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A review by _cristina
The Letter Killers Club by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky
4.0
BURBAGE: Why is he here, this being that casts a shadow?
STERN: That you might welcome him as a shade.
BURBAGE: What are you trying to say, newcomer?
STERN: That I am a man who has envied his shadow: it can grow smaller or larger, whereas I am always equal to myself, the same man of the same inches, days, and thoughts. I have long since ceased to need the sun’s light, I prefer the footlights; all my life I have searched for the Land of Roles; but it refuses to accept me. I am only a conceiver, you see, I cannot complete anything: the letters hidden inside your book—O great image—shall remain forever unread by me.
BURBAGE: You never know. I’ve lived here for three hundred years, far from the extinguished footlights. Time enough to finish thinking all one’s thoughts. And you know, better to be an extra there, on earth, than a leading actor here, in the world of played-out plays. Better to be a dull and rusty blade than a precious but empty scabbard; indeed, better to be somehow or other than not to be magnificently: I would not struggle with that dilemma now. If you truly want—
STERN: Oh, I do!
BURBAGE: Then let’s trade places: why shouldn’t a role play an actor playing roles?
STERN: That you might welcome him as a shade.
BURBAGE: What are you trying to say, newcomer?
STERN: That I am a man who has envied his shadow: it can grow smaller or larger, whereas I am always equal to myself, the same man of the same inches, days, and thoughts. I have long since ceased to need the sun’s light, I prefer the footlights; all my life I have searched for the Land of Roles; but it refuses to accept me. I am only a conceiver, you see, I cannot complete anything: the letters hidden inside your book—O great image—shall remain forever unread by me.
BURBAGE: You never know. I’ve lived here for three hundred years, far from the extinguished footlights. Time enough to finish thinking all one’s thoughts. And you know, better to be an extra there, on earth, than a leading actor here, in the world of played-out plays. Better to be a dull and rusty blade than a precious but empty scabbard; indeed, better to be somehow or other than not to be magnificently: I would not struggle with that dilemma now. If you truly want—
STERN: Oh, I do!
BURBAGE: Then let’s trade places: why shouldn’t a role play an actor playing roles?