ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Venus in Furs, by Ritter von Leopold Sacher-MasochThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Venus in FursAuthor: Ritter von Leopold Sacher-MasochTranslator: Fernanda SavagePosting Date: October 20, 2011 [EBook#6852]Release Date: November, 2004[This file was first posted on February 2, 2003]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENUSIN FURS ***Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Tiffany Vergon,Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team.VENUS INFURSOf this book, intended forprivate circulation, only1225 copies have beenprinted, and type afterwarddistributed.VENUS IN FURSByLEOPOLD VONSACHER-MASOCHTranslated from the GermanByFERNANDA SAVAGEINTRODUCTIONLeopold von Sacher-Masoch was born in Lemberg, Austrian Galicia,onJanuary 27, 1836. He studied jurisprudence at Prague and Graz, and in1857 became a teacher at the latter university. He published severalhistorical works, butsoon gave up his academic career to devotehimself wholly to literature. For a number of years he edited theinternational review, _Auf der Hohe_, at Leipzig, butlater removed toParis, for he was always strongly Francophile. His last years he spentat Lindheim in Hesse, Germany, where he died on March 9, 1895. In 1873hemarried Aurora von Rumelin, who wrote a number of novels under thepseudonym of Wanda von Dunajew, which it is interesting to note is thename of the heroineof _Venus in Furs_. Her sensational memoirs whichhave been the cause of considerable controversy were published in 1906.During his career as writer an endlessnumber of works poured fromSacher-Masoch's pen. Many of these were works of ephemeral journalism,and some of them unfortunately pure sensationalism, foreconomicnecessity forced him to turn his pen to unworthy ends.There is, however, a residue among his works which has a distinctliterary and even greaterpsychological value. His principal literaryambition was never completely fulfilled. It was a somewhatprogrammatic plan to give a picture of contemporary life in allitsvarious aspects and interrelations under the general title of the_Heritage of Cain_. This idea was probably derived from Balzac's_Comedie Humaine_. The wholewas to be divided into six subdivisionswith the general titles _Love, Property, Money, The State, War,_ and_Death_. Each of these divisions in its turn consisted ofsix novels,of which the last was intended to summarize the author's conclusionsand to present his solution for the problems set in the others.This extensive planremained unachieved, and only the first two parts,_Love_ and _Property_, were completed. Of the other sections onlyfragments remain. The present novel,_Venus in Furs_, forms the fifthin the series, _Love_.The best of Sacher-Masoch's work is characterized by a swiftnarration and a graphic representation ofcharacter and scene and arich humor. The latter has made many of his shorter stories dealingwith his native Galicia little masterpieces of local color.There is,however, another element in his work which has caused hisname to become as eponym for an entire series of phenomena at one endof the psycho-sexual scale.This gives his productions a peculiarpsychological value, though it cannot be denied also a morbid tingethat makes them often repellent. However, it is well toremember thatnature is neither good nor bad, neither altruistic nor egoistic, andthat it operates through the human psyche as well as through crystalsand plantsand animals with the same inexorable laws.Sacher-Masoch was the poet of the anomaly now generally known as_masochism_. By this is meant the desire on thepart of the individualaffected of desiring himself completely and unconditionally subject tothe will of a person of the opposite sex, and being treated by thispersonas by a master, to be humiliated, abused, and tormented, evento the verge of death. This motive is treated in all its innumerablevariations. As a creative artistSacher-Masoch was, of course, on thequest for the absolute, and sometimes, when impulses in the humanbeing assume an abnormal or exaggerated form, thereis just for amoment a flash that gives a glimpse of the thing in itself.If any defense were needed for the publication of work likeSacher-Masoch's it is well toremember that artists are the historiansof the human soul and one might recall the wise and tolerant Montaigne'sessay _On the Duty of Historians_ where hesays, "One may cover oversecret actions, but to be silent on what all the world knows, and thingswhich have had effects which are public and of so muchconsequence is aninexcusable defect."And the curious interrelation between cruelty and sex, again andagain, creeps into literature. Sacher-Masoch has notcreated anythingnew in this. He has simply taken an ancient motive and developed itfrankly and consciously, until, it seems, there is nothing further tosay on thesubject. To the violent attacks which his books met hereplied in a polemical work, _Ãber den Wert der Kritik_.It would be interesting to trace the masochistictendency as it occursthroughout literature, but no more can be done than just to allude toa few instances. The theme recurs continually in the _Confessions_ofJean Jacques Rousseau; it explains the character of the chevalier inPrÃ©vost's _Manon l'Escault_. Scenes of this nature are found in Zola's_Nana_, in ThomasOtway's _Venice Preserved_, in Albert Juhelle's _LesPecheurs d'Hommes_, in Dostojevski. In disguised and unrecognized formit constitutes the undercurrent ofmuch of the sentimental literatureof the present day, though in most cases the authors as well as thereaders are unaware of the pathological elements out ofwhich theircharacters are built.In all these strange and troubled waters of the human spirit one mightwish for something of the serene and simple attitude of theancientworld. Laurent Tailhade has an admirable passage in his _Platres etMarbres_, which is well worth reproducing in this connection:"Toutefois, les HellÃ¨nes,dans, leurs citÃ©s de lumiÃ¨re, de douceuret d'harmonie, avaient une indulgence qu'on peut nommer scientifiquepour les troubles amoureux de l'esprit. S'ils neregardaient pasl'aliÃ©nÃ© comme en proie a la visitation d'un dieu (idÃ©e orientale etfataliste), du moins ils savaient que l'amour est une sorted'envoÃ»tement,une folie oÃ¹ se manifeste l'animositÃ© des puissancescosmiques. Plus tard, le christianisme enveloppa les Ã¢mes detÃ©nÃ¨bres. Ce fut la grande nuit.L'Ãglise condamna tout ce qui luiparÃ»t neuf ou menaÃ§ant pour les dogmes implaÃ§able qui reduisaient lemonde en esclavage."Among Sacher-Masoch'sworks, _Venus in Furs_ is one of the mosttypical and outstanding. In spite of melodramatic elements and otherliterary faults, it is unquestionably a sincere work,written withoutany idea of titillating morbid fancies. One feels that in the heromany subjective elements have been incorporated, which are adisadvantage to thework from the point of view of literature, but onthe other hand raise the book beyond the sphere of art, pure andsimple, and make it one of those appallinghuman documents whichbelong, part to science and part to psychology. It is the confessionof a deeply unhappy man who could not master his personal tragedyofexistence, and so sought to unburden his soul in writing down thethings he felt and experienced. The reader who will approach the bookfrom this angle and whowill honestly put aside moral prejudices andprepossessions will come away from the perusal of this book with adeeper understanding of this poor miserable soulof ours and a lightwill be cast into dark places that lie latent in all of us.Sacher-Masoch's works have held an established position in Europeanletters for somethinglike half a century, and the author himself wasmade a chevalier of the Legion of Honor by the French Government in1883, on the occasion of his literary jubilee.When several years agocheap reprints were brought out on the Continent and attempts weremade by various guardians of morality--they exist in all countries--tohave them suppressed, the judicial decisions were invariablyagainst the plaintiff and in favor of the publisher. Are Americanschildren that they must be protectedfrom books which any Europeanschool-boy can purchase whenever he wishes? However, such seems to bethe case, and this translation, which has long been inpreparation,consequently appears in a limited edition printed for subscribersonly. In another connection Herbert Spencer once used these words:"The ultimateresult of shielding men from the effects of folly, is tofill the world with fools." They have a very pointed application inthe case of a work like _Venus in Furs_.F.S.Atlantic CityApril, 1921VENUS IN FURS  _"But the Almighty Lord hath struck him,  and hath delivered him into the hands of  a woman."_--The Vulgate, Judith,xvi. 7.My company was charming.Opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace sat Venus; she wasnot a casual woman of the half-world, who under thispseudonym wageswar against the enemy sex, like Mademoiselle Cleopatra, but the real,true goddess of love.She sat in an armchair and had kindled a cracklingfire, whosereflection ran in red flames over her pale face with its white eyes,and from time to time over her feet when she sought to warm them.Her head waswonderful in spite of the dead stony eyes; it was allI could see of her. She had wrapped her marble-like body in a hugefur, and rolled herself up trembling like acat."I don't understand it," I exclaimed, "It isn't really cold anylonger. For two weeks past we have had perfect spring weather. Youmust be nervous.""Muchobliged for your spring," she replied with a low stony voice,and immediately afterwards sneezed divinely, twice in succession. "Ireally can't stand it here muchlonger, and I am beginning tounderstand--""What, dear lady?""I am beginning to believe the unbelievable and to understand theun-understandable. All of asudden I understand the Germanic virtue ofwoman, and German philosophy, and I am no longer surprised that you ofthe North do not know how to love, haven'teven an idea of what loveis.""But, madame," I replied flaring up, "I surely haven't given you anyreason.""Oh, you--" The divinity sneezed for the third time, andshruggedher shoulders with inimitable grace. "That's why I have always beennice to you, and even come to see you now and then, although I catcha cold everytime, in spite of all my furs. Do you remember the firsttime we met?""How could I forget it," I said. "You wore your abundant hair inbrown curls, and you hadbrown eyes and a red mouth, but I recognizedyou immediately by the outline of your face and its marble-likepallor--you always wore a violet-blue velvet jacketedged withsquirrel-skin.""You were really in love with the costume, and awfully docile.""You have taught me what love is. Your serene form of worship letmeforget two thousand years.""And my faithfulness to you was without equal!""Well, as far as faithfulness goes--""Ungrateful!""I will not reproach you withanything. You are a divine woman, butnevertheless a woman, and like every woman cruel in love.""What you call cruel," the goddess of love replied eagerly,


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                                   Arcade                                     by                                David S. Goyer                       Last revised November 6,1990INT. ARCADE WORLD -- ELECTRONIC DARKNESSWe don't know if it's night or day.  It's just black.And maybe...maybe intermittent SPARKS racingby.  So quick we barelyperceive them.  Like the sparks you imagine when your eyes are closed.BREATHING,slow and hollow, filling up the entireworld.  It's eerie as hell.  Afeeling of utter loneliness.And now the breathing recedes, fading into the darkness.  Whatever itwas...it's gone now.MAINCREDITS ROLL.We hear CELLOS.  Four of them.  Weaving an intricate melody.And now the visuals.  BRIGHTLY COLORED SHAPES spinningin.  Equallyintricate, matching the music.  They grow and flourish, like flowersopening up in time lapse photography.FRACTALS...is what they'recalled.  The visual manifestation of geometric formulas.The Mandelbrot Set.  The Julia Set.  Each mathematic form made up ofprogressively smaller forms and oninto infinity.Glorious and beautiful.  Forms folding in upon themselves andregenerating.This is creation we're witnessing.This is life in the making. DISSOLVETO:INT. COUNSELOR'S OFFICE -- DAYAN EYEFor a brief moment we still hear the CELLOS.  And in the eye, the last ofthe fractals arespinning away, leaving us with the iris.  A nice blueone.  This is ALEX MANNING'S eye. ALEX (V.O.) Time.  That's all I ever think about anymore.  It'slike there's never enough of it, you know? CUT TO:INT.  MANNING HOUSE, HALLWAY -- DAYThis is a flashback, in case you're


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Time Machine, by H. G. (Herbert George) WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Time MachineAuthor: H. G. (Herbert George) WellsRelease Date: October 2, 2004 [EBook #35][Last updated: October 3,2014]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIME MACHINE ***The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells [1898]IThe Time Traveller(for so it will be convenient to speak of him)was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone andtwinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed andanimated. Thefire burned brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescentlights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed andpassed in our glasses.Our chairs, being his patents, embraced andcaressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was thatluxurious after-dinner atmosphere whenthought roams gracefullyfree of the trammels of precision. And he put it to us in thisway--marking the points with a lean forefinger--as we sat and lazilyadmiredhis earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it)and his fecundity.'You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or twoideas that arealmost universally accepted. The geometry, forinstance, they taught you at school is founded on a misconception.''Is not that rather a large thing to expect us tobegin upon?'said Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.'I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonableground for it. You will soon admitas much as I need from you. Youknow of course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness _nil_,has no real existence. They taught you that? Neither hasamathematical plane. These things are mere abstractions.''That is all right,' said the Psychologist.'Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cubehave areal existence.''There I object,' said Filby. 'Of course a solid body may exist. Allreal things--''So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an_instantaneous_cube exist?''Don't follow you,' said Filby.'Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a realexistence?'Filby became pensive. 'Clearly,'the Time Traveller proceeded, 'anyreal body must have extension in _four_ directions: it must haveLength, Breadth, Thickness, and--Duration. But through anaturalinfirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, weincline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions,three which we call the threeplanes of Space, and a fourth, Time.There is, however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction betweenthe former three dimensions and the latter, because ithappens thatour consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along thelatter from the beginning to the end of our lives.''That,' said a very young man,making spasmodic efforts to relighthis cigar over the lamp; 'that ... very clear indeed.''Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked,'continuedthe Time Traveller, with a slight accession ofcheerfulness. 'Really this is what is meant by the Fourth Dimension,though some people who talk about the FourthDimension do not knowthey mean it. It is only another way of looking at Time. _There isno difference between Time and any of the three dimensions ofSpaceexcept that our consciousness moves along it_. But some foolishpeople have got hold of the wrong side of that idea. You have allheard what they have tosay about this Fourth Dimension?''_I_ have not,' said the Provincial Mayor.'It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have it, isspoken of as havingthree dimensions, which one may call Length,Breadth, and Thickness, and is always definable by reference tothree planes, each at right angles to the others. Butsomephilosophical people have been asking why _three_ dimensionsparticularly--why not another direction at right angles to the otherthree?--and have eventried to construct a Four-Dimension geometry.Professor Simon Newcomb was expounding this to the New YorkMathematical Society only a month or so ago. Youknow how on a flatsurface, which has only two dimensions, we can represent a figure ofa three-dimensional solid, and similarly they think that by modelsof threedimensions they could represent one of four--if they couldmaster the perspective of the thing. See?''I think so,' murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knittinghisbrows, he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as onewho repeats mystic words. 'Yes, I think I see it now,' he said aftersome time, brightening ina quite transitory manner.'Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon thisgeometry of Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my resultsarecurious. For instance, here is a portrait of a man at eightyears old, another at fifteen, another at seventeen, another attwenty-three, and so on. All these areevidently sections, as itwere, Three-Dimensional representations of his Four-Dimensionedbeing, which is a fixed and unalterable thing.'Scientific people,'proceeded the Time Traveller, after the pauserequired for the proper assimilation of this, 'know very well thatTime is only a kind of Space. Here is a popularscientific diagram,a weather record. This line I trace with my finger shows themovement of the barometer. Yesterday it was so high, yesterday nightit fell, thenthis morning it rose again, and so gently upward tohere. Surely the mercury did not trace this line in any of thedimensions of Space generally recognized? Butcertainly it tracedsuch a line, and that line, therefore, we must conclude was alongthe Time-Dimension.''But,' said the Medical Man, staring hard at a coal in thefire, 'ifTime is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is it, and whyhas it always been, regarded as something different? And why cannotwe move in Time aswe move about in the other dimensions of Space?'The Time Traveller smiled. 'Are you sure we can move freely inSpace? Right and left we can go, backward andforward freely enough,and men always have done so. I admit we move freely in twodimensions. But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there.''Notexactly,' said the Medical Man. 'There are balloons.''But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and theinequalities of the surface, man had no freedomof verticalmovement.''Still they could move a little up and down,' said the Medical Man.'Easier, far easier down than up.''And you cannot move at all in Time, youcannot get away from thepresent moment.''My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just wherethe whole world has gone wrong. We are alwaysgetting away from thepresent moment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial and haveno dimensions, are passing along the Time-Dimension with auniformvelocity from the cradle to the grave. Just as we should travel _down_if we began our existence fifty miles above the earth's surface.''But the greatdifficulty is this,' interrupted the Psychologist.'You _can_ move about in all directions of Space, but you cannotmove about in Time.''That is the germ of my greatdiscovery. But you are wrong to saythat we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recallingan incident very vividly I go back to the instant of itsoccurrence:I become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. Ofcourse we have no means of staying back for any length of Time, anymore than asavage or an animal has of staying six feet above theground. But a civilized man is better off than the savage in thisrespect. He can go up against gravitation in aballoon, and whyshould he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop oraccelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turn aboutand travel theother way?''Oh, _this_,' began Filby, 'is all--''Why not?' said the Time Traveller.'It's against reason,' said Filby.'What reason?' said the Time Traveller.'You canshow black is white by argument,' said Filby, 'but you willnever convince me.''Possibly not,' said the Time Traveller. 'But now you begin to seethe object of myinvestigations into the geometry of FourDimensions. Long ago I had a vague inkling of a machine--''To travel through Time!' exclaimed the Very Young Man.'Thatshall travel indifferently in any direction of Space and Time,as the driver determines.'Filby contented himself with laughter.'But I have experimental verification,'said the Time Traveller.'It would be remarkably convenient for the historian,' thePsychologist suggested. 'One might travel back and verify theaccepted account ofthe Battle of Hastings, for instance!''Don't you think you would attract attention?' said the Medical Man.'Our ancestors had no great tolerance foranachronisms.''One might get one's Greek from the very lips of Homer and Plato,'the Very Young Man thought.'In which case they would certainly plough you forthe Little-go.The German scholars have improved Greek so much.''Then there is the future,' said the Very Young Man. 'Just think!One might invest all one'smoney, leave it to accumulate atinterest, and hurry on ahead!''To discover a society,' said I, 'erected on a strictly communisticbasis.''Of all the wild extravaganttheories!' began the Psychologist.'Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until--''Experimental verification!' cried I. 'You are going toverify_that_?''The experiment!' cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.'Let's see your experiment anyhow,' said the Psychologist, 'thoughit's all humbug, youknow.'The Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, still smiling faintly,and with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowlyout of the room, and weheard his slippers shuffling down the longpassage to his laboratory.The Psychologist looked at us. 'I wonder what he's got?''Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,'said the Medical Man, andFilby tried to tell us about a conjurer he had seen at Burslem; butbefore he had finished his preface the Time Traveller came back,andFilby's anecdote collapsed.The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glitteringmetallic framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, andverydelicately made. There was ivory in it, and some transparentcrystalline substance. And now I must be explicit, for this thatfollows--unless his explanation isto be accepted--is an absolutelyunaccountable thing. He took one of the small octagonal tables thatwere scattered about the room, and set it in front of the fire,withtwo legs on the hearthrug. On this table he placed the mechanism.Then he drew up a chair, and sat down. The only other object on thetable was a smallshaded lamp, the bright light of which fell uponthe model. There were also perhaps a dozen candles about, two inbrass candlesticks upon the mantel and severalin sconces, so thatthe room was brilliantly illuminated. I sat in a low arm-chairnearest the fire, and I drew this forward so as to be almost betweenthe TimeTraveller and the fireplace. Filby sat behind him, lookingover his shoulder. The Medical Man and the Provincial Mayor watchedhim in profile from the right, thePsychologist from the left. TheVery Young Man stood behind the Psychologist. We were all on thealert. It appears incredible to me that any kind of trick,howeversubtly conceived and however adroitly done, could have been playedupon us under these conditions.The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the


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       CELLULAR              by         Larry Cohen         Revised by        Chris Morgan     Current Revisions byJ. Mackye Gruber &Eric Bress                                July 16, 2003TITLES OVER YELLOW BACKGROUND.We PULL BACK to reveal we're looking at THE SUN. Inthedistance lie the gorgeous San Gabriel Mountains and theDowntown Los Angeles skyline.In ONE LONG TRACKING SHOT, we CRANE PAST some trees torevealthe vast expansive homes scattered in the hills of Brentwood.HOMEOWNERS walk dogs, a PAPERBOY chucks papers fr9m agleaming mountain bike... It'searly in the morning, and thelandscapers haven't come with their leaf blowers yet.CONTINUE BOOMING DOWN to road level to face    the resplendentMartinresidence. We STEADICAM down the fr    ont walk, able toadmire the manicured hedges and the black E   scalade in thedriveway, to the front door decoratedwith    a whimsicalplacard that reads, "The Martins" -- and we    pass THROUGH THEKEYHOLE into the foyer.INT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - MORNINGWeTRACK through the living room, passing framed photos of anathletic eleven year old boy, and we hear a WOMAN'S VOICE asshe comes down the stairs with aGOLDEN RETRIEVER at herside.                     WOMAN               (into phone)          Yes Donna, I'm out the door.We TRACK over the Woman's shoulderand follow her into thekitchen, unable to see her face.                     WOMAN (CONT'D)          Just inform Kayleigh that          anesthesia is on the wayto prep          the epidural and I'll be there as          soon as I can.Still looking over her shoulder, we watch her absentlystraighten a PHOTOGRAPH of her son on


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                                                   GO                                                  written by                                                 JohnAugust                1/14/98       -   PRODUCTION DRAFT                3/18/98       -   BLUE REVISIONS                3/25/98       -   PINKREVISIONS                4/20/98       -   YELLOW REVISIONS                4/27/98       -   GREENREVISIONS                5/05/98       -   GOLDENROD REVISIONS                8/20/98       -   BUFFREVISIONS                8/26/98       -   SALMON REVISIONSThis script is copyright © 1998 John August             EXT. A DITCH -NIGHT             A light rain and crickets CHIRPING. Somewhere in the night,             DANCE MUSIC is blaring, but here it's only a whisper witha             beat.             Water trickles out of a jagged pipe. Splashing up mud, the             riverlet weaves through hamburger wrappers andsunbleached             beer cans, spent condoms and an old Spin magazine.             The tiny stream ripples past glass and trash and the body ofa             woman. Face up, breathing. Dead grass caught in her braids.             Her name is RONNA MARTIN. She's eighteen and bleeding.             Bleeding alot.             She tries to         push herself up, but the dirt around her crumbles.             Her legs are         useless. Despite it all, there's a smileof             perverse joy         to her face, like she's just remembered the             punchline to         a favorite joke.                                          CLAIRE


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Passionate Friends, by Herbert George WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Passionate FriendsAuthor: Herbert George WellsRelease Date: October 26, 2009 [EBook #30340]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSIONATE FRIENDS ***Produced by Carl Hudkins, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netThe Passionate FriendsBy H. G. WELLSAuthor of "Marriage."[Illustration]WITH FRONTISPIECEA. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS114-120East Twenty-third Street - - New YorkPUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH HARPER & BROTHERSCOPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HARPER & BROTHERSPRINTED IN THEUNITED STATES OF AMERICAPUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1913TOL. E. N. S.[Illustration: "OUR KISSES WERE KISSES OF MOONLIGHT" See p.85]CONTENTSCHAP.                                            PAGE   I. MR. STRATTON TO HIS SON                       1  II. BOYHOOD                                      14 III.INTENTIONS AND THE LADY MARY CHRISTIAN       40  IV. THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY MARY CHRISTIAN      73   V. THE WAR IN SOUTHAFRICA                     102  VI. LADY MARY JUSTIN                            132 VII. BEGINNING AGAIN                             197VIII. THIS SWARMING BUSINESS OFMANKIND           220  IX. THE SPIRIT OF THE NEW WORLD                 246   X. MARY WRITES                                 280  XI. THE LASTMEETING                            318 XII. THE ARRAIGNMENT OF JEALOUSY                 358THE PASSIONATE FRIENDSCHAPTER THE FIRSTMR. STRATTON TO HISSONÂ§ 1I want very much to set down my thoughts and my experiences of life. Iwant to do so now that I have come to middle age and now that myattitudes areall defined and my personal drama worked out I feel thatthe toil of writing and reconsideration may help to clear and fix manythings that remain a little uncertainin my thoughts because they havenever been fully stated, and I want to discover any lurkinginconsistencies and unsuspected gaps. And I have a story. I havelivedthrough things that have searched me. I want to tell that story as wellas I can while I am still a clear-headed and active man, and while manydetails thatmay presently become blurred and altered are still rawlyfresh in my mind. And to one person in particular do I wish to think Iam writing, and that is to you, myonly son. I want to write my storynot indeed to the child you are now, but to the man you are going to be.You are half my blood and temperamentally altogethermine. A day willcome when you will realize this, and want to know how life has gone withme, and then it may be altogether too late for me to answeryourenquiries. I may have become inaccessible as old people are sometimesinaccessible. And so I think of leaving this book for you--at any rate,I shall write it asif I meant to leave it for you. Afterwards I canconsider whether I will indeed leave it....The idea of writing such a book as this came to me first as I sat by thedeadbody of your grandfather--my father. It was because I wanted sogreatly such a book from him that I am now writing this. He died, youmust know, only a fewmonths ago, and I went to his house to bury himand settle all his affairs.At one time he had been my greatest friend. He had never indeed talkedto me abouthimself or his youth, but he had always showed anextraordinary sympathy and helpfulness for me in all the confusion andperplexities into which I fell. This did notlast to the end of hislife. I was the child of his middle years, and suddenly, in a year orless, the curtains of age and infirmity fell between us. There came anillness,an operation, and he rose from it ailing, suffering, dwarfedand altogether changed. Of all the dark shadows upon life I think thatchange through illness andorganic decay in the thoughts and spirits ofthose who are dear and close to us is the most evil and distressing andinexplicable. Suddenly he was a changeling, abeing querulous andpitiful, needing indulgence and sacrifices.In a little while a new state of affairs was established. I ceased toconsider him as a man to whomone told things, of whom one could expecthelp or advice. We all ceased to consider him at all in that way. Wehumored him, put pleasant things before him,concealed whatever wasdisagreeable. A poor old man he was indeed in those concluding years,weakly rebellious against the firm kindliness of my cousin,hishousekeeper and nurse. He who had once been so alert was now at timesastonishingly apathetic. At times an impish malice I had never known inhim beforegleamed in little acts and speeches. His talk rambled, andfor the most part was concerned with small, long-forgotten contentions.It was indistinct and difficult tofollow because of a recent loss ofteeth, and he craved for brandy, to restore even for a moment the senseof strength and well-being that ebbed and ebbed awayfrom him. So thatwhen I came to look at his dead face at last, it was with something likeamazement I perceived him grave and beautiful--more grave andbeautifulthan he had been even in the fullness of life.All the estrangement of the final years was wiped in an instant from mymind as I looked upon his face. Therecame back a rush of memories, ofkind, strong, patient, human aspects of his fatherhood. And I rememberedas every son must remember--even you, my dear,will some day rememberbecause it is in the very nature of sonship--insubordinations,struggles, ingratitudes, great benefits taken unthankfully, slightsanddisregards. It was not remorse I felt, nor repentance, but a tremendousregret that so things had happened and that life should be so. Why isit, I thought, thatwhen a son has come to manhood he cannot take hisfather for a friend? I had a curious sense of unprecedented communionas I stood beside him now. I felt thathe understood my thoughts; hisface seemed to answer with an expression of still and sympatheticpatience.I was sensible of amazing gaps. We had never talkedtogether of love,never of religion.All sorts of things that a man of twenty-eight would not dream of hidingfrom a coeval he had hidden from me. For some days Ihad to remain inhis house, I had to go through his papers, handle all those intimatepersonal things that accumulate around a human being year byyear--letters,yellowing scraps of newspaper, tokens, relics kept,accidental vestiges, significant litter. I learnt many things I hadnever dreamt of. At times I doubted whether Iwas not prying, whether Iought not to risk the loss of those necessary legal facts I sought, andburn these papers unread. There were love letters, and manysuchtouching things.My memories of him did not change because of these new lights, but theybecame wonderfully illuminated. I realized him as a young man, Ibeganto see him as a boy. I found a little half-bound botanical book withstencil-tinted illustrations, a good-conduct prize my father had won athis preparatoryschool; a rolled-up sheet of paper, carbonized and dryand brittle, revealed itself as a piece of specimen writing, stiff withboyish effort, decorated in ambitious andfaltering flourishes and stillbetraying the pencil rulings his rubber should have erased. Already yourwriting is better than that. And I found a daguerreotypeportrait of himin knickerbockers against a photographer's stile. His face then was notunlike yours. I stood with that in my hand at the little bureau in hisbedroom,and looked at his dead face.The flatly painted portrait of his father, my grandfather, hangingthere in the stillness above the coffin, looking out on the world hehadleft with steady, humorous blue eyes that followed one about theroom,--that, too, was revivified, touched into reality and participationby this and that,became a living presence at a conference of lives.Things of his were there also in that life's accumulation....There we were, three Strattons together, and down inthe dining-roomwere steel engravings to take us back two generations further, and wehad all lived full lives, suffered, attempted, signified. I had aglimpse of thelong successions of mankind. What a huge inaccessiblelumber-room of thought and experience we amounted to, I thought; howmuch we are, how little wetransmit. Each one of us was but a variation,an experiment upon the Stratton theme. All that I had now under my handswas but the merest hints and vestiges,moving and surprising indeed, butcasual and fragmentary, of those obliterated repetitions. Man is acreature becoming articulate, and why should those men haveleft so muchof the tale untold--to be lost and forgotten? Why must we all repeatthings done, and come again very bitterly to wisdom our fathers haveachievedbefore us? My grandfather there should have left me somethingbetter than the still enigma of his watching face. All my life so farhas gone in learning verypainfully what many men have learnt before me;I have spent the greater part of forty years in finding a sort ofpurpose for the uncertain and declining decadesthat remain. Is it nottime the generations drew together and helped one another? Cannot webegin now to make a better use of the experiences of life so thatoursons may not waste themselves so much, cannot we gather into books thatmen may read in an hour or so the gist of these confused andmultitudinous realitiesof the individual career? Surely the time iscoming for that, when a new private literature will exist, and fathersand mothers behind their rÃ´les of rulers,protectors, and supporters,will prepare frank and intimate records of their thought and theirfeeling, told as one tells things to equals, without authority orreservesor discretions, so that, they being dead, their children mayrediscover them as contemporaries and friends.That desire for self-expression is indeed already almostan instinctwith many of us. Man is disposed to create a traditional wisdom. For methis book I contemplate is a need. I am just a year and a half from abittertragedy and the loss of a friend as dear as life to me. It isvery constantly in my mind. She opened her mind to me as few people opentheir minds to anyone. In away, little Stephen, she died for you. And Iam so placed that I have no one to talk to quite freely about her. Theone other person to whom I talk, I cannot talk toabout her; it isstrange, seeing how we love and trust one another, but so it is; youwill understand that the better as this story unfolds. For eight longyears beforethe crisis that culminated in her tragic death I never sawher; yet, quite apart from the shock and distresses of that time, it hasleft me extraordinarily lonely anddesolate.And there was a kind of dreadful splendor in that last act of hers,which has taken a great hold upon my imagination; it has interwoven witheverythingelse in my mind, it bears now upon every question. I cannotget away from it, while it is thus pent from utterance.... Perhapshaving written this to you I maynever show it you or leave it for youto see. But yet I must write it. Of all conceivable persons you, whenyou have grown to manhood, are the most likely tounderstand.Â§ 2You did not come to see your dead grandfather, nor did you know verymuch about the funeral. Nowadays we do not bring the sweet egotisms,


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BLACKWe HEAR "WaltzingMatilde," by Tom Waits.INT. MUSEUM OF MODERN ART - DAY (DREAM SEQUENCE IN GRAINY BLACKAND WHITE)Fade out music.Silence.Awell-dressed black BOY and his MOTHER walk through severalgalleries.They stand before Picasso's "Guernica," holding hands.The mother is disturbed. Crying.Theboy looks up, confused and frightened, concerned to see hismother crying in public. She looks at him tenderly.Her brow furrows. She stops crying. She stares justabove hiseyes.Something's happening: she looks with wonder at the top of hishead... his eyes roll upward, trying to see - it's a crown!He raises his hands. Hetouches it.A beam of light illuminates the crown, casting its glow on hismother's face.The beam gets whiter, the rest of the screen gets black.INT.CARDBOARD BOXSilence. In darkness, we hear a VOICE - imbued with a sense ofits own history:                      VOICE (O.S.)           Everybodywants to get on the Van Gogh           boat. There's no trip so horrible that           someone won't take it. The idea of the           unrecognized genius slaving awayin a           garret is a deliciously foolish one. We           must credit the life of Vincent Van Gogh           for really sending this myth into orbit.           How manypictures did he sell? One? He           couldn't give them away. We are so ashamed           of his life that the rest of art history           will be retribution for VanGogh's neglect.           No one wants to be part of a generation           that ignores another Van Gogh.The beam of light shines through a small hole. It falls uponasleeping, dreaming, delighted face. It belongs to JEAN MICHELBASQUIAT.OUTDOOR, DAYTIME SOUNDS filter in.Hearing the voice, Jean


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                                        DEEP COVER                                        Written by                              Michael Tolkin and HenryBean                                         Story by                                      Michael Tolkin                                      SHOOTINGDRAFT                               EXT. CLEVELAND STREET - NIGHT (1970)               Rain. Christmas lights. A rusted out '56 Lincolnrattles                down the bleak boulevard. In it: JOE STEVENS, an angry, black                man in his late 20's, beside him his 10-year-old son, JOE               JR.               Joe Jr. stares out the window at passing: boarded buildings,                whores with raincoats over their heads trying to flagdown a                john, a black Santa, a knot of drinkers. Breaking the silence:                                     JOE STEVENS                         Your motherokay?                                     JOE JR.                         Yes, sir.               They stop at a light. Joe Stevens tries to furtively snort a                littlesomething. He spots Joe Jr. watching.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (firm, without irony)                         Don't you dothis shit, boy. Don't                          you ever fuckin' touch it, you hear                          me?               Joe Jr. stares, silent; Joe Jr.'s about to hithim.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (continuing)                         You hear me, goddam it?               The boy nods.Satisfied, Joe Sr. draws in the stuff. It makes                him feel good, strong, worried and determined all at once.                                     JOE


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                                          YOUTH IN REVOLT                                            Writtenby                                            Gustin Nash                                                                           July 13,2007                              OVER BLACK comes the sound of deep HEAVING BREATHS. Moist          FLESH FLAPPING accompaniment. Someoneis beating off.          A pause as the someone turns the page of a magazine.          The beating off resumes at a quickened pace. The SQUEAKING of          bedsprings joins in.          Another page is turned. Feverish THUMPING until a MALE VOICE          lets out a quiet MOAN.          The breathing gradually slows tonormal and lets out a          relieved sigh of finality.                              NICK (V.O.)                    My name... is Nick.          NICK TWISP, 16, stares upat the ceiling. He's glassy eyed          from the exertion...          INT. NICK'S ROOM - DAY          ...sprawled on the bed, trousers around his ankles, awell          thumbed issue of Penthouse covers his privates.                              NICK (V.O.)                    My last name, which I loath,is                    Twisp.          Nick pulls up his trousers and leaps off the bed. He pulls          the drawer under his mattress out.                              NICK(V.O.)                    The next thing you should know                    about me is that I am obsessed with                    sex.          A view of the drawer revealsit to be filled with neatly          filed issues of Penthouse and Hustler. He puts the most          recently utilized magazine in its place.                              NICK


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                                                                    S.DARKO                                                         Written by                                             NathanAtkins                                                                                Seconddraft                                        EXT. WHEAT FIELD - MORNING                    SAMANTHA DARKO (18) opens hereyes. She squints as the summer          sun shrinks her pupils to pinhole size. She sits up slowly,          looks around... and finds herself in midst of anendless          wheat field.                    Sam is pretty and demure. Her coppery hair flows past her          shoulders. Disoriented, she stands and gazesat the infinite          golden shimmer. Amber waves of grain. Patches of forest in          the distance. It's quiet. Serene. Beautiful...                    Shesmiles, and starts walking.                              EXT. ARKANSAS HIGHWAY 40 - MORNING                    She emerges atthe shoulder of a rural stretch of highway in          Arkansas. Adjacent to her position, on the other side of the          deserted lanes, is a TRUCKSTOP.                              EXT. TRUCK STOP - MORNING                    Amongst the TRACTOR-TRAILERS parked in theback lot is a          white, late-80s model CHEVROLET CELEBRITY. Sam makes her way          across the asphalt toward the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rivals, by Richard Brinsley SheridanThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Rivals       A ComedyAuthor: Richard Brinsley SheridanRelease Date: March 6, 2008 [EBook #24761]Language: English*** STARTOF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVALS ***Produced by Kent CooperThe RIVALSA ComedyBy Richard Brinsley Sheridan* * * * * * *PREFACEApreface to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind ofcloset-prologue, in which--if his piece has been successful--the authorsolicits that indulgence fromthe reader which he had beforeexperienced from the audience: but as the scope and immediate object ofa play is to please a mixed assembly in _representation_(whosejudgment in the theatre at least is decisive,) its degree of reputationis usually as determined as public, before it can be prepared for thecooler tribunal ofthe study. Thus any farther solicitude on the partof the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an intrusion: and ifthe piece has been condemned in theperformance, I fear an address tothe closet, like an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as theprocrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of theweakness of thecause. From these considerations, the following comedy would certainlyhave been submitted to the reader, without any farther introductionthanwhat it had in the representation, but that its success hasprobably been founded on a circumstance which the author is informedhas not before attended atheatrical trial, and which consequentlyought not to pass unnoticed.I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was thewithdrawing of the piece, toremove those imperfections in the firstrepresentation which were too obvious to escape reprehension, and toonumerous to admit of a hasty correction. There arefew writers, Ibelieve, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wishto palliate the faults which they acknowledge; and, however triflingtheperformance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, bywhatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the presentinstance, it cannot be said toamount either to candour or modesty inme, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment onmatters, in which, without guidance from practice,or spur fromsuccess, a young man should scarcely boast of being an adept. If it besaid, that under such disadvantages no one should attempt to write aplay, Imust beg leave to dissent from the position, while the firstpoint of experience that I have gained on the subject is, a knowledgeof the candour and judgment withwhich an impartial publicdistinguishes between the errors of inexperience and incapacity, andthe indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to remedythedefects of either.It were unnecessary to enter into any further extenuation of what wasthought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, thatthemanagers should have prevented some of the defects before itsappearance to the public--and in particular the uncommon length of thepiece as representedthe first night. It were an ill return for themost liberal and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer anycensure to rest where none was deserved. Hurry inwriting has long beenexploded as an excuse for an author;--however, in the dramatic line,it may happen, that both an author and a manager may wish to fillachasm in the entertainment of the public with a hastiness notaltogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first put the playinto Mr. Harris's hands: itwas at that time at least double the lengthof any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in thecurtailing of it--till, I believe, his feeling for thevanity of ayoung author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he leftmany excrescences remaining, because he had assisted in pruning so manymore.Hence, though I was not uninformed that the acts were still toolong, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I might withsafer judgment proceed to removewhat should appear to have been mostdissatisfactory. Many other errors there were, which might in part havearisen from my being by no means conversant withplays in general,either in reading or at the theatre. Yet I own that, in one respect, Idid not regret my ignorance: for as my first wish in attempting a playwas toavoid every appearance of plagiary, I thought I should stand abetter chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I had notfrequented, and where,consequently, the progress of invention was lesslikely to be interrupted by starts of recollection: for on subjects onwhich the mind has been much informed,invention is slow of exertingitself. Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; andthe imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious ofitsoffspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted.With regard to some particular passages which on the first night'srepresentation seemed generallydisliked, I confess, that if I felt anyemotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they weredisapproved of, but that I had not before perceived thatthey deservedit. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too early to passfor the sentence of _judgment_, which is ever tardy in condemning, ithasbeen suggested to me, that much of the disapprobation must havearisen from virulence of malice, rather than severity of criticism: butas I was moreapprehensive of there being just grounds to excite thelatter than conscious of having deserved the former, I continue not tobelieve that probable, which I am suremust have been unprovoked.However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from whence itcame, it would be ungenerous to retort: for no passionsuffers morethan malice from disappointment. For my own part, I see no reason whythe author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as acandid andjudicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at hislast rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at leastof sincerity, and even though theannotation be rude, he may rely uponthe justness of the comment. Considered in this light, that audience,whose _fiat_ is essential to the poet's claim, whetherhis object befame or profit, has surely a right to expect some deference to itsopinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude.As for the littlepuny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures inprivate circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence ofbeing unconnected with them, as they areusually spleen-swoln from avain idea of increasing their consequence, there will always be founda petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should placethemas far beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness hadsunk them from the level of the most unsuccessful author.It is not without pleasurethat I catch at an opportunity of justifyingmyself from the charge of intending any national reflection in thecharacter of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemenopposed the piecefrom that idea, I thank them sincerely for their opposition; and if thecondemnation of this comedy (however misconceived theprovocation)could have added one spark to the decaying flame of national attachmentto the country supposed to be reflected on, I should have been happy initsfate, and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more realservice in its failure, than the successful morality of a thousandstage-novels will ever effect.Itis usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for theexertion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance)their merit has been so strikingand uncontroverted, as to call for thewarmest and truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, thepoet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamationof a child toclose the shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of theprincipals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to the public. I thinkit therefore but justiceto declare, that from this theatre (the onlyone I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try thedramatic line will meet with that candour andliberal attention, whichare generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius intoexcellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidanceofexperience.The AUTHOR* * * * * * *DRAMATIS PERSONAE  As originally acted at COVENT GARDEN THEATRE in 1775  Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE  CAPTAINABSOLUTE  FAULKLAND  ACRES  Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER  FAG  DAVID  THOMAS  Mrs. MALAPROP  LYDIA LANGUISH  JULIA  LUCY  Maid, Boy, Servants,&c.SCENE--Bath.Time of action--Five hours.* * * * * * *PROLOGUEBy the AUTHOR[Enter SERJEANT-AT-LAW, and ATTORNEY following, and giving apaper.]SERJEANT  What's here!--a vile cramp hand! I cannot see  Without my spectacles.ATTORNEY                        He means his fee.  Nay, Mr. Serjeant, goodsir, try again.  [Gives money.]SERJEANT  The scrawl improves! [more] O come, 'tis pretty plain.  Hey! how's this? Dibble!--sure it cannot be!  A poet's brief! apoet and a fee!ATTORNEY  Yes, sir! though you without reward, I know,  Would gladly plead the Muse'scause.SERJEANT                                      So!--so!ATTORNEY  And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall  On me.SERJEANT        Dear Dibble, no offence atall.ATTORNEY  Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet,SERJEANT  And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet!ATTORNEY  Nor pleads he worse, who with a decentsprig  Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.SERJEANT  Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl  A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl!  Yet tell your client, that, inadverse days,  This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.ATTORNEY  Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply,  Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie--  Do you, withall those blushing powers of face,  And wonted bashful hesitating grace,  Rise in the court, and flourish on the case.  [Exit.]SERJEANT  For practice thensuppose--this brief will show it,--  Me, Serjeant Woodward,--counsel for the poet.  Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal  With this dread court, fromwhence there's no appeal;  No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law,  Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw:  But judgment given, your sentence mustremain;  No writ of error lies--to Drury Lane:    Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute  We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.  No spleen is here! I seeno hoarded fury;--  I think I never faced a milder jury!  Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation.  A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation!  Butsuch the public candour, without fear  My client waives all right of challenge here.  No newsman from our session is dismiss'd,  Nor wit nor critic we scratch off thelist;  His faults can never hurt another's ease,  His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please:  Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,  And by the general voice willstand or fall.* * * * * * *PrologueBy the AUTHORSPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.  Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er,  The worthyserjeant need appear no more:  In pleasing I a different client choose,  He served the Poet--I would serve the Muse.  Like him, I'll try to merit your applause,  A


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                                             THE PROPOSAL                                                        Writtenby                                            Pete Chiarelli                                                                                June 16,2006                    FADE IN:          INT. MARGARET'S APARTMENT - EARLY MORNING          The sun peeks over thehorizon.   There's a stunning view of          Central Park from this apartment, but whoever lives here isn't          watching.          As we wander through expensivefurniture, a steady THUMP, THUMP,          THUMP echoes through the apartment.   Eventually, we see MARGARET          MILLS (37) running on a treadmill,watching "The O.C." on Tivo,          and reading a manuscript.          She sprints as the clock on her treadmill goes to zero.   As she          hits a button to stopthe treadmill...          INT. WOMAN'S APARTMENT - EARLY MORNING          A hand knocks an alarm clock off a table to shut itup.   RICHARD          PAXTON (26) wakes up on pink sheets and looks around to figure          out where he is. There are multiple framed pictures of thesame          model on the walls.          Richard looks at the clock and gets up quickly when he sees it is          6:16 AM.   Unfortunately for him, he is very hungover.          RICHARD          Where are my clothes?          A blob beneath the sheets next to him answers.   SIMONE is the          model on the walls andis really, really hot.          SIMONE          In the kitchen.   I think.   Can I make you          some coffee?          RICHARD          Sorry, I gotta


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                           THE UGLY TRUTH                      Screenplay/Revisions by                           NicoleEastman                           Tracey Jackson                             Peter Hume                   David Diamond & David Weissman                            RogerKumble                       Current Revisions by                Karen McCullah Lutz & Kirsten Smith                                                    February 14, 20081   INT.KPHX TV - LOBBY - DAY                                      1    ABBY RICHTER, 30's, pretty, driven and absolutely in control,    walks through the lobby, greeting theSECURITY GUARD.                        ABBY              Morning, Freddy.                        SECURITY GUARD              Morning, Abby. Anotherpeaceful              day?                        ABBY              If you say so...2   INT. KPHX - CORRIDOR - MORNING - MOMENTSLATER                  2    JOY, 40's, the associate producer, falls in step with Abby.                        JOY                  (panicked)              We've gotproblems.                         ABBY              There are no problems, Joy.   Only              solutions.                        JOY              The sky-cam onthe traffic copter              has a cracked lens and they can't              fix it.                         ABBY              Okay, that's a problem.                (thinking,then...)              Call Matt Hardwick down at Media              Services. He's got a few Sky Cams              and he owes me. Now, where aremy              weathermen?    Joy opens a door to a waiting area.3   INT. KPHX - WAITING AREA - MORNING - CONTINUOUS                 3    Several