, her face hardening into a MASK    OFCONTEMPT.    The boy clocks it. Who does she think she is?    -- THE TRAIN DOORS BEGIN TO CLOSE --    When a HAND WITH TATTOOED KNUCKLES reaches out and stopsthe    car doors from closing.    A forearm and gun extend out of that last subway car ...    There's a muzzle flash... a distant POP... a cloud of smoke    ... a mist of blood... and Linda's body collapses onitself.    Alicia's face, shock, terror and blood.2   EXT. SMITH STREET STATION -- LATER THAT NIGHT --   M.O.S        2    A WORKING CRIME SCENE, lots of uniforms andlight, a white    sheet draped over Linda's body where it fell.    BLUE AND RED LIGHT dances against the stairwell wall where a    man is taking the stairs two at a time. Late thirties, big,    plain clothes, he isSERGEANT JAMES CRAIG. When he reaches    the platform, he stops.    Craig kneels before the white sheet. Peels it back. We stay    on him. We don't see what he sees. We just see how he sees    it. Then heturns...    THE WEDDING BAND. It's been tagged and numbered as evidence.    Craig picks it right out of the chalk outline and slips it    into his pocket.    Alicia, wrapped in a blanket, standing nextto a round police    MATRON. The Matron is tenderly trying to clean Alicia's face.    Alicia locks eyes with Craig and stumbles towards him, her    legs not quite working.    Craig saves her from the stumble andenvelops her, lifting    her as the blanket falls to the ground.    Alicia makes little gasping noises. Trying to speak but    can't.    Craig walking back now, carrying his entire world. He reaches    thestairwell and suddenly falls to one knee. Alicia gasps.                                                                3.    The closest UNIFORM puts a hand on his arm. A moment.    Composure. A deepbreath. Then as quickly as he went down,    he's back up.    Craig looks back now, taking it all in. Is it real? Sees all    the cops looking at him, then begins down the stairs.    WE DRIFT UP above thestation until we find ourselves with a    clear view of the southern tip of Manhattan, where the TWIN    TOWERS STAND TALL.3   INT. LOWER EAST SIDE RAILROAD FLAT -- BEDROOM-- MORNING        3    SUBTITLE: "Eight Years Later"    Tiny kitchen, clutter, a MESSENGER BIKE hanging from hooks on    the wall, a lot of books. There is a PHONE RINGING underthe    bed.    TYLER ROTH, early twenties, handsome, looking haggard. He is    sitting on the floor, shirtless, bed head, wrapped in a    blanket. A GUITAR is on his lap. Tyler has propped some well    worn,hand written pages of MUSIC against a box of off-brand    laundry detergent and is squinting at the notes, frustration    etched in his face.    A forgettable BLONDE lies sleeping on the bed.    Tyler,not a born musician, is trying to teach himself one of    the PHRASES OF MUSIC in front of him. He is completely lost    in the moment, with DEEP GROOVES in his fingers. By the    ASHTRAY next to him, we can tell he'sbeen at this a couple    of hours.    The Blonde in the bed re: the ringing phone...                        BLONDE                  (out of it)              Hello?    Tyler gropes around the floorwith one hand until he finds the    phone, simultaneously glancing at the digital clock. His eyes    widen in alarm.                        TYLER              Yeah...                  (listens)              Of course. I'mon my way. I              know...I know...I know...I know.    Tyler climbs out of his blanket and yanks on a pair of dark    suit pants. Before he pulls on his white undershirt we    observe a TATTOO that simplysays "Michael" over his heart.                                                                 4.    He searches through a beat-up chest of drawers, seeking a    reasonably clean button downshirt...                        TYLER V/O              Gandhi said that whatever you do in              life will be insignificant but it              is very important that you do it...    ...And scrubs at amysterious stain on the shoulder of an    expensive but worn to hell suit jacket with a dishwasher    brush.                        TYLER V/O              ...I tend to agree with thefirst              part.4   EXT. GREEN WOOD CEMETERY --BROOKLYN -- LATER                     4    A cluster of MOURNERS stand before a tombstone in the    distance. They are not infuneral dress, as this is not a    funeral. It's a memorial.    A beat up GYPSY CAB with a WEST INDIAN DRIVER pulls to a    stop. From the trees and the sky we know its LATE    SPRING/EARLY SUMMER. Agorgeous day.    Tyler gets out of the cab, holding the rim of his empty    coffee cup in his teeth. He sorts a rumpled wad of singles    and hands some to the driver, who screeches into reverse.    Time ismoney.    Tyler crushes the coffee cup flat and slips it in his jacket    pocket then lights up a smoke. He takes one long drag then    extinguishes it and slips the butt into his pocket. He begins    towards themourners.    His mother... DIANE HOFFMAN, a beauty. Past burdens etched in    the lines on her face. Dressed tastefully in expensive    bohemian. She smiles like someone who's been crying but    doesn'twant anyone to know she has.                        TYLER                  (sweetly)              Hello, your majesty. How are you?                        DIANE              I'm fine... you lookgood...    He kisses his mother's hand and he's moving to greet his    stepfather...    LES HOFFMAN, Unruly curls streaked in gray, tweed jacket and    tie. They exchange a firm handshake andmuttered hellos.                                                              5.    The weight of Tyler's gaze falls to CAROLINE ROTH, his    diminutive bespectacled, eleven year old sister. She's    holding alittle paper bag.    She flashes him a look. He kneels besides her and whispers...                        TYLER              Thanks for organizing everybody.    Caroline makes a face. Turnsher nose away from him.                        CAROLINE              You smell like Listerine and beer.    He snorts and kisses her cheek.    Caroline reaches into her bag and takes out ahandful of    smooth white stones, on which she has painted the names:    "Mom" "Tyler" "Les", "Dad", "Caroline". She begins to arrange    them in a little circle on the grave.    Tyler'sfather...    CHARLES ROTH, late fifties, breathes power, precisely    dressed, two hundred dollar haircut. A predator.                        CHARLES                  (aside, to Tyler)              Youcouldn't wear a tie?    Tyler holds his father's eye.                        TYLER              Could have.    Beat.    Charles adjusts his own collar like it's anexplosive.    POV: The Tombstone. The four adult family members stand side-    by-side. They look like strangers on the subway as Caroline    sits on the ground, arranging thestones.5   INT. JUNIOR'S RESTAURANT-- BROOKLYN -- AFTER                  5    The family sits together in a booth. Tyler rolls a Bic    lighter over his knuckles. Caroline draws afunny portrait of    Tyler on her napkin. He is smoking nine cigarettes at once.    Diane gives the menu a ridiculous amount of attention. Les is    eyeing the Cheesecake. Charles subtly aligns hissilverware.                                                             6.                    DIANE          ...This is nice... I think it's          nice that we still dothis...                       CAROLINE                 (gently)          Mom.                    DIANE          I forgot. I'm trying to purge          "nice" from my vocabulary. Michael          would likethat we still do this.Tyler takes out a cigarette. Lights it. Without saying a wordhis mother takes it and snubs it out in an empty water glass.                    DIANE              (toCaroline)          Did you tell Tyler what your art          teacher said about your portrait?Caroline, as bemused as an eleven year old can be, looks ather mother, then at her brother. She adopts a very


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                                       "BRAVEHEART"                                            by                                     RandallWallace                                       Early Draft                               FADE IN:               EXT. THE SCOTTISH COUNTRYSIDE - DAY               Epic beauty: cobalt mountains beneath aglowering purple sky                fringed with pink, as if the clouds were a lid too small for                the earth; a cascading landscape of boulders shrouded in                deep green grass; and the blue lochs, reflectingthe sky. We                hear a voice, husky, Scottish...                                     VOICE OVER                         I will tell you of William Wallace.               EXT. MACANDREWS FARM - DAY               Afarmhouse and a large barn lie nestled in a Scottish valley.                Riding down the roads that lead in from opposite sides are                Scottish noblemen in full regalia: eye-popping tartans,                sparklingchestplates. Even the horses are draped in scarlet.                Behind each nobleman rides a single page boy.                                     VOICE OVER                         Historians from England will sayI                          am a liar. But history is written by                          those who have hung heroes.               Another noble rides in from the opposite side. Two more appear                down the road, converging onthe barn.                                     VOICE OVER                         The King of Scotland had died without                          a son, and the king of England, a                          cruel pagan known as Edwardthe                          Longshanks, claimed the throne for                          himself. Scotlands nobles fought                          him, and fought each other, over the                          crown. So Longshanks invited themto                          talks of truce. No weapons, one page                          only.               The nobles eye each other cautiously, but the truce holds.               They enter the barn, with their pages...               EXT.SCOTTISH FARM - DAY               Nestled in emerald hills are the thatched roof house and                barn and outbuildings of a well-run farm. The farmer, MALCOLM                WALLACE, and his nineteen-year-oldson JOHN, both strong,                tough men, are riding away from the farm. They hear hooves                behind them and turn to see a boy riding after them.                                     VOICEOVER                         Among the farmers of that shire was                          Malcolm Wallace, a commoner, with                          his own lands and two sons: John...               We FAVOR JOHN WALLACE, thenineteen-year-old sitting easily                on his horse, beside his father...                                     VOICE OVER                         ...and William.               WILLIAM, a skinny eight-year-old riding bareback,catches up                to his father and older brother.                                     FATHER                         Told ya to stay.                                     WILLIAM                         I finished my chores.Where we goin'?                                     FATHER                         MacAndrews'. He was supposed to visit                          when the truce was over.               They ride on, over the lushhills.               EXT. THE MACANDREWS FARM - DAY               The horses are all gone; the place looks deserted. UP ON THE                HILL we see the three Wallaces, lookingdown.                                     FATHER                         Stay here.               He means William. He and his elder son spur their horses.               AT THE BARN - DAY               The Wallaces ride up,looking around.                                     FATHER                         MacAndrews!... MacAndrews!?               Malcolm finds a pitchfork, John the woodpile axe...               INT. THE BARN               POVfrom within as the door opens and a widening block of                sunlight illuminates the dusty shadows. Malcolm and John                Wallace step in, and are shocked to see...               POV THEWALLACES               Hanging from the rafters of the barn are thirty Scottish                noblemen and thirty pages, their faces purple and contorted                by the strangulation hanging, their tonguesprotruding.               Malcolm stabs the pitchfork into the ground in useless anger;                John still grips the axe as he follows his father through                the hanging bodies of the noblemen to the back row, tosee                the one man in commoner's dress, like theirs...                                     FATHER                         MacAndrews.               A SHUFFLE; John spins; William has entered the backdoor.                                     JOHN                         William! Get out of here!                                     WILLIAM                         Why would MacAndrews make somany                          scarecrows?               Before his father and brother can think of anything to say,                William, with a boy's curiosity, touches the spurred foot of                the hanged noblemen we firstsaw riding in. It's too solid;                he takes a real look at the face, and suddenly --                                     WILLIAM                         R -- real!!!... Ahhhhhgggg!...               He turns to run, but knocksback into the feet of the hanged                man behind him! In blind panic he darts in another direction,                and runs into another corpse, and another; the hanged men                begin to swing, making it harderfor William's father and                older brother to fight their way to him.                                     FATHER                         William! William!               Then, worst of all, William sees the pages, boys likehimself,                hanged in a row behind their masters!               Finally his father and brother reach William and hug him                tight. There in the barn, among the swinging bodies of the                hangednobles, Malcolm Wallace grips his sons.                                     FATHER                         Murderin' English bastards.                                                                    CUT TO:               EXT.WALLACE FARMHOUSE - NIGHT               The cottage looks peaceful, the windows glowing yellow into                the night. From outside the house we see John rise and close                the shutters of the kitchen,where men are gathered. We PAN                UP to the upper bedroom window...               INSIDE THAT BEDROOM               Young William is in nightmarish sleep. He mumbles in smothered                terror;he twitches. We see               HIS NIGHTMARE               In the blue-grays of his dream, William stands at the door                of the barn, gazing at the hanged knights. We WHIP PAN to                their faces,garish, horrible... Then one of the heads moves                and its eyes open! William wants to run, but he can't get                his body to respond... and the hanging nobleman, his bloated                tongue still burstingthrough his lips, moans...                                     GHOUL                         Will--iam...!               WILLIAM tears himself from sleep; looking around, swallowing                back his tears andpanic.               IN THE KITCHEN               A dozen strong, tough farmers have huddled. Red-headed                CAMPBELL, scarred and missing fingers, is stirred up, while                his friendMacCLANNOUGH is reluctant.                                     CAMPBELL                         Wallace is right! We fight 'em!                                     MACCLANNOUGH                         Every nobleman who hadany will to                          fight was at that meeting.                                     MALCOLM WALLACE                         So it's up to us! We show them we                          won't lie down to be theirslaves!                                     MACCLANNOUGH                         We can't beat an army, not with the                          fifty farmers we can raise!                                     MALCOLMWALLACE                         We don't have to beat 'em, just fight                          'em. To show 'em we're not dogs, but                          men.               Young Wallace has snuck down and is eavesdropping fromthe                stairs. He sees his father drip his finger into a jug of                whiskey and use the wet finger to draw on the tabletop.                                     MALCOLM WALLACE                         They have acamp here. We attack                          them at sunset tomorrow. Give us all                          night to run home.               EXT. WALLACE FARM - DAY               Malcolm and John have saddled horses; theyare checking the                short swords they've tucked into grain sacks when William                comes out of the barn with his own horse.                                     MALCOLM                         William, you'restaying here.                                     WILLIAM                         I can fight.               These words from his youngest son make Malcolm pause, and                kneel, to look into William'seyes.                                     MALCOLM                         Aye. But it's our wits that make us                          men. I love ya, boy. You stay.               Malcolm and John mount their horses and ride away,leaving                William looking forlorn. They wave; he waves back.               EXT SCOTTISH HILLS, NEAR THE WALLACE FARM - DAY               It's strangely quiet, until William and his friendHAMISH                CAMPBELL, a red-headed like his father, race up the hillside                and duck in among a grove of trees. Breathless, gasping,                they press their backs to the tree bark. William peersaround                a tree, then shrinks back and whispers...                                     WILLIAM                         They're coming!                                     HAMISH                         Howmany?                                     WILLIAM                         Three, maybemore!                                     HAMISH                         Armed?                                     WILLIAM                         They're English soldiers, ain'tthey?                                     HAMISH                         With your father and brother gone,                          they'll kill us and burn the farm!                                     WILLIAM                         It'sup to us, Hamish!               Hamish leans forward for a look, but William pulls him back.                                     WILLIAM                         Not yet! Here he comes, be ready!               They wait; heavyFOOTSTEPS. Then from around the edge of the                grove three enormous, ugly hogs appear. The boys hurling                rotten eggs. The eggs slap the snouts of the pigs, who scatter                as the boyscharge, howling. We PULL BACK... as the sun goes                down on their play.               EXT. THE WALLACE HOUSE - SUNDOWN               The boys walk toward the house, beneath a lavendersky.                                     HAMISH                         Wanna stay with me tonight?                                     WILLIAM                         I wanna have supper


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                 THE PERKS OF BEING a WALLFLOWER                            Written by                          Stephen Chbosky    Final Draft    FADEIN:1   EXT. TUNNEL - NIGHT                                             1    The titles begin over black. We hear the sound of an old    typewriter. Someone reaching out to us. The bell dings,    announcing the end ofa line, and we see our title...    THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER    Music begins, picture fades up, and we are in the city.    Downtown Pittsburgh. Looking out of the back window like a    child in the backof a station wagon.    We see lights on buildings and everything that makes us    wonder. We see the bridge. And the river below. And then    we enter...    The Tunnel.    We keep moving backwards, watching thelights. Golden,    alive, and hypnotic. The music carries us as we float out of    the tunnel. Onto another bridge. And over the highway.    We move into the night sky, back through the trees, through a    window, andinto...2   INT. CHARLIE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT                                  2    It is a neat and tidy little room. Few posters or books.    CHARLIE is 15. He is innocent, hopeful, awkward, and likable    to everyone buthis classmates. He sits at his desk, writing    a letter in pencil as he tapes the title song through the    radio on his cassette boom box.                         CHARLIE (V.O.)               Dear Friend, I am writing toyou because               she said you listen and understand and               didn't try to sleep with that person at               that party even though you could have.               Please don't try to figure out who sheis               because then you might figure out who I               am, and I don't want you to do that. I               just need to know that people like you               exist. Like if you met me, you wouldn't               think Iwas the weird kid who spent time               in the hospital. And I wouldn't make you               nervous.3   INT. CHARLIE'S HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER                            3    Charlie anxiously walks through thehallway of his suburban    split level house.                                                                       2.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)              I hope it's okay for me to think that.              You see, Ihaven't really talked to              anyone outside of my family all summer.    Charlie moves to the living room where dad watches a football    game. Mom reads a page turner and sips her white wine.    Charlie waits forthem to notice him. And waits. And waits.4   INT. CHARLIE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT                                      4    Charlie sits at his desk, continuing his letter in pencil.                        CHARLIE(V.O.)              But tomorrow is my first day of high              school ever, and I really need to turn              things around this year.                  (hopeful)              So, I have a plan.5   INT. MILL GROVE HIGHSCHOOL HALLWAY - LAST DAY                      5    We see it in Charlie's mind. Slow motion and wondrous. The    kids clear out their lockers by throwing their old papers in    the air like a New York confettiparade.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)              As I enter the school for the first time,              I will visualize what it will be like on              the last day of my senior year.    Charlie walks down thehall.   Triumphant.   Confident.   Happy.                        CHARLIE (V.O.) (CONT'D)              Unfortunately, I counted, and that's...                                                       SMASH CUT TO:6   INT.MILL GROVE HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY - FIRST DAY                     6    Reality. The bell rings, and we see the chaotic maze from    Charlie's POV. A SENIOR BULLY leads the ritual, making    dozens of freshmen hopdown the hall.                        SENIOR BULLY              Hop, freshman toads. Hop!    Move it, boys!    As seniors grab more victims, Charlie moves to the wall.                        CHARLIE(V.O.)              ... 1,385 days from now.    VARSITY FOOTBALL PLAYERS pass, wearing their letterjackets.                                                                    3.                        LINEBACKER              Man, you got big.                        NOSE TACKLE              Worked out all summer.   Rockhard, dude.    At the front of the pack is BRAD HAYS (17), the quarterback.    He's good looking, charismatic, and friendly. The big man on    campus. Nice guy, too.                        BRAD HAYS              Wouldyou guys get a room?    They laugh. Charlie turns to the trophy case to avoid them.    Trying to make himself as small as possible.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)                  (trying to beoptimistic)              Just 1,385 days.7   INT. MILL GROVE HIGH SCHOOL - CAFETERIA - LUNCH                  7    Charlie moves down the lunch line with his sister. CANDACE    KELMECKIS is 17 and a beautifultype A, straight A priss.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)              In the meantime, I'd hoped that my sister              Candace and her boyfriend Derek would              have let me eat lunch with theirearth              club.                        CANDACE              Seniors only.                  (barks to Derek)              What are you doing with a plastic spork?    Candace turns to her boyfriend, DEREK, 17. Derek issuch a    pussy, the most masculine thing about him is his pony-tail.                        DEREK              I don't want to bring back silverware--                        CANDACE              Derek, you're EarthClub Treasurer.    Derek takes the silverware like a beaten dog. Charlie    watches them move into the intimidating cafeteria.8   INT. CAFETERIA - LATER                                           8    Charlie sits in thecorner alone, observing everyone having a    great time with their friends. He sees a pretty girl with    blonde hair having the best first day. This is SUSAN,14.                                                                   4.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)              When my sister said no, I thought maybe              my old friend Susan would want tohave              lunch with me.    Charlie catches her eye and waves, but she looks away.                        CHARLIE (V.O.) (CONT'D)              In middle school, Susan was very fun to              be around, butnow she doesn't like to              say hi to me anymore.    Charlie turns his attention to the quarterback, Brad Hays.                         CHARLIE (V.O.) (CONT'D)              And then there's Brad Hays, who'sthe              quarterback of our team. Before my              brother went to play football for Penn              State, he and Brad played together. So,              I thought maybe he'd say hi to me. But              Brad's asenior, and I'm me, so... who am              I kidding?    Brad catches Charlie staring at him.   Awkward.9   INT. SHOP CLASS - DAY                                           9    Charlie sits by himself, watching thefreshmen boys laugh as    a senior paints a goatee on his face with a grease pencil.                        CHARLIE (V.O.)              On the bright side, one senior decided to              make fun of the teacher insteadof the              freshmen. He even drew on Mr. Callahan's              legendary goatee with a grease pencil.    Meet PATRICK (18), full of confidence, mischief, and so over    high school. He is the class clown, performinga perfect    imitation of the teacher, Mr. Callahan.                        PATRICK              Boys, the prick punch is not a toy. I              learned that in 'Nam back in '68.              "Callahan," the sergeant said, "putdown              that prick punch and go kill some gooks."    The laughter suddenly dies as the real MR. CALLAHAN (57)    walks up behind the oblivious Patrick.                        PATRICK (CONT'D)              Butyou know what happened? That prick              punch killed my best friend in a Saigon              whorehouse.                                                                     5.     Patrick suddenly feels Mr. Callahan behindhim.   Oops.                         MR. CALLAHAN               I heard you were going to be in my class.               Are you proud being a senior taking               freshman shop,Patty-Cakes?                         PATRICK               My name is Patrick. You call me Patrick               or you call me nothing.                         MR. CALLAHAN               Okay... Nothing.     The classlaughs. Except Charlie.   He watches Patrick take     the long walk back to his seat.                         CHARLIE (V.O.)               I felt really bad for Patrick. He wasn't               saying the impersonation to bemean or               anything. He was just trying to make us               freshmen feel better.                         MR. CALLAHAN               Everyone open your safety guides.               Nothing... why don't you readfirst?     Patrick opens the book.                         PATRICK               Chapter 1. Surviving your fascist shop               teacher, who needs to put kids down to               feel big.                   (to theclass)               Oh, wow. This is useful guys. We should               read on.     Charlie smiles.   He loves him already.10   INT. ENGLISH CLASS - MORNING                                    10     The kids pass backpaperback copies of To Kill A Mockingbird.     Charlie opens his Trapper Keeper, takes a pencil out of the     plastic pouch, and writes... "ENGLISH CLASS... DAY ONE."                         CHARLIE(V.O.)               My last class of the day is advanced               English, and I'm excited to finally start               learning with the smartest kids in the               school...     A SMART ASS FRESHMAN girl with bracessmiles at him.                                                               6.                    SMART ASS FRESHMAN              (whispers)          Nice Trapper Keeper, faggot.The kids around him laugh. Charlie's earsturn red. At theblackboard, the teacher writes his name... Mr. Anderson. Butyou can call him BILL (27). Bill is an idealist.                    BILL          Shhh. I'm Mr. Anderson. And thanks to          Teach forAmerica, I'm going to be your          teacher for freshman English. This          semester, we're going to be learning          Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird.          Genius book. Now, who wants to get out          of thefirst pop quiz?All hands go up.   Except Charlie's.   Bill paces the rows.                    BILL (CONT'D)          I'm shocked. Alright. You can skip the          quiz if you tell me which author invented          thepaperback book. Anyone?As kids think, Bill confiscates contraband, removes hats.                    BILL (CONT'D)          He's British. He also invented the          serial. In fact, at the end of chapter 3          of hisfirst novel, he had a man hanging          off a cliff by his fingernails. Hence,          the term cliffhanger. Anybody?                    FRESHMAN GIRL          Shakespeare.                    BILL          That's agreat guess, but no, Shakespeare          didn't write novels. Anybody else?              (off their silence)          The author was...Bill is about to give the answer when he notices Charlie hasalready written... Charles


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Desperate Remedies, by Thomas HardyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Desperate RemediesAuthor: Thomas HardyRelease Date: November 2000 [EBook #3044]Posting Date:May 25, 2009 Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DESPERATE REMEDIES ***Produced by Les BowlerDESPERATE REMEDIESBy Thomas HardyCONTENTSPREFATORY NOTE     I.     THEEVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS     II.    THE EVENTS OF A FORTNIGHT     III.   THE EVENTS OF EIGHT DAYS     IV.    THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY     V.     THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY     VI.    THE EVENTS OF TWELVEHOURS     VII.   THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS     VIII.  THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS     IX.    THE EVENTS OF TEN WEEKS     X.     THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT     XI.    THE EVENTS OF FIVEDAYS     XII.   THE EVENTS OF TEN MONTHS     XIII.  THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY     XIV.   THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS     XV.    THE EVENTS OF THREE WEEKS     XVI.   THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK     XVII.  THEEVENTS OF ONE DAY     XVIII. THE EVENTS OF THREE DAYS     XIX.   THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT     XX.    THE EVENTS OF THREE HOURS     XXI.   THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEENHOURS            SEQUELPREFATORY NOTEThe following story, the first published by the author, was writtennineteen years ago, at a time when he was feeling his way to amethod. The principles observed in itscomposition are, no doubt, tooexclusively those in which mystery, entanglement, surprise, and moralobliquity are depended on for exciting interest; but some of the scenes,and at least one of the characters, have beendeemed not unworthy of alittle longer preservation; and as they could hardly be reproduced in afragmentary form the novel is reissued complete--the more readily thatit has for some considerable time been reprintedand widely circulatedin America. January 1889.To the foregoing note I have only to add that, in the present edition of'Desperate Remedies,' some Wessex towns and other places that are commonto the scenes ofseveral of these stories have been called for thefirst time by the names under which they appear elsewhere, for thesatisfaction of any reader who may care for consistency in such matters.This is the only materialchange; for, as it happened that certaincharacteristics which provoked most discussion in my latest story werepresent in this my first--published in 1871, when there was no Frenchname for them it has seemed best tolet them stand unaltered.T.H. February 1896.I. THE EVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS1. DECEMBER AND JANUARY, 1835-36In the long and intricately inwrought chain of circumstance whichrenders worthy of record someexperiences of Cytherea Graye, EdwardSpringrove, and others, the first event directly influencing the issuewas a Christmas visit.In the above-mentioned year, 1835, Ambrose Graye, a young architect whohad justbegun the practice of his profession in the midland town ofHocbridge, to the north of Christminster, went to London to spend theChristmas holidays with a friend who lived in Bloomsbury. They hadgone up to Cambridgein the same year, and, after graduating together,Huntway, the friend, had taken orders.Graye was handsome, frank, and gentle. He had a quality of thoughtwhich, exercised on homeliness, was humour; on nature,picturesqueness;on abstractions, poetry. Being, as a rule, broadcast, it was all three.Of the wickedness of the world he was too forgetful. To discover evil ina new friend is to most people only an additional experience:to him itwas ever a surprise.While in London he became acquainted with a retired officer in theNavy named Bradleigh, who, with his wife and their daughter, lived ina street not far from Russell Square. Though theywere in no more thancomfortable circumstances, the captain's wife came of an ancient familywhose genealogical tree was interlaced with some of the most illustriousand well-known in the kingdom.The young lady, theirdaughter, seemed to Graye by far the mostbeautiful and queenly being he had ever beheld. She was about nineteenor twenty, and her name was Cytherea. In truth she was not so veryunlike country girls of that type ofbeauty, except in one respect.She was perfect in her manner and bearing, and they were not. A meredistinguishing peculiarity, by catching the eye, is often read asthe pervading characteristic, and she appeared to himno less thanperfection throughout--transcending her rural rivals in very nature.Graye did a thing the blissfulness of which was only eclipsed by itshazardousness. He loved her at first sight.His introductions had led himinto contact with Cytherea and her parentstwo or three times on the first week of his arrival in London, andaccident and a lover's contrivance brought them together as frequentlythe week following. The parents likedyoung Graye, and having fewfriends (for their equals in blood were their superiors in position), hewas received on very generous terms. His passion for Cytherea grew notonly strong, but ineffably exalted: she, withoutpositively encouraginghim, tacitly assented to his schemes for being near her. Her father andmother seemed to have lost all confidence in nobility of birth, withoutmoney to give effect to its presence, and looked uponthe buddingconsequence of the young people's reciprocal glances with placidity, ifnot actual favour.Graye's whole impassioned dream terminated in a sad and unaccountableepisode. After passing through three weeksof sweet experience, he hadarrived at the last stage--a kind of moral Gaza--before plunging into anemotional desert. The second week in January had come round, and it wasnecessary for the young architect to leavetown.Throughout his acquaintanceship with the lady of his heart there hadbeen this marked peculiarity in her love: she had delighted in hispresence as a sweetheart should do, yet from first to last she hadrepressed allrecognition of the true nature of the thread whichdrew them together, blinding herself to its meaning and only naturaltendency, and appearing to dread his announcement of them. The presentseemed enough for herwithout cumulative hope: usually, even if love isin itself an end, it must be regarded as a beginning to be enjoyed.In spite of evasions as an obstacle, and in consequence of them as aspur, he would put the matter offno longer. It was evening. He tookher into a little conservatory on the landing, and there among theevergreens, by the light of a few tiny lamps, infinitely enhancing thefreshness and beauty of the leaves, he made thedeclaration of a love asfresh and beautiful as they.'My love--my darling, be my wife!'She seemed like one just awakened. 'Ah--we must part now!' she faltered,in a voice of anguish. 'I will write to you.' She loosened herhand andrushed away.In a wild fever Graye went home and watched for the next morning. Whoshall express his misery and wonder when a note containing these wordswas put into his hand?'Good-bye; good-bye forever. As recognized lovers something divides useternally. Forgive me--I should have told you before; but your love wassweet! Never mention me.'That very day, and as it seemed, to put an end to a painful conditionofthings, daughter and parents left London to pay off a promised visit toa relative in a western county. No message or letter of entreaty couldwring from her any explanation. She begged him not to follow her, andthemost bewildering point was that her father and mother appeared, fromthe tone of a letter Graye received from them, as vexed and sad as heat this sudden renunciation. One thing was plain: without admittingherreason as valid, they knew what that reason was, and did not intend toreveal it.A week from that day Ambrose Graye left his friend Huntway's houseand saw no more of the Love he mourned. From time to time hisfriendanswered any inquiry Graye made by letter respecting her. But very poorfood to a lover is intelligence of a mistress filtered through a friend.Huntway could tell nothing definitely. He said he believed there hadbeensome prior flirtation between Cytherea and her cousin, an officerof the line, two or three years before Graye met her, which had suddenlybeen terminated by the cousin's departure for India, and the younglady'stravelling on the Continent with her parents the whole of theensuing summer, on account of delicate health. Eventually Huntway saidthat circumstances had rendered Graye's attachment more hopeless still.Cytherea'smother had unexpectedly inherited a large fortune and estatesin the west of England by the rapid fall of some intervening lives. Thishad caused their removal from the small house in Bloomsbury, and, as itappeared, arenunciation of their old friends in that quarter.Young Graye concluded that his Cytherea had forgotten him and his love.But he could not forget her.2. FROM 1843 TO 1861Eight years later, feeling lonely anddepressed--a man withoutrelatives, with many acquaintances but no friends--Ambrose Graye meta young lady of a different kind, fairly endowed with money and goodgifts. As to caring very deeply for another womanafter the loss ofCytherea, it was an absolute impossibility with him. With all, thebeautiful things of the earth become more dear as they elude pursuit;but with some natures utter elusion is the one special event whichwillmake a passing love permanent for ever.This second young lady and Graye were married. That he did not, firstor last, love his wife as he should have done, was known to all; butfew knew that his unmanageableheart could never be weaned from uselessrepining at the loss of its first idol.His character to some extent deteriorated, as emotional constitutionswill under the long sense of disappointment at having missedtheirimagined destiny. And thus, though naturally of a gentle and pleasantdisposition, he grew to be not so tenderly regarded by his acquaintancesas it is the lot of some of those persons to be. The winning andsanguinereceptivity of his early life developed by degrees a moodynervousness, and when not picturing prospects drawn from baseless hopehe was the victim of indescribable depression. The practical issue ofsuch a conditionwas improvidence, originally almost an unconsciousimprovidence, for every debt incurred had been mentally paid off with areligious exactness from the treasures of expectation before mentioned.But as years revolved,the same course was continued from the lack ofspirit sufficient for shifting out of an old groove when it has beenfound to lead to disaster.In the year 1861 his wife died, leaving him a widower with two children.Theelder, a son named Owen, now just turned seventeen, was taken fromschool, and initiated as pupil to the profession of architect in hisfather's office. The remaining child was a daughter, and Owen's juniorby a year.Herchristian name was Cytherea, and it is easy to guess why.3. OCTOBER THE TWELFTH, 1863We pass over two years in order to reach the next cardinal event ofthese persons' lives. The scene is still the Grayes' nativetown ofHocbridge, but as it appeared on a Monday afternoon in the month ofOctober.The weather was sunny and dry, but the ancient borough was to be seenwearing one of its least attractive aspects. First on accountof thetime. It was that stagnant hour of the twenty-four when the practicalgarishness of Day, having escaped from the fresh long shadows andenlivening newness of the morning, has not yet made anyperceptibleadvance towards acquiring those mellow and soothing tones which graceits decline. Next, it was that stage in the progress of the week whenbusiness--which, carried on under the gables of an old countryplace,is not devoid of a romantic sparkle--was well-nigh extinguished. Lastly,the town was intentionally bent upon being attractive by exhibitingto an influx of visitors the local talent for dramatic recitation, andprovincialtowns trying to be lively are the dullest of dull things.Little towns are like little children in this respect, that theyinterest most when they are enacting native peculiarities unconsciousof beholders. Discovering themselvesto be watched they attempt tobe entertaining by putting on an antic, and produce disagreeablecaricatures which spoil them.The weather-stained clock-face in the low church tower standing at theintersection of thethree chief streets was expressing half-past twoto the Town Hall opposite, where the much talked-of reading fromShakespeare was about to begin. The doors were open, and those personswho had already assembledwithin the building were noticing the entranceof the new-comers--silently criticizing their dress--questioning thegenuineness of their teeth and hair--estimating their private means.Among these later ones came anexceptional young maiden who glowed amidthe dulness like a single bright-red poppy in a field of brown stubble.She wore an elegant dark jacket, lavender dress, hat with grey stringsand trimmings, and gloves of acolour to harmonize. She lightly walkedup the side passage of the room, cast a slight glance around, andentered the seat pointed out to her.The young girl was Cytherea Graye; her age was now about eighteen.Duringher entry, and at various times whilst sitting in her seat andlistening to the reader on the platform, her personal appearance formedan interesting subject of study for several neighbouring eyes.Her face was exceedinglyattractive, though artistically less perfectthan her figure, which approached unusually near to the standard offaultlessness. But even this feature of hers yielded the palm to thegracefulness of her movement, which wasfascinating and delightful to anextreme degree.Indeed, motion was her speciality, whether shown on its most extendedscale of bodily progression, or minutely, as in the uplifting ofher eyelids, the bending of her fingers,the pouting of her lip. Thecarriage of her head--motion within motion--a glide upon a glide--wasas delicate as that of a magnetic needle. And this flexibility andelasticity had never been taught her by rule, nor even beenacquired byobservation, but, nullo cultu, had naturally developed itself with heryears. In childhood, a stone or stalk in the way, which had been theinevitable occasion of a fall to her playmates, had usually left hersafeand upright on her feet after the narrowest escape by oscillationsand whirls for the preservation of her balance. At mixed Christmasparties, when she numbered but twelve or thirteen years, and washeartily despised onthat account by lads who deemed themselves men, herapt lightness in the dance covered this incompleteness in her womanhood,and compelled the self-same youths in spite of resolutions to seize uponher childishfigure as a partner whom they could not afford to contemn.And in later years, when the instincts of her sex had shown her thispoint as the best and rarest feature in her external self, she was notfound wanting inattention to the cultivation of finish in its details.Her hair rested gaily upon her shoulders in curls and was of a shiningcorn yellow in the high lights, deepening to a definite nut-brown aseach curl wound round into theshade. She had eyes of a sapphire hue,though rather darker than the gem ordinarily appears; they possessedthe affectionate and liquid sparkle of loyalty and good faith asdistinguishable from that harder brightnesswhich seems to expressfaithfulness only to the object confronting them.But to attempt to gain a view of her--or indeed of any fascinatingwoman--from a measured category, is as difficult as to appreciate theeffect of alandscape by exploring it at night with a lantern--or of afull chord of music by piping the notes in succession. Nevertheless itmay readily be believed from the description here ventured, thatamong the many winningphases of her aspect, these were particularlystriking:--  During pleasant doubt, when her eyes brightened stealthily and  smiled (as eyes will smile) as distinctly as her lips, and in the  space of a single instant expressedclearly the whole round of  degrees of expectancy which lie over the wide expanse between Yea  and Nay.  During the telling of a secret, which was involuntarily  accompanied by a sudden minute start, and ecstaticpressure of  the listener's arm, side, or neck, as the position and degree  of intimacy dictated.  When anxiously regarding one who possessed her affections.She suddenly assumed the last-mentioned bearing in theprogress of thepresent entertainment. Her glance was directed out of the window.Why the particulars of a young lady's presence at a very mediocreperformance were prevented from dropping into the oblivion whichtheirintrinsic insignificance would naturally have involved--why they wereremembered and individualized by herself and others through afteryears--was simply that she unknowingly stood, as it were, upon theextremeposterior edge of a tract in her life, in which the realmeaning of Taking Thought had never been known. It was the last hour ofexperience she ever enjoyed with a mind entirely free from a knowledgeof that labyrinthinto which she stepped immediately afterwards--tocontinue a perplexed course along its mazes for the greater portion oftwenty-nine subsequent months.The Town Hall, in which Cytherea sat, was a building of brownstone, andthrough one of the windows could be seen from the interior of the roomthe housetops and chimneys of the adjacent street, and also the upperpart of a neighbouring church spire, now in course of completionunderthe superintendence of Miss Graye's father, the architect to the work.That the top of this spire should be visible from her position in theroom was a fact which Cytherea's idling eyes had discovered withsomeinterest, and she was now engaged in watching the scene that was beingenacted about its airy summit. Round the conical stonework rose a cageof scaffolding against the blue sky, and upon this stood fivemen--fourin clothes as white as the new erection close beneath their hands, thefifth in the ordinary dark suit of a gentleman.The four working-men in white were three masons and a mason's labourer.The fifth man wasthe architect, Mr. Graye. He had been givingdirections as it seemed, and retiring as far as the narrow footwayallowed, stood perfectly still.The picture thus presented to a spectator in the Town Hall was curiousandstriking. It was an illuminated miniature, framed in by the darkmargin of the window, the keen-edged shadiness of which emphasized bycontrast the softness of the objects enclosed.The height of the spire was aboutone hundred and twenty feet, and thefive men engaged thereon seemed entirely removed from the sphere andexperiences of ordinary human beings. They appeared little largerthan pigeons, and made their tinymovements with a soft, spirit-likesilentness. One idea above all others was conveyed to the mind of aperson on the ground by their aspect, namely, concentration of purpose:that they were indifferent to--evenunconscious of--the distracted worldbeneath them, and all that moved upon it. They never looked off thescaffolding.Then one of them turned; it was Mr. Graye. Again he stood motionless,with attention to theoperations of the others. He appeared to be lostin reflection, and had directed his face towards a new stone they werelifting.'Why does he stand like that?' the young lady thought at length--up tothat moment as listlessand careless as one of the ancient Tarentines,who, on such an afternoon as this, watched from the Theatre the entryinto their Harbour of a power that overturned the State.She moved herself uneasily. 'I wish he wouldcome down,' she whispered,still gazing at the skybacked picture. 'It is so dangerous to beabsent-minded up there.'When she had done murmuring the words her father indecisively laid holdof one of the scaffold-poles,as if to test its strength, then let it goand stepped back. In stepping, his foot slipped. An instant of doublingforward and sideways, and he reeled off into the air, immediatelydisappearing downwards.His agonizeddaughter rose to her feet by a convulsive movement. Herlips parted, and she gasped for breath. She could utter no sound. One byone the people about her, unconscious of what had happened, turned theirheads, andinquiry and alarm became visible upon their faces at thesight of the poor child. A moment longer, and she fell to the floor.The next impression of which Cytherea had any consciousness was of beingcarried from astrange vehicle across the pavement to the steps of herown house by her brother and an older man. Recollection of what hadpassed evolved itself an instant later, and just as they entered thedoor--through whichanother and sadder burden had been carried but a fewinstants before--her eyes caught sight of the south-western sky, and,without heeding, saw white sunlight shining in shaft-like lines from arift in a slaty cloud.


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                                   MEN IN BLACK 3                                      Written by                           Etan Cohen & LowellCunningham          CLOSE ON A PAIR OF MIRROR AVIATOR SUNGLASSES          Standard issue throughout the south to abusive, racist prison          guards.          Widen to reveal that, indeed, these glassesare on the          sneering face of just such a man.          We follow the guard          DOWN A DINGY PRISON HALLWAY          Paint peeling off the rusty bars. Somewhere, someone is          playing harmonica.Prisoners yell complaints as he passes.          He meets them all with--                         GUARD          Shut up, convict! Get yer hands          off the bars!          The guard passes through several levels ofsecurity doors,          deeper and deeper into the more secure bowels of the prison --          home of the scum of the scum.          Meanwhile...          PRISON VISITING ROOM          The lazy-ass guards incharge of screening visitors read          magazines, watch TV. Footsteps -- someone's here. Which          pisses them off, because that means they actually have to do          their jobs.          The unseen visitor buzzesfor help. They take their time          getting off their asses. When they finally look up, their          gaze becomes a leer. Follow it to:          DEVIL GIRL, the visitor. Too tall, too muscled, but hot if          you're into thatkind of thing -- an R. Crumb drawing come to          life.          She holds a CAKE -- the cutest, perfectly-frosted pink cake          right off the cover of the Betty Crocker cookbook.                         GUARD2          Lookie here. Yaz's visitor. I          guess even a turd gets flies to          land on it.                         GUARD 3          Me, I like a biggirl.                                                                                2.          They smirk, hoping for a reaction. Devil girl emits a low,          sinister growl like an angry Doberman... The guardslook at          each other and GET DOWN TO BUSINESS:                         GUARD 2          I.D., visitation papers.          BACK DOWN THE HALLWAY WITH THE GUARD          He reaches the end of thehallway. The biggest, most          absurdly-reinforced double security door. He punches in a          code.          The giant door retracts -- its immense weight has it          squeaking and groaning the whole way.Whoever's behind this          thing must've done something REAL bad.          WITH DEVIL GIRL          Going through the metal detectors, waved over with security          wands. The guards are being thorough.Maybe more thorough          than they need to be. They check everything -- even the          cake. The digital readout tells them NO METAL DETECTED.                         GUARD 3          She's clean. Well, notCLEAN, but          you know.          They laugh, buzz her through.          WITH THE GUARD          The giant door finally opens, he continues to the end of the          hallway. Stops in front of a cell. Yellsin:                         GUARD          Hey, Yaz! You got a visitor.          Let's go, pretty boy.                         VISITING ROOM          Spare. Just a table and chairs in the middle -- poured          concrete.Nothing a convict could, say, smash into the face          of a guard.          The perimeter of the room is lined with armed guards -- looks          like they're not takingchances.                                                                                3.          At the lone table -- Devil Girl waits with her cake. She          hears the door open -- her face lights up as IN STEPSHER                         BELOVED --          YAZ, an evil hippie/biker badass right out of Easy Rider. A          huge mane of hair, a big handlebar moustache that frames a          grubby unshavenface...          Everything about him seems strangely independently alive --          every strand of hair, every fringe on his dirty jacket -- the          way Elvis was in his prime.          He wears a distinctive SKULL PINKIERING. A smirk plays on          his mouth that says -- I'm smarter than you, asshole.          The guards escort Yaz, who can barely walk in his CHAINS and          MANACLES. They dump him into one of the chairs. DevilGirl          jumps up, they lock in a kiss -- it goes on too long.          A guard pokes them with his billy club --                         GUARD 2          This ain't a conjugal visit.          quit yerconjugating.                         YAZ          When's the last time you conjugated          anything?                         DEVIL GIRL          I brought you a cake.                         YAZ          Thanks,darling.                         (TO GUARDS)          Hey could you cut this up for us?          It's our anniversary. I'm romantic          like that.          A guard picks up the cake. Smirks and takes a dirtythree-          fingered scoop of frosting.                         GUARD 2                         (MOUTH FULL)          Not great. She must.be good at          somethin' else.          They all LAUGH. He goes back foranother scoop.                         YAZ          I wouldn't do that.                         GUARD 2          Why's that,convict?                                                                                4.                         GUARD POV:          Where he scraped away the frosting, REVEAL A HORRIBLEALIEN                         MOUTH                         GUARD 2 (CONT'D)                         WHAT TH--          But in a flash, the mouth SPRINGS OUT -- IT BELONGS TO A          VORACIOUSALIEN -- another springs out behind it -- they          consume the guard's entire face.                         YAZ          That's why.          The aliens jump into Yaz's hands like a matching pair of          grotesqueORGANIC SIDEARMS -- as vicious and bloodthirsty as          their master, snarling and hungry for blood.          The guards draw their weapons, but YAZ IS FASTER.-- he          launches his aliens, taking them allout.          Yaz "holsters" the aliens and...          THE PRISON BREAK IS ON!!          One guard, badly wounded, crawls to SOUND THE ALARM          In the reflection of a pair of blood-spatteredaviator          glasses -- Devil Girl puts the guard down with his own          weapon.          She uses one of the cake-aliens like a saw to get Yaz out of          his chains.                         YAZ          There'snothing sexier than a girl          killing for me.          She runs a hand over his bicep.                         DEVIL GIRL          You got so strong in prison.          Yaz notices the almost-deadguard:                         YAZ          I'm not just a man of brute force,          you know. I prefer to be known for          my rapier wit--          His tongue SHOOTS OUT OF HIS MOUTH -- like a rapier--          impaling the guard--                                                                                5.                         YAZ (CONT'D)          --and tongue.          The tongue retracts -- he andDevil Girl KISS.          They collect weapons off the guards and use the aliens to saw          open the door.          YAZ AND DEVIL GIRL ESCAPE          Prisoners go nuts, guards scramble -- smoke,screaming,          chaos.          Yaz and Devil Girl, armed with weapons they took off the dead          guards, BLAST THEIR WAY OUT.          He's a sociopathic badass... and she's no slouch either.           Along the way,Yaz shoots the door off the armory and grabs          an armload of weapons -- Shotguns, pistols, and a Rocket-          Propelled grenade (RPG).          He uses and discards them as he goes.          They head for thefront gate and FREEDOM...          But..          They turn the corner and find 50 GUARDS in FULL RIOT GEAR --          Plexiglass shields, helmets, shotguns -- all aimed at Yaz.          All Yaz has left is hisRPG.          GUARD ON MEGAPHONE          Give it up, Yaz! There's no way          out!          A beat of stand-off -- Yaz and Devil girl facing off against          the 50 Guards... No one blinking...          Prisoners.watching... what's gonna go down?                         GUARD          You can't win. You've only got one          shot in there!          Yaz lets the tension linger -- he seems to enjoy it. The          guards SWELTERin their heavy riot gear.                         YAZ          You look hot. Mind if I open a          window?                                                                                6.          The guardsshare a look - huh?? Yaz grins, turns his RPG          towards the wall behind the guards. The guards' faces go          WIDE WITH TERROR.                         GUARD          Hey! Whoa! What are youdoing?          Don't do that!          SLAM!          Yaz blasts a hole in the wall -- the guards are IMMEDIATELY          SUCKED OUT like from a hole blown in an airplane.          What the...?          Yaz stepsthrough the hole.                         ON YAZ          As he and Devil girl step through the hole, take a deep,          satisfied breath of FREEDOM.          Reveal we are on...          THE SURFACE OF THEMOON          The signage on the prison reads INTERGALACTIC DEPARTMENT OF          CORRECTIONS, LUNAR DIVISION          Yaz looks up at the BLUE MARBLE OF EARTH, smiles.          As Yaz fixes hisgaze on our planet, his hair, his fringes          INDEPENDENTLY ARTICULATE YAZ'S MALEVOLENT EMOTIONS... they          also seem drawn here. Like bees, they express acollective          intelligence.                         YAZ          I'm coming for you...          Following Yaz's gaze to the Earth, we launch into...                         CREDITS          MiB credits fly us through theGalaxy.          Ending on a PARTICULARLY INHOSPITABLE LOOKING PLANET          As it revolves, we observe its strange craters and surface,          where steaming fissures belch geysers of noxiousgases...                                                                                7          KAY'S VOICE (V.0.)          When you really think about it, the          universe is a pretty awfulplace.          Full of danger, brutality, and ten          million kinds of scum. So the          trick is to find one or two things          that make life in this cesspool          worth living.          And reveal we are actually lookingat...                         PEKING DUCK          Rotating on a spit.          JAY and KAY watch this awful duck rotate.                         JAY          That? That nasty, greasy thing          makes your life worthliving?          There's people eating here, younger          than that duck.                         KAY          I was talking about the noodles.          Best noodles in town.          And we are in          INT. CHINESERESTAURANT - CHINATOWN, NYC - NIGHT          Tanks everywhere filled with strange fish. An eclectic NY          crowd eats -- Wall Street guys, hipsters, a Chinese family or          two, a couple of NYU professortypes who love the          "authenticity" of this place.          KAY flashes a badge to the OWNER, Chinese.                         KAY          Good evening, Mr. Wu.          MR. WU          (heavily accented,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Youth, by Joseph ConradThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: YouthAuthor: Joseph ConradRelease Date: May 1996 [EBook #525]Posting Date: June 18, 2009Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH ***Produced by Judith Boss and David WidgerYOUTHA NARRATIVEBy Joseph Conrad  "... But the Dwarf answered: No; something human is dearer to me  than thewealth of all the world." GRIMM'S TALES.TO MY WIFEYOUTHThis could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and seainterpenetrate, so to speak--the sea entering into the life of most men,and the menknowing something or everything about the sea, in the way ofamusement, of travel, or of bread-winning.We were sitting round a mahogany table that reflected the bottle, theclaret-glasses, and our faces as we leanedon our elbows. There was adirector of companies, an accountant, a lawyer, Marlow, and myself. Thedirector had been a _Conway_ boy, the accountant had served four years atsea, the lawyer--a fine crusted Tory, HighChurchman, the best of oldfellows, the soul of honour--had been chief officer in the P. & O.service in the good old days when mail-boats were square-rigged at leaston two masts, and used to come down the China Seabefore a fair monsoonwith stun'-sails set alow and aloft. We all began life in the merchantservice. Between the five of us there was the strong bond of the sea,and also the fellowship of the craft, which no amount ofenthusiasm foryachting, cruising, and so on can give, since one is only the amusementof life and the other is life itself.Marlow (at least I think that is how he spelt his name) told the story,or rather the chronicle, of avoyage:"Yes, I have seen a little of the Eastern seas; but what I remember bestis my first voyage there. You fellows know there are those voyages thatseem ordered for the illustration of life, that might stand for asymbolof existence. You fight, work, sweat, nearly kill yourself, sometimes dokill yourself, trying to accomplish something--and you can't. Notfrom any fault of yours. You simply can do nothing, neither greatnorlittle--not a thing in the world--not even marry an old maid, or get awretched 600-ton cargo of coal to its port of destination."It was altogether a memorable affair. It was my first voyage to theEast, and my firstvoyage as second mate; it was also my skipper's firstcommand. You'll admit it was time. He was sixty if a day; a little man,with a broad, not very straight back, with bowed shoulders and one legmore bandy than theother, he had that queer twisted-about appearanceyou see so often in men who work in the fields. He had a nut-crackerface--chin and nose trying to come together over a sunken mouth--and itwas framed in iron-greyfluffy hair, that looked like a chin strap ofcotton-wool sprinkled with coal-dust. And he had blue eyes in thatold face of his, which were amazingly like a boy's, with that candidexpression some quite common menpreserve to the end of their days bya rare internal gift of simplicity of heart and rectitude of soul.What induced him to accept me was a wonder. I had come out of a crackAustralian clipper, where I had been third officer,and he seemed tohave a prejudice against crack clippers as aristocratic and high-toned.He said to me, 'You know, in this ship you will have to work.' I saidI had to work in every ship I had ever been in. 'Ah, but thisisdifferent, and you gentlemen out of them big ships;... but there! Idare say you will do. Join to-morrow.'"I joined to-morrow. It was twenty-two years ago; and I was just twenty.How time passes! It was one of thehappiest days of my life. Fancy!Second mate for the first time--a really responsible officer! I wouldn'thave thrown up my new billet for a fortune. The mate looked me overcarefully. He was also an old chap, but ofanother stamp. He had a Romannose, a snow-white, long beard, and his name was Mahon, but he insistedthat it should be pronounced Mann. He was well connected; yet there wassomething wrong with his luck, and hehad never got on."As to the captain, he had been for years in coasters, then in theMediterranean, and last in the West Indian trade. He had never beenround the Capes. He could just write a kind of sketchy hand, anddidn'tcare for writing at all. Both were thorough good seamen of course,and between those two old chaps I felt like a small boy between twograndfathers."The ship also was old. Her name was the _Judea_. Queer name,isn't it?She belonged to a man Wilmer, Wilcox--some name like that; but he hasbeen bankrupt and dead these twenty years or more, and his name don'tmatter. She had been laid up in Shadwell basin for ever so long.You mayimagine her state. She was all rust, dust, grime--soot aloft, dirt ondeck. To me it was like coming out of a palace into a ruined cottage.She was about 400 tons, had a primitive windlass, wooden latches tothedoors, not a bit of brass about her, and a big square stern. There wason it, below her name in big letters, a lot of scroll work, with thegilt off, and some sort of a coat of arms, with the motto 'Do or Die'underneath. Iremember it took my fancy immensely. There was a touch ofromance in it, something that made me love the old thing--something thatappealed to my youth!"We left London in ballast--sand ballast--to load a cargo ofcoal in anorthern port for Bankok. Bankok! I thrilled. I had been six years atsea, but had only seen Melbourne and Sydney, very good places, charmingplaces in their way--but Bankok!"We worked out of the Thamesunder canvas, with a North Sea pilot onboard. His name was Jermyn, and he dodged all day long about the galleydrying his handkerchief before the stove. Apparently he never slept.He was a dismal man, with aperpetual tear sparkling at the end of hisnose, who either had been in trouble, or was in trouble, or expectedto be in trouble--couldn't be happy unless something went wrong. Hemistrusted my youth, mycommon-sense, and my seamanship, and made apoint of showing it in a hundred little ways. I dare say he was right.It seems to me I knew very little then, and I know not much more now;but I cherish a hate for thatJermyn to this day."We were a week working up as far as Yarmouth Roads, and then we gotinto a gale--the famous October gale of twenty-two years ago. It waswind, lightning, sleet, snow, and a terrific sea. We wereflying light,and you may imagine how bad it was when I tell you we had smashedbulwarks and a flooded deck. On the second night she shifted her ballastinto the lee bow, and by that time we had been blown offsomewhere onthe Dogger Bank. There was nothing for it but go below with shovels andtry to right her, and there we were in that vast hold, gloomy like acavern, the tallow dips stuck and flickering on the beams, thegalehowling above, the ship tossing about like mad on her side; there weall were, Jermyn, the captain, everyone, hardly able to keep our feet,engaged on that gravedigger's work, and trying to toss shovelfuls ofwetsand up to windward. At every tumble of the ship you could see vaguelyin the dim light men falling down with a great flourish of shovels.One of the ship's boys (we had two), impressed by the weirdness of thescene,wept as if his heart would break. We could hear him blubberingsomewhere in the shadows."On the third day the gale died out, and by-and-by a north-country tugpicked us up. We took sixteen days in all to get fromLondon to theTyne! When we got into dock we had lost our turn for loading, and theyhauled us off to a tier where we remained for a month. Mrs. Beard (thecaptain's name was Beard) came from Colchester to see theold man. Shelived on board. The crew of runners had left, and there remained onlythe officers, one boy, and the steward, a mulatto who answered to thename of Abraham. Mrs. Beard was an old woman, with a face allwrinkledand ruddy like a winter apple, and the figure of a young girl. Shecaught sight of me once, sewing on a button, and insisted on having myshirts to repair. This was something different from the captains' wivesIhad known on board crack clippers. When I brought her the shirts, shesaid: 'And the socks? They want mending, I am sure, and John's--CaptainBeard's--things are all in order now. I would be glad of something todo.'Bless the old woman! She overhauled my outfit for me, and meantimeI read for the first time _Sartor Resartus_ and Burnaby's _Ride toKhiva_. I didn't understand much of the first then; but I remember Ipreferred thesoldier to the philosopher at the time; a preferencewhich life has only confirmed. One was a man, and the other was eithermore--or less. However, they are both dead, and Mrs. Beard is dead, andyouth, strength,genius, thoughts, achievements, simple hearts--all dies.... No matter."They loaded us at last. We shipped a crew. Eight able seamen and twoboys. We hauled off one evening to the buoys at the dock-gates, ready togoout, and with a fair prospect of beginning the voyage next day. Mrs.Beard was to start for home by a late train. When the ship was fastwe went to tea. We sat rather silent through the meal--Mahon, the oldcouple, andI. I finished first, and slipped away for a smoke, my cabinbeing in a deck-house just against the poop. It was high water, blowingfresh with a drizzle; the double dock-gates were opened, and the steamcolliers weregoing in and out in the darkness with their lights burningbright, a great plashing of propellers, rattling of winches, and a lotof hailing on the pier-heads. I watched the procession of head-lightsgliding high and of greenlights gliding low in the night, when suddenlya red gleam flashed at me, vanished, came into view again, and remained.The fore-end of a steamer loomed up close. I shouted down the cabin,'Come up, quick!' and thenheard a startled voice saying afar in thedark, 'Stop her, sir.' A bell jingled. Another voice cried warningly,'We are going right into that barque, sir.' The answer to this was agruff 'All right,' and the next thing was a heavycrash as the steamerstruck a glancing blow with the bluff of her bow about our fore-rigging.There was a moment of confusion, yelling, and running about. Steamroared. Then somebody was heard saying, 'All clear,sir.'... 'Areyou all right?' asked the gruff voice. I had jumped forward to see thedamage, and hailed back, 'I think so.' 'Easy astern,' said the gruffvoice. A bell jingled. 'What steamer is that?' screamed Mahon. Bythattime she was no more to us than a bulky shadow maneuvering a littleway off. They shouted at us some name--a woman's name, Miranda orMelissa--or some such thing. 'This means another month in thisbeastlyhole,' said Mahon to me, as we peered with lamps about the splinteredbulwarks and broken braces. 'But where's the captain?'"We had not heard or seen anything of him all that time. We went aft tolook. A dolefulvoice arose hailing somewhere in the middle of the dock,'_Judea_ ahoy!'... How the devil did he get there?... 'Hallo!' weshouted. 'I am adrift in our boat without oars,' he cried. A belatedwaterman offered his services,and Mahon struck a bargain with him forhalf-a-crown to tow our skipper alongside; but it was Mrs. Beard thatcame up the ladder first. They had been floating about the dock in thatmizzly cold rain for nearly an hour. Iwas never so surprised in mylife."It appears that when he heard my shout 'Come up,' he understood at oncewhat was the matter, caught up his wife, ran on deck, and across,and down into our boat, which was fast tothe ladder. Not bad for asixty-year-old. Just imagine that old fellow saving heroically in hisarms that old woman--the woman of his life. He set her down on a thwart,and was ready to climb back on board when thepainter came adriftsomehow, and away they went together. Of course in the confusion wedid not hear him shouting. He looked abashed. She said cheerfully, 'Isuppose it does not matter my losing the train now?' 'No,Jenny--you gobelow and get warm,' he growled. Then to us: 'A sailor has no businesswith a wife--I say. There I was, out of the ship. Well, no harm donethis time. Let's go and look at what that fool of a steamersmashed.'"It wasn't much, but it delayed us three weeks. At the end of that time,the captain being engaged with his agents, I carried Mrs. Beard's bag tothe railway-station and put her all comfy into a third-classcarriage.She lowered the window to say, 'You are a good young man. If you seeJohn--Captain Beard--without his muffler at night, just remind him fromme to keep his throat well wrapped up.' 'Certainly, Mrs. Beard,' Isaid.'You are a good young man; I noticed how attentive you are to John--toCaptain--' The train pulled out suddenly; I took my cap off to the oldwoman: I never saw her again... Pass the bottle."We went to sea nextday. When we made that start for Bankok we had beenalready three months out of London. We had expected to be a fortnight orso--at the outside."It was January, and the weather was beautiful--the beautifulsunnywinter weather that has more charm than in the summer-time, because itis unexpected, and crisp, and you know it won't, it can't, last long.It's like a windfall, like a godsend, like an unexpected piece of luck."Itlasted all down the North Sea, all down Channel; and it lasted tillwe were three hundred miles or so to the westward of the Lizards: thenthe wind went round to the sou'west and began to pipe up. In two days itblew agale. The _Judea_, hove to, wallowed on the Atlantic like an oldcandlebox. It blew day after day: it blew with spite, without interval,without mercy, without rest. The world was nothing but an immensity ofgreat foamingwaves rushing at us, under a sky low enough to touchwith the hand and dirty like a smoked ceiling. In the stormy spacesurrounding us there was as much flying spray as air. Day after day andnight after night there wasnothing round the ship but the howl of thewind, the tumult of the sea, the noise of water pouring over her deck.There was no rest for her and no rest for us. She tossed, she pitched,she stood on her head, she sat onher tail, she rolled, she groaned, andwe had to hold on while on deck and cling to our bunks when below, in aconstant effort of body and worry of mind."One night Mahon spoke through the small window of my berth. Itopenedright into my very bed, and I was lying there sleepless, in my boots,feeling as though I had not slept for years, and could not if I tried.He said excitedly--"'You got the sounding-rod in here, Marlow? I can't getthe pumps tosuck. By God! it's no child's play.'"I gave him the sounding-rod and lay down again, trying to think ofvarious things--but I thought only of the pumps. When I came on deckthey were still at it, and mywatch relieved at the pumps. By the lightof the lantern brought on deck to examine the sounding-rod I caught aglimpse of their weary, serious faces. We pumped all the four hours.We pumped all night, all day, all theweek,--watch and watch. She wasworking herself loose, and leaked badly--not enough to drown us at once,but enough to kill us with the work at the pumps. And while we pumpedthe ship was going from us piecemeal:the bulwarks went, the stanchionswere torn out, the ventilators smashed, the cabin-door burst in. Therewas not a dry spot in the ship. She was being gutted bit by bit. Thelong-boat changed, as if by magic, intomatchwood where she stood in hergripes. I had lashed her myself, and was rather proud of my handiwork,which had withstood so long the malice of the sea. And we pumped. Andthere was no break in the weather. Thesea was white like a sheet offoam, like a caldron of boiling milk; there was not a break in theclouds, no--not the size of a man's hand--no, not for so much as tenseconds. There was for us no sky, there were for us nostars, no sun,no universe--nothing but angry clouds and an infuriated sea. We pumpedwatch and watch, for dear life; and it seemed to last for months, foryears, for all eternity, as though we had been dead and gone toa hellfor sailors. We forgot the day of the week, the name of the month, whatyear it was, and whether we had ever been ashore. The sails blew away,she lay broadside on under a weather-cloth, the ocean pouredoverher, and we did not care. We turned those handles, and had the eyes ofidiots. As soon as we had crawled on deck I used to take a round turnwith a rope about the men, the pumps, and the mainmast, and weturned,we turned incessantly, with the water to our waists, to our necks, overour heads. It was all one. We had forgotten how it felt to be dry."And there was somewhere in me the thought: By Jove! this is the deuceofan adventure--something you read about; and it is my first voyage assecond mate--and I am only twenty--and here I am lasting it out as wellas any of these men, and keeping my chaps up to the mark. I was pleased.Iwould not have given up the experience for worlds. I had moments ofexultation. Whenever the old dismantled craft pitched heavily with hercounter high in the air, she seemed to me to throw up, like an appeal,like adefiance, like a cry to the clouds without mercy, the wordswritten on her stern: '_Judea_, London. Do or Die.'"O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! Tome she was not an old rattle-trap cartingabout the world a lot of coalfor a freight--to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life.I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret--as you wouldthink of someone dead you have loved. I shall neverforget her....Pass the bottle."One night when tied to the mast, as I explained, we were pumpingon, deafened with the wind, and without spirit enough in us to wishourselves dead, a heavy sea crashed aboard and sweptclean over us. Assoon as I got my breath I shouted, as in duty bound, 'Keep on, boys!'when suddenly I felt something hard floating on deck strike the calf ofmy leg. I made a grab at it and missed. It was so dark wecould not seeeach other's faces within a foot--you understand."After that thump the ship kept quiet for a while, and the thing,whatever it was, struck my leg again. This time I caught it--and it wasa saucepan. At first,being stupid with fatigue and thinking of nothingbut the pumps, I did not understand what I had in my hand. Suddenly itdawned upon me, and I shouted, 'Boys, the house on deck is gone. Leavethis, and let's look forthe cook.'"There was a deck-house forward, which contained the galley, the cook'sberth, and the quarters of the crew. As we had expected for days to seeit swept away, the hands had been ordered to sleep in thecabin--theonly safe place in the ship. The steward, Abraham, however, persistedin clinging to his berth, stupidly, like a mule--from sheer frightI believe, like an animal that won't leave a stable falling in anearthquake.So we went to look for him. It was chancing death, sinceonce out of our lashings we were as exposed as if on a raft. But wewent. The house was shattered as if a shell had exploded inside. Mostof it had goneoverboard--stove, men's quarters, and their property,all was gone; but two posts, holding a portion of the bulkhead to whichAbraham's bunk was attached, remained as if by a miracle. We groped inthe ruins and cameupon this, and there he was, sitting in his bunk,surrounded by foam and wreckage, jabbering cheerfully to himself. Hewas out of his mind; completely and for ever mad, with this sudden shockcoming upon the fag-endof his endurance. We snatched him up, lugged himaft, and pitched him head-first down the cabin companion. You understandthere was no time to carry him down with infinite precautions and waitto see how he got on.Those below would pick him up at the bottom ofthe stairs all right. We were in a hurry to go back to the pumps. Thatbusiness could not wait. A bad leak is an inhuman thing."One would think that the sole purpose ofthat fiendish gale had been tomake a lunatic of that poor devil of a mulatto. It eased before morning,and next day the sky cleared, and as the sea went down the leak took up.When it came to bending a fresh set of sailsthe crew demanded to putback--and really there was nothing else to do. Boats gone, decks sweptclean, cabin gutted, men without a stitch but what they stood in, storesspoiled, ship strained. We put her head for home,and--would you believeit? The wind came east right in our teeth. It blew fresh, it blewcontinuously. We had to beat up every inch of the way, but she didnot leak so badly, the water keeping comparatively smooth. Twohours'pumping in every four is no joke--but it kept her afloat as far asFalmouth."The good people there live on casualties of the sea, and no doubt wereglad to see us. A hungry crowd of shipwrights sharpened theirchiselsat the sight of that carcass of a ship. And, by Jove! they had prettypickings off us before they were done. I fancy the owner was already ina tight place. There were delays. Then it was decided to take partof the