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por Carla Hilário Quevedo, em 11.10.07
A Hate Song: Actors
by Dorothy Parker

I hate Actors;
They ruin my evenings.

There are the Juveniles;
The Male Ingenues.
They always interpret the rôles of wealthy young sportsmen,
So that they can come running on in white flannels,
Carrying tennis racquets, and wearing spiked shoes.
Whenever the lights go up
They are discovered with their arms around some girl.
They wear their watches and handkerchiefs on their arms,
And they simply couldn't play a scene without their cigarette cases.
They think that the three Greatest Names in American History
Are Hart, Schaffner, and Marx.
They are constantly giving interviews to the Sunday papers
Complaining about the car-loads of mash notes they receive.
They know they have it in them to do something Really Big;
They relate how Belasco told them that they would go far
—I wish they were on their way!

There are the Movie Heroes;
The Boys Who Drove the Wild West Wild.
They are forever fading out into the sunset,
And if they can't pose for a close-up every few feet
They sue the company.
They wear their hair bobbed,
And always look as if they dressed by mail.
They were never known to lose a fight;
The whole troupe of supernumeraries hasn't a chance against them.
They are just bubbling over with animal spirits
—They are continually walking up the side of houses,
Or springing from one galloping horse to another,
Or leaping out of balloons, without parachutes.
And they love to be photographed balancing on one foot
On the extreme edge of the Grand Canyon
—Oh, that I might get behind them, just once!

Then there are the Tragedians;
The Ones Who Made Shakespeare famous.
They are always telling what they used to say to Booth.
And they talk about the old traditions
As if they had collaborated on them.
They make their positively last appearance semi-annually,
And they are just about to go on farewell tour No. 118397, Series H.
They never appear in any rôle
In which they have to wear long trousers.
If they stooped to play in any drama written after 1700,
They know that Art could never be the same.
They are forever striding around the stage in trick tempests,
Wearing aluminum armor, and waving property swords,
And shrieking at Heaven to do its worst
—I wish Heaven would kindly oblige.

And there are the Drawing-Room Stars;
The Ones That Swing a Mean Tea-Cup.
They always appear in those dramas
In which the Big Line is "No cream, please—lemon."
They interpret every emotion
By tapping the left thumb-nail with the cork-tipped cigarette.
They are invariably the best-dressed men on our stage
—Their press-agent says so himself.
They are always standing in the center of the stage
Saying cutting things about marriage;
And they hang around in property moonlight,
Making middle-aged love.
They cherish secret ambitions
To take off their cutaways and play Hamlet:
They know they could be great
If the public would only give them their just due
—If it only would!

I hate Actors;
They ruin my evenings.

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publicado às 19:11