CATULLUS I "In the prison house are many mansions. This one looks very nice--thank the good Sheriff for me, for us, Cecil. Is it wired for sound?" "No, dear, it's just an office. Sheriff's working late down the hall--records room--and said we could have this. Nobody'll bother us." "May I sit at the desk and judge humanity?" "Why not?" "Or I'll be a lady of the Abbey of Theleme, where the law was 'Do what thou wilt.' No--can't have anything like that going on in the Sheriff's own office. And still--flowers on the desk?" "The explanation is anticlimax. Sheriff's good-looking, has a devoted secretary, her brother-in-law runs a florist's shop." "Like that. Never mind, I hereby make-believe the flowers are for me, the blood-red roses and the little white ones, sweet hot-house children. Not quite real, are they?--no black-spot, no bitten leaves, sheltered children, I guess they don't understand. But I'll make-believe. Am I occasionally beautiful, Cecil?" "To me, always." "I've always loved words, you know. It amounts to a fault. I can't make them do as I wish. I could never write. I don't know enough about people, maybe never shall. But I know the power of words. You say I'm beautiful to you, and that makes me so, I believe it, the words shut away everything foreign to the Abbey of Theleme--no, that's not where we are. But isn't it strange what words can do? Comfort and terrify, heal and kill. Make out of nothing, something, and another word can send the something back to a nothing. It was my father's gift, that love of words. I was reading precociously at least a year before he died. Mother (who is definitely literate and past president of the local PTA, no kidding) felt it wasn't quite right at such an age." "What's that paper? Are you tearing it?" "Just a blank sheet the good Sheriff left on his desk. I hope he won't miss it. Not tearing, love, building. It's my crown, Cecil. I need a pin. Is that a pin in your lapel?" "Yes--here." "Thanks. That'll do it. Ouch! Well, nothing created without pain. How does it look?" "Royal." "Does it suit my complexion?" "White and ivory--yes, not bad." "Is it all right for a queen to suck a pin-pricked finger?" "Rank has its privileges." "Good. So, not a lady of Theleme but a mere queen, I'll do my best while I have authority. This object shaped like a ruler is my scepter, and this apparent ink-bottle--no, if rank has its privileges, we'll omit the orb and you give me a cigarette. You may light it for me, and remember you have the right at any time to be seated in my presence. My lord, do you have any defense to set forth in favor of this mewling monster, this three-billion-headed lurching mooncalf humanity?" "Your Majesty, I must first know what specific charges have been made." "Item, he stinks of shrewd stupidity like his father Caliban." "A fault that might be remedied by going to school a few thousand years more; at least there's manifest intelligence."