Book: L. Rio. If we were villains. Page 1

Shakespeare is real, but his characters live in a world of extremes. They are thrown from ecstasy to suffering, from love to hate, from surprise to horror. But this is not melodrama, they are not exaggerating. Every moment is critical to them. A good actor playing in a Shakespearean play - no ... any good actor in principle - he not only utters lines, he feels them. We felt all of our characters' passions as our own. But the emotions of this or that hero do not cancel the emotions of the artist: you simply experience them all at once. Imagine that your thoughts and feelings are mixed up with the thoughts and feelings of another person. Sometimes it can be difficult to figure out who is who. We all felt very keenly. And it became an overwhelming burden for us, we bent under it, like Atlas, who supported the whole world on his shoulders.

- Are you accusing Shakespeare of something?
- I blame him for everything.

The first flakes of snow danced against the black sky. A strange thought flashed through my mind: I hope that the snow will fall and fall and eventually cover the ground and bury everything around.

Treat the girl like a whore and she will begin to behave accordingly.

Meredith was still the strongest of us. If the ice breaks under it, we will all collapse.

What can be done in this case? Ignore grief or indulgrate it? I don't know. Life is not a comedy. You can't wait for things to go well.

Richard did not want to be remembered good. He longed to devastate those who had wronged him. US.

The rows of benches resembled a gallery in a courtroom, hundreds of pairs of eyes burning the back of my head. Later this feeling became habitual, but then I felt it for the first time. Here it is, a unique torture for an actor - to have the undivided, desperate attention of the public and turn his back on it in shame.

Horror cannot think.

Like a pagan goddess, she demanded praise and idolatry.

- Why don't you just tell me what happened? No performances. No poetry.
I smile.
- For us, everything was a spectacle and poetry.

I need language to live, I need it like food and water. Lexemes, morphemes, grains of meaning - they saturate me with knowledge and understanding that there are words for everything in the world.

“Poetic shit is the only thing that kept me afloat.

On Saturday nights, I usually lie in bed, unable to fall asleep, and think: what other stupidity will drunken teenagers do? That I'll have to rake in the morning.