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A monologue from the play by Tom Stoppard
Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with the lid on it? Nor do I really. Silly to be depressed by it.
I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box. One keeps forgetting to take into account that one is dead. Which should make all the difference.
Shouldn’t it? I mean, you’d never know you were in a box would you? It would be just like you were asleep in a box.
Not that I’d like to sleep in a box, mind you. Not without any air. You’d wake up dead for a start and then where would you be?
In a box. That’s the bit I don’t like, frankly. That’s why I don’t think of it. Because you’d be helpless wouldn’t you?
Stuffed in a box like that. I mean, you’d be in there forever. Even taking into account the fact that you’re dead. It isn’t a pleasant thought.
Especially if you’re dead, really. Ask yourself: if I asked you straight off I’m going to stuff you in this box now – would you rather to be alive or dead?
Naturally you’d prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You’d have a chance at least.
You could lie there thinking, well, at least I’m not dead. In a minute, somebody’s going to bang on the lid and tell me to come out.
(knocks) “Hey you! What’s your name? Come out of there!”
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