[No Exit] Hell in 300 Words (Estelle's triptych)
Found it! For your reference: the text of the play.
* * *
Estelle could think of lots of things to say about this place, but there was one aspect she found she liked: for all the abuse she took (and gave), she never, ever had a mark to show for it.
Inez had been religious once upon a time: Estelle could tell by the light in her eyes as she spoke of burning, of that awful word forever. Estelle hated her for bringing God into the room. She’d never had much time for Him anyway, not with more important men looking after her. But Inez loved martyrs, loved making them and watching them and drinking them up. And how she would pray to them. She’d do devotionals, in her way, worship the suffering she’d created where a human being used to be. It was disgusting. She’d crowded them all even more with His presence, and Estelle couldn’t even touch Him and make Him understand.
How can you be a man of letters when you’ve never been to Paris? Writing your little pacifist tracts down there in that smelly, savage continent. You’ll never stand in the Louvre, you’ll never stroll along the Seine, you’ll never walk the streets of your heroes. How can you think yourself cultured? I knew cultured men, and you will never be of their caliber. I know your game. You want to live in your head, but you can’t escape your body. Well, I know what to do with bodies. They’ve no need of ideals and ideas - doesn’t that please you, darling? There’s no need to embarrass yourself anymore by groping for what you can’t have. If you want Paris, look to me. I’m the closest you’ll ever come now. There was no need to say it: she knew he could hear. All she had to do was smile.
* * *
Estelle could think of lots of things to say about this place, but there was one aspect she found she liked: for all the abuse she took (and gave), she never, ever had a mark to show for it.
Inez had been religious once upon a time: Estelle could tell by the light in her eyes as she spoke of burning, of that awful word forever. Estelle hated her for bringing God into the room. She’d never had much time for Him anyway, not with more important men looking after her. But Inez loved martyrs, loved making them and watching them and drinking them up. And how she would pray to them. She’d do devotionals, in her way, worship the suffering she’d created where a human being used to be. It was disgusting. She’d crowded them all even more with His presence, and Estelle couldn’t even touch Him and make Him understand.
How can you be a man of letters when you’ve never been to Paris? Writing your little pacifist tracts down there in that smelly, savage continent. You’ll never stand in the Louvre, you’ll never stroll along the Seine, you’ll never walk the streets of your heroes. How can you think yourself cultured? I knew cultured men, and you will never be of their caliber. I know your game. You want to live in your head, but you can’t escape your body. Well, I know what to do with bodies. They’ve no need of ideals and ideas - doesn’t that please you, darling? There’s no need to embarrass yourself anymore by groping for what you can’t have. If you want Paris, look to me. I’m the closest you’ll ever come now. There was no need to say it: she knew he could hear. All she had to do was smile.