Dale Wasserman (1914–2008)
Auteur de Man of La Mancha: A Musical Play
A propos de l'auteur
Œuvres de Dale Wasserman
Man Of La Mancha (Playbill) [Vol No 10] 1 exemplaire
Man Of La Mancha (Playbill) [Vol 5 No 3] 1 exemplaire
Rare -Wasserman MAN OF LA MANCHA 1966 First printing Fine Musical Play Photographs (1966) 1 exemplaire
Leight-Darion 1 exemplaire
Oeuvres associées
Étiqueté
Partage des connaissances
- Date de naissance
- 1914-11-02
- Date de décès
- 2008-12-21
- Sexe
- male
- Nationalité
- USA
- Lieux de résidence
- Rhinelander, Wisconsin, USA
Los Angeles, California, USA
New York, New York, USA
Paradise Valley, Arizona, USA - Professions
- screenwriter
playwright
Stage and lighting designer
stage manager
Membres
Critiques
Listes
Plays I Like (1)
Prix et récompenses
Vous aimerez peut-être aussi
Auteurs associés
Statistiques
- Œuvres
- 17
- Aussi par
- 1
- Membres
- 655
- Popularité
- #38,517
- Évaluation
- 4.2
- Critiques
- 10
- ISBN
- 19
- Langues
- 1
- Favoris
- 1
> I like him. I really like him. Tear out my fingernails one by one, I like him! I don’t have A very good reason. Since I’ve been with him cuckoonuts have been in season— But there’s nothing I can do, Chop me up for onion stew, Still I’ll yell to the sky, Though I can’t tell you why, That I like him! … I like him. I really like him. Pluck me naked as a scalded chicken, I like him! Don’t ask me For why or wherefore, ’Cause I don’t have a single good “Because” or “Therefore.” You can barbecue my nose, Make a giblet of my toes, Make me freeze, make me fry, Make me sigh, make me cry, Still I’ll yell to the sky Though I can’t tell you why, That I … like … him!
> Though your chin be smooth as satin, You will need me soon I know, For the Lord protects His barbers, And He makes the stubble grow.
> There is no Dulcinea, She’s made of flame and air, And yet how lovely life would seem If every man could weave a dream To keep him from despair.
> To dream the impossible dream, To fight the unbeatable foe, To bear with unbearable sorrow, To run where the brave dare not go. To right the unrightable wrong, To love, pure and chaste, from afar, To try, when your arms are too weary, To reach the unreachable star! This is my Quest, to follow that star, No matter how hopeless, no matter how far, To fight for the right without question or pause, To be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause! And I know, if I’ll only be true to this glorious quest, That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I’m laid to my rest. And the world will be better for this, That one man, scorned and covered with scars, Still strove, with his last ounce of courage, To reach the unreachable stars!
> I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle … or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I have held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words … only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question: “Why?” I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived
> When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams—this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.
> You have shown me the sky, but what good is the sky To a creature who’ll never do better than crawl? Of all the cruel bastards who’ve badgered and battered me, You are the cruelest of all! Can’t you see what your gentle insanities do to me? Rob me of anger and give me despair! Blows and abuse I can take and give back again, Tenderness I cannot bear! So please torture me now with your “Sweet Dulcineas” no more! I am no one! I’m nothing! I’m only Aldonza the whore!… (plus d'informations)