The Obsolete Man
Chancellor: You have no function, Mr. Wordsworth. You're an innacuranism, like a ghost from another time....
Wordsworth: I am nothing more than a reminder to you that you cannot destroy truth by burning pages!
Chancellor: You're a bug, Mr. Wordsworth. A crawling insect. An ugly, misformed, little creature, that has no purpose here, no meaning!
Wordsworth: I am a human being...
Chancellor: You're a librarian, Mr. Wordsworth. You're a dealer in books and two-cent finds, and pamphlets in closed stacks in the musty finds of a language factory that spews meaningless words on an assembly line. WORDS, Mr. WORDSworth - that have no substance, no dimension - like air, like the wind... like a vacuum, that you make-believe have an existence, by scribbling index numbers on little cards.
Wordsworth: I don't care. I tell you: I don't care. I'm a human being, I exist... and if I speak one thought, aloud, that thought lives, even after I'm shoveled into my grave.
Chancellor: Delusions, Mr. Wordsworth, DELUSIONS!! that you inject into your veins with printer's ink. The narcotics you call literature: The Bible, poetry, essays, all kinds, all of it are opiates to make you think you have a strength, when you have no strength at all!!! You are nothing but spindly limbs and a dream, and The State has no use for your kind!!!! (Calming down) You waste our time, Mr. Wordsworth, and you're not worth the waste. Instruct him!
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