(no subject)
The author knows his work completely. There is nothing within it that escapes his reckoning. He leaves the “subtext” to the critics, and if he chastises them for overanalyzing his work-well, that is his prerogative. Jack never discouraged subtext. In fact, he encouraged it and often found that critics had seen something that had escaped his notice in the heat of composition. He had never been the one to find hidden meanings inside his own work. He had never been, until tonight.
It baffles him, that he can be hit so hard by his own words, that his own words can merge with memory and reveal that hidden, biting element he hadn’t expected to find. But wasn’t the female lead right? Wasn’t it foolish of her to expect so much of a man who did so little, who professed his love in romantic actions but was too afraid to say it?
Men! Oh, they’ll give you the world, but they’ll let the one thing that truly matters slip through their fingers. Typical. They’re so busy being brave they forget to use their brains.
Without preamble, Jack grabs his coat, stands, and walks out the auditorium. A few people watch, confused and curious.