Anna Akhmatova - Requiem

1935-1940
Not under foreign skies protection
Or saving wings of alien birth –
I was then there – with whole my nation –
There, where my nation, alas! was.
1961 

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE
In the awful days of the Yezhovschina I passed seventeen months in the outer waiting line of the prison visitors in Leningrad. Once, somebody ‘identified’ me there. Then a woman, standing behind me in the line, which, of course, never heard my name, waked up from the torpor, typical for us all there, and asked me, whispering into my ear (all spoke only in a whisper there):
“And can you describe this?”
And I answered:
“Yes, I can.”
Then the weak similarity of a smile glided over that, what had once been her face.
April 1, 1957; Leningrad 

DEDICATION
The high crags decline before this woe,
The great river does not flow ahead,
But they’re strong – the locks of a jail, stone,
And behind them – the cells, dark and low,
And the deadly pine is spread.
For some one, somewhere, a fresh wind blows,
For some one, somewhere, wakes up a dawn –
We don’t know, we’re the same here always,
We just hear the key’s squalls, morose,
And the sentry’s heavy step alone;
Got up early, as for Mass by Easter,
Walked the empty capital along
To create the half-dead peoples’ throng.
The sun downed, the Neva got mister,
But our hope sang afar its song.
There’s a sentence… In a trice tears flow…
Now separated, cut from us,
As if they’d pulled out her heart and thrown
Or pushed down her on a street stone –
But she goes… Reels…  Alone at once.
Where are now friends unwilling those,
Those friends of my two years, brute?
What they see in the Siberian snows,
In a circle of the moon, exposed?
To them I send my farewell salute.

PROLOGUE
In this time, just a dead could half-manage
A weak smile – with the peaceful state glad.
And, like some heavy, needless appendage,
Mid its prisons swung gray Leningrad.
And, when mad from the tortures’ succession,
Marched the army of those, who’d been doomed,
Sang the engines the last separation
With their whistles through smoking gloom,
And the deathly stars hanged our heads over
And our Russia writhed under the boots –
With the blood of the guiltless full-covered –
And the wheels on Black Maries’ black routes.
1
You were taken away at dawn’s mildness.
I convoyed you, as my dead-born child,
Children cried in the room’s half-grey darkness,
And the lamp by the icon lost light. 
On your lips dwells the icon kiss’s cold
On your brow – the cold sweet … Don’t forget!
Like a wife of the rebel of old
On the Red Square, I’ll wail without end.
2
The quiet Don bears quiet flood,
The crescent enters in a hut.
He enters with a cap on head,
He sees a woman like a shade.
This woman’s absolutely ill,
This woman’s absolutely single.
Her man is dead, son – in a jail,
Oh, pray for me – a poor female!    
3
No, ‘tis not I, ‘tis someone’s in a suffer –
I was ne’er able to endure such pain.
Let all, that was, be with a black cloth muffled,
And let the lanterns be got out ... and reign
                                            just Night.
4
You should have seen, girl with some mocking manner,
Of all your friends the most beloved pet,
The whole Tsar Village’s a sinner, gayest ever –
What should be later to your years sent.
How, with a parcel, by The Crosses, here,
You stand in line with the ‘Three Hundredth’ brand
And, with your hot from bitterness a tear,
Burn through the ice of the New Year, dread.
The prison’s poplar’s bowing with its brow,
No sound’s heard – But how many, there,
The guiltless ones are loosing their lives now…      
  
5
I’ve cried for seventeen long months,
I’ve called you for your home,
I fell at hangmen’ feet – not once,
My womb and hell you’re from.
All has been mixed up for all times,
And now I can’t define
Who is a beast or man, at last,
And when they’ll kill my son.
There’re left just flowers under dust,
The censer’s squall, the traces, cast
Into the empty mar…
And looks strait into my red eyes
And threads with death, that’s coming fast,
The immense blazing star.  
6
The light weeks fly faster here,
What has happened I don’t know,
How, into your prison, stone,
Did white nights look, my son, dear?
How do they stare at you, else,
With their hot eye of a falcon,
Speak of the high cross, you hang on,
Of the slow coming death?
7
THE SENTENCE
The word, like a heavy stone,
Fell on my still living breast.
I was ready. I didn’t moan.
I will try to do my best.
I have much to do my own:
To forget this endless pain,
Force this soul to be stone,
Force this flesh to live again.  
Just if not … The rustle of summer
Feasts behind my window sell.
Long before I’ve seen in slumber
This clear day and empty cell.
8
TO DEATH
You’ll come in any case – why not right now, therefore?
I wait for you – my strain is highest.
I have doused the light and left opened the door
For you, so simple and so wondrous.
Please, just take any sight, which you prefer to have:
Thrust in – in the gun shells’ disguises,
Or crawl in with a knife, as an experienced knave,
Or poison me with smoking typhus,
Or quote the fairy tale, grown in the mind of yours
And known to each man to sickness,
In which I’d see, at last, the blue of the hats’ tops,
And the house-manager, ‘still fearless’.
It’s all the same to me. The cold Yenisei lies
In the dense mist, the Northern Star – in brightness,
And a blue shine of the beloved eyes
Is covered by the last fear-darkness.
9
Already madness, with its wing,
Covers a half of my heart, restless,
Gives me the flaming wine to drink
And draws into the vale of blackness.
I understand that just to it
My victory has to be given,
Hearing the ravings of my fit,
Now fitting to the stranger’s living.
And nothing of my own past
It’ll let me take with self from here
(No matter in what pleas I thrust
Or how often they appear):
Not awful eyes of my dear son –
The endless suffering and patience –
Not that black day when thunder gunned,
Not that jail’s hour of visitation,
Not that sweet coolness of his hands,
Not that lime’s shade in agitation,         
Not that light sound from distant lands –
Words of the final consolations.
10
CRUCIFIXION
                              Don’t weep for me, Mother,
                              seeing me in a grave.
I
The angels’ choir sang fame for the great hour,
And skies were melted in the fire’s rave.
He said to God, “Why did you left me, Father?”
And to his Mother, “Don’t weep o’er my grave…”
II
Magdalena writhed and sobbed in torments,
The best pupil turned into a stone,
But none dared – even for a moment –
To sight Mother, silent and alone.

EPILOGUE
I
I’ve known how, at once, shrink back the faces,
How fear peeps up from under the eyelids,
How suffering creates the scriptural pages 
On the pale cheeks its cruel reigning midst,
How the shining raven or fair ringlet
At once is covered by the silver dust,
And a smile slackens on the lips, obedient,
And deathly fear in the dry snicker rustles.
And not just for myself I pray to Lord,
But for them all, who stood in that line, hardest,
In a summer heat and in a winter cold,
Under the wall, so red and so sightless.
II
Again a memorial hour is near,
I can now see you and feel you and hear:
And her, who’d been led to the air in a fit,
And her – who no more touches earth with her feet.
And her – having tossed with her beautiful head –
She says, “I come here as to my homestead.”
I wish all of them with their names to be called;
But how can I do that? I have not the roll.
The wide common cover I’ve wov’n for their lot –
From many a word, that from them I have caught.
Those words I’ll remember as long as I live,
I’d not forget them in a new awe or grief.
And if will be stopped my long-suffering mouth –
Through which always shout our people’s a mass –
Let them pray for me, like for them I had prayed,
Before my remembrance day, quiet and sad.
And if once, whenever in my native land,
They’d think of the raising up my monument,
I give my permission for such good a feast,
But with one condition – they have to place it
Not near the sea, where I once have been born –
All my warm connections with it had been torn,
Not in the tsar’s garden near that tree-stump, blessed,
Where I am looked for by the doleful shade,  
But here, where three hundred long hours I stood for
And where was not opened for me the hard door.
Since e’en in the blessed death, I shouldn’t forget 
The deafening roar of Black Maries’ black band,
I shouldn’t forget how flapped that hateful door,
And wailed the old woman, like beast, it before. 

And let from the bronze and unmoving eyelids,
Like some melting snow flow down the tears,
And let a jail dove coo in somewhat afar
And let the mute ships sail along the Neva.

Esoteric Words

trog·lo·dyte (n.)
a. A member of a fabulous or prehistoric race of people that lived in caves, dens, or holes.
b. A person considered to be reclusive, reactionary, out of date, or brutish.

The phrase caveat emptor arises from the fact that buyers often have less information about the good or service they are purchasing, while the seller has more information. Defects in the good or service may be hidden from the buyer, and only known to the seller. Thus, the buyer should beware. This is called information asymmetry. Under the principle of caveat emptor, the buyer could not recover damages from the seller for defects on the property that rendered the property unfit for ordinary purposes. The only exception was if the seller actively concealed latent defects or otherwise made material misrepresentations amounting to fraud.

Revanchism (from French: revanche, "revenge") is a term used since the 1870s to describe a political manifestation of the will to reverse territorial losses incurred by a country, often following a war or social movement. Revanchism draws its strength from patriotic and retributionist thought and is often motivated by economic or geo-political factors. Extreme revanchist ideologues often represent a hawkish stance, suggesting that desired objectives can be achieved through the positive outcome of another war. Revanchism is linked with irredentism, the conception that a part of the cultural and ethnic nation remains "unredeemed" outside the borders of its appropriate nation-state. Revanchist politics often rely on the identification of a nation with a nation-state, often mobilizing deep-rooted sentiments of ethnic nationalism, claiming territories outside of the state where members of the ethnic group live, while using heavy-handed nationalism to mobilize support for these aims. Revanchist justifications are often presented as based on ancient or even autochthonous occupation of a territory since "time immemorial", an assertion that is usually inextricably involved in revanchism and irredentism, justifying them in the eyes of their proponents.

"Primordial soup" is a term introduced by the Soviet biologist Alexander Oparin. In 1924, he proposed the theory of the origin of life on Earth through the transformation, during the gradual chemical evolution of molecules that contain carbon in the primordial soup.
Biochemist Robert Shapiro has summarized the "primordial soup" theory of Oparin and Haldane in its "mature form" as follows:[1]
The early Earth had a chemically reducing atmosphere.
This atmosphere, exposed to energy in various forms, produced simple organic compounds ("monomers").
These compounds accumulated in a "soup", which may have been concentrated at various locations (shorelines, oceanic vents etc.).
By further transformation, more complex organic polymers – and ultimately life – developed in the soup.

The Cambrian explosion, or Cambrian radiation, was the relatively rapid appearance, around 542 million years ago, of most major animal phyla, as demonstrated in the fossil record. This was accompanied by major diversification of other organisms. Before about 580 million years ago, most organisms were simple, composed of individual cells occasionally organized into colonies. Over the following 70 or 80 million years, the rate of evolution accelerated by an order of magnitude and the diversity of life began to resemble that of today. Ancestors of many of the present phyla appeared during this period, with the exception of Bryozoa, which made its earliest known appearance in the Lower Ordovician.

The Cambrian explosion has generated extensive scientific debate. The seemingly rapid appearance of fossils in the “Primordial Strata” was noted as early as the 1840s, and in 1859 Charles Darwin discussed it as one of the main objections that could be made against his theory of evolution by natural selection. The long-running puzzlement about the appearance of the Cambrian fauna, seemingly abruptly and from nowhere, centers on three key points: whether there really was a mass diversification of complex organisms over a relatively short period of time during the early Cambrian; what might have caused such rapid change; and what it would imply about the origin and evolution of animals. Interpretation is difficult due to a limited supply of evidence, based mainly on an incomplete fossil record and chemical signatures remaining in Cambrian rocks.

Apostasy (/əˈpɒstəsi/; Greek: ἀποστασία (apostasia), 'a defection or revolt') is the formal disaffiliation from or abandonment or renunciation of a religion by a person. One who commits apostasy (or who apostatises) is known as an apostate. The term apostasy is used by sociologists to mean renunciation and criticism of, or opposition to, a person's former religion, in a technical sense and without pejorative connotation.

Glossolalia or "speaking in tongues" is the fluid vocalizing (or less commonly the writing) of speech-like syllables that lack any readily comprehended meaning, in some cases as part of religious practice. The significance of glossolalia has varied in context, with some adherents considering it as a part of a sacred language. It is most prominently practised within Pentecostal and Charismatic Christianity but it is also practised in non-Christian religions. Glossolalia also sometimes refers to xenoglossy, the putative speaking of a natural language previously unknown to the speaker.

Atychiphobia or synonymously Kakorrhaphiophobia is the abnormal, unwarranted, and persistent fear of failure. As with many phobias, atychiphobia often leads to a constricted lifestyle, and is particularly devastating for its effects on a person’s willingness to attempt certain activities. A person afflicted with atychiphobia considers the possibility of failure so intense that they choose not to take the risk. Often this person will subconsciously undermine their own efforts so that they no longer have to continue to try. Because effort is proportionate to the achievement of personal goals and fulfillment, this unwillingness to try that arises from the perceived inequality between the possibilities of success and failure holds the atychiphobic back from a life of meaning and the realization of potential. By definition, the anxiety of any particular phobia is understood to be disproportionate to reality, and the victim is typically aware that the fear is irrational, making the problem a largely subconscious one. For this reason there are no simple treatments for atychiphobia, however there are several options available.

preponderant
/prɪˈpɒnd(ə)r(ə)nt/
adjective
predominant in influence, number, or importance.
"the preponderant influence of the US within the alliance"synonyms: dominant, predominant, prevalent, in control, more/most powerful, superior, supreme, ascendant, in the ascendancy; Morecontrolling, more/most important, pre-eminent, predominating, ruling, leading, principal, chief, main;
rareprepotent, prepollent
"the Western states remained militarily preponderant in the region"
Origin: late Middle English: from Latin preponderant- ‘weighing more’, from the verb praeponderare (see preponderate).

Crudely translated as bourgeois or petty bourgeois, Spießbürger or Spießer is a derogatory reference to a narrow-minded persons, which is characterized by mental immobility, pronounced conformity with social norms are characterized and aversion to changes in usual life environment. In Switzerland Spießbürger are also called Füdlibürger (Füdli = buttock) or as Bünzli.

Gazumping occurs when a seller (especially of property) accepts an oral offer of the asking price from one potential buyer, but then accepts a higher offer from someone else. It can also refer to the seller raising the asking price at the last minute, after previously orally agreeing to a lower one. In either case, the original buyer is left in the lurch, and either has to offer a higher price or lose the purchase. The term is most commonly used in the UK and Australia, although similar practices can be found in some other jurisdictions.

Why do the Irish seem so quiescent?

The Taoiseach (/ˈtiːʃəx/; Irish: [ˈt̪ˠiːʃəx] is the head of government or prime minister of Ireland. The Taoiseach is appointed by the President upon the nomination of Dáil Éireann, the lower house of the Oireachtas (parliament), and must, in order to remain in office, retain the support of a majority in the Dáil.The earliest known use of the term is from a 5th- or 6th-century ogham inscription in both the Gaelic and Brythonic languages.

Portugal’s finance minister criticised his colleagues after a meeting in Brussels for dithering over the details of expanding the euro-area’s bail-out fund, saying the delay was harming the currency block.

Mr Weber had been the putative front-runner to succeed Jean-Claude Trichet as head of the European Central Bank.

Egypt remained in the throes of political upheaval as large numbers of demonstrators again demanded the departure of President Hosni Mubarak.

Stalwart

stal·wart
/ˈstôlwərt/
Adjective

Loyal, reliable, and hardworking: "he remained a stalwart supporter of the cause".
Noun
A loyal, reliable, and hardworking supporter or participant in an organization or team: "the stalwarts of the Ladies' Auxiliary".
Synonyms: sturdy - stout - strong - robust - firm - lusty - hefty

Detritus

de·tri·tus
/diˈtrītəs/
Noun
Waste or debris of any kind; Gravel, sand, silt, or other material produced by erosion.
Synonyms: debris

Recalcitrant
re·cal·ci·trant/riˈkalsətrənt/
Adjective:
Having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority.
Noun:
A person with such an attitude.
Synonyms:
insubordinate - contumacious - refractory - disobedient


An eponym is a person or thing, whether real or fictional, after which a particular place, tribe, era, discovery, or other item is named or thought to be named.
For example, Léon Theremin is the eponym of the theremin; Louis Braille is the eponym of the Braille word system created by him for use by the blind. Eponyms are aspects of etymology.
A synonym of "eponym" is namegiver. Someone who (or something that) is referred to with the adjective of eponymous is the eponym of something.
An etiological myth can be a "reverse eponym" in the sense that a legendary character is invented in order to explain a term, such as the nymph Pirene (mythology), who according to myth was turned into Pirene's Fountain.


A Loanword is a word borrowed from a donor language and incorporated into a recipient language. By contrast, a Calque or loan translation is a related concept where the meaning or idiom is borrowed rather than the lexical item itself. The word loanword is itself a calque of the German Lehnwort, while calque is a loanword from French. The terms borrow and loanword, although traditional, conflict with the ordinary meaning of those words because nothing is returned to the donor languages. However, note that this metaphor is not isolated to the concept of loanwords, but also found in the idiom "to borrow an idea." An additional issue with the term loanword is that it implies that the loaning is limited to one single word as opposed to phrases such as déjà vu, an English loanword from French. While this phrase may be used as one lexical item by English speakers, that is to say, an English speaker would not say only déjà to convey the meaning associated with the full term déjà vu, in the donor language (French), speakers would be aware of the phrase consisting of two words. For simplicity, adopt/adoption or adapt/adaption are used by many linguists, either in parallel to, or in preference to, these words. Some researchers also use the term lexical borrowing.

Schadenfreude is pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. This German word is used as a loanword in English and some other languages, and has been calqued in Danish and Norwegian as skadefryd and in Swedish as skadeglädje and Finnish as vahingonilo.

The Antediluvian period – meaning "before the deluge" – is the period referred to in the Bible between the Creation of the Earth and the Deluge (flood) in the biblical cosmology. The narrative takes up chapters 1-6 (excluding the flood narrative) of Genesis. The term found its way into early geology and lingered in science until late Victorian era. Colloquially, the term is used to refer to any ancient and murky period.

Catharsis (Ancient Greek: Κάθαρσις) is a Greek word meaning "purification", "cleansing" or "clarification." It is derived from the infinitive verb of Ancient Greek: καθαίρειν transliterated as kathairein "to purify, purge," and adjective Ancient Greek: καθαρός katharos "pure or clean."

Hegemony (leadership) (Greek: ἡγεμονία hēgemonía, English: [UK] /hɨˈɡɛməni/, [US]: pronounced /hɨˈdʒɛməni/) is the political science term originally denoting the military dominance (“leadership”) of a Greek city-state over other city-states, then the political dominance of one nation over other nations — via the type of indirect empire that controls its subordinate states with power (the perception that it can enforce its political will), rather than with force (military compulsion of the imperial political will), (cf. suzerainty).

A Palimpsest is a manuscript page from a scroll or book that has been scraped off and used again. The word "palimpsest" comes through Latin from Greek παλιν + ψαω = ("again" + "I scrape"), and meant "scraped (clean and used) again." Romans wrote on wax-coated tablets that could be smoothed and reused, and a passing use of the rather bookish term "palimpsest" by Cicero seems to refer to this practice.

The term has come to be used in similar context in a variety of disciplines, notably architectural archaeology. 

Praxis [prak-sis]

1. practice, as distinguished from theory; application or use, as of knowledge or skills.

2. convention, habit, or custom.

3. a set of examples for practice.

Prognostic [prog-nos-tik]

–adjective

1. of or pertaining to prognosis.

2. predictive of something in the future: prognostic signs and symbols.

–noun

3. a forecast or prediction.

4. an omen or portent; sign.

Among other things, Sanguine can refer to Sanguine personality -optimistic, cheerful, even-tempered, confident, rational, popular, fun-loving; the temperament of blood. One of the four humours, the others being choleric, phlegmatic, and melancholic

Schizoid personality disorder (SPD) is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, and emotional coldness. SPD is rare compared with other personality disorders. Its prevalence is estimated at less than 1% of the general population. It is not related to and should not be confused with schizophrenia.

Simulacrum (plural: -cra), from the Latin simulacrum which means "likeness, similarity", is first recorded in the English language in the late 16th century, used to describe a representation of another thing, such as a statue or a painting, especially of a god; by the late 19th century, it had gathered a secondary association of inferiority: an image without the substance or qualities of the original. Philosopher Frederic Jameson offers photorealism as an example of artistic simulacrum, where a painting is created by copying a photograph that is itself a copy of the real. Other art forms that play with simulacra include Trompe l'oeil, Pop Art, Italian neorealism and the French New Wave.

Stilted (adj.)
Stiffly or artificially formal; stiff.

Lewis Carroll - The Mouse's Tale (From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)

            Fury said to a mouse,
                 That he met in the
                        house, 'Let us
                           both go to law:
                            I will prosecute
                          you.-- Come, I'll
                         take no denial;
                       We must have
                     a trial: For
                   really this
                 morning I've
               nothing to do.'
                   Said the mouse
                         to the cur,
                           'Such a trial,
                              dear Sir, With
                                  no jury or
                                judge, would
                               be wasting
                           our breath.'
                        'I'll be
                   judge, I'll
                 be jury,'
               Said cunning
             old Fury:
                'I'll try
                  the whole
                    cause, and
                        condemn
                            you
                              to
                               death.'

William Saroyan - The Oyster and the Pearl

SCENE:  Harry Van Dusen's barber shop in O.K.-by-the-Sea, California, population 909.  The sign on the window says: HARRY VAN DUSEN, BARBER.  It's an old-fashioned shop, crowded with stuff not usually found in the barber shops…Harry himself, for instance.  He has never been known to put on a white barber's jacket or to work without a hat of some sort on his head: a stovepipe, a derby, a western, a homburg, a beret, or a straw, as if putting on these various hats somewhat expressed the quality of his soul, or suggested the range of it.

On the walls, on shelves, are many odd and ends, some apparently washed up by the sea, which is a block down the street: abalone and other shells, rocks, pieces of driftwood, a life jacket, rope, sea plants.  There is one old-fashioned chair.

When the play begins, Harry is seated in the chair.  A boy of nine or ten named Clay Larrabee is giving him a haircut.  Harry's reading a book, one of many in the shop.

CLAY:  Well, anyhow, thanks a lot. I guess I'll go down to the beach now and look for stuff.

HARRY: I'd go with you but I'm expecting a little Saturday business.

CLAY:  This time I'm going to find something really good, I think.

HARRY: The sea washes up some pretty good things at that, doesn't it?

CLAY:  It sure does, except money.

HARRY: What do you want with money?

CLAY:  Things I need.

HARRY:  What do you need?

CLAY:  I want to get my father to come home again.  I want to buy my Mother a present…

HARRY:  Now, wait a minute, Clay, let me get this straight.  Where is your father?

CLAY:  I don't know.  He went off a day after I got my last haircut about a month ago.

HARRY:  What do you mean, he went off?

CLAY:  He just picked up and went off.

HARRY:  Did he say when he was coming back?

CLAY:  No.  All he said was, Enough's enough.  He wrote it on the kitchen wall.

HARRY:  Enough's enough?

CLAY:  Yeah.  We all thought he'd be back in a day or two, but now we know we've got to find him and bring him back.

HARRY:  How do you expect to do that?

CLAY:  Well, we put an ad in The O.K.-by-the-Sea Gull…that comes out every Saturday.

HARRY:  (opening the paper) This paper?  But your father's not in town.  How will he see an ad in this newspaper?

CLAY:  He might see it.  Anyhow, we don't know what else to do.  We're living off the money we saved from the summer we worked, but there ain't much left.

HARRY:  The summer you worked?

CLAY:  Yeah.  Summer before last, just before we moved here, we picked cotton in Kern County.  My father, my mother, and me.

HARRY:  (indicating the paper)  What do you say in your ad?

CLAY:  (looking at it)  Well, I say… Clark Larrabee.  Come home.  Your fishing tackle's in the closet safe – and sound. The fishing's good, plenty of cabazon, perch, and bass.  Let bygones be bygones.  We miss you.  Mama, Clay, Roxanna, Rufus, Clara.

HARRY:  That's good ad.

CLAY:  Do you think if my father reads it, he'll come home?

HARRY:   I don't know, Clay.  I hope so.

(Clay goes out.  Harry takes off a derby, lathers his face, and begins to shave with a straight-edge razor.  A pretty girl in a swimming suit comes into the shop, clothing a colorful parasol.  She has long blond hair.)

HARRY :  Miss America, I presume.

THE GIRL:  Miss McCutcheon.

HARRY:  Harry Van Dusen.

THE GIRL:  How do you do.

HARRY: (bowing)  Miss McCutcheon.

THE GIRL:  I'm new here.

HARRY:  You'd be new anywhere – brand new, I might say.  Surely you don't live here.

THE GIRL: As a matter of fact, I do.  At any rate, I've been here since last Sunday.  You see, I'm the new teacher at the school.

HARRY:  You are?

THE GIRL:  Yes, I am.

HARRY:  How do you like it?

THE GIRL:  One week at this school has knocked me for a loop.  As a matter of fact, I want to quit and go home to San Francisco.  At the same time I have a feeling I ought to stay.  What do you think?

HARRY:  Are you serious?  I mean, in asking me?

THE GIRL:  Of course I'm serious.  You've been here a long time.  You know everybody in town.  Shall I go, or shall I stay?

HARRY:  Depends on what you are looking for.  I stopped here twenty-four years ago because decided I wasn't looking for anything more.  Well, I was mistaken.  I was looking, and I've found exactly what I was looking for.

THE GIRL: What's that?

HARRY:  A chance to take my time.  That's why I'm still here.  What are you looking for, Miss McCutcheon!

THE GIRL: Well…

HARRY:  I mean, besides husband…

THE GIRL:  I'm not looking for a husband.  I expect a husband to look for me.

HARRY:  That's fair.

THE GIRL:  I'm looking for a chance to teach.

HARRY:  That's fair too.

THE GIRL:  But this town!..  The children just don't seem to care about anything – whether they get good grades or bad, whether they pass or fail, or anything else.  On top of that, almost all of them are unruly.  The only thing they seem to be interested in is games, and the sea.  That's why I'm on my way to the beach now.  I thought if I could watch them on a Saturday I could understand them better.

HARRY:  Yes, that's a thought.

THE GIRL:  Nobody seems to have any sensible ambition.  It's all fun and play.  How can I teach children like that?  What can I teach them?

HARRY:  English.

THE GIRL:  Of course.

HARRY: (drying his face)  Singing, dancing, cooking.

THE GIRL:  Cooking?..  I must say I expected to see much older man.

HARRY:  Well!  Thank you!

THE GIRL: Not at all.

HARRY:  The question is, shall you stay, or shall you go back to San Francisco?

THE GIRL:  Yes.

HARRY:   The answer is, go back while the going's good.

THE GIRL:  Why?  I mean, a moment ago I believed you were going to point out why I ought to stay, and then suddenly you say I ought to go back.  Why?

HARRY: (after a pause)  You're too good for a town like this.

THE GIRL:  I am not!

HARRY:  Too young and too intelligent. Youth and intelligence need excitement.

THE GIRL:  There are kinds of excitement.

HARRY:  Yes, there are.  You need the big-city kind.  There isn't an eligible bachelor in town.

THE GIRL:  You seem to think all I want is to find a husband.

HARRY:  But only to teach.  You want to teach him to become a father, so you can have a lot of children of your own – to teach.

THE GIRL:  (She sits almost angrily in the chair and speaks very softly)  I'd like a poodle haircut if you don't mind, Mr. Van Dusen.

HARRY:  You'll have to get that in San Francisco, I'm afraid.

THE GIRL:  Why?  Aren't you a barber?

HARRY:  I am.

THE GIRL: Well, this is your shop.  It's open for business.  I'm a customer.  I've got money.  I want a poodle haircut.

HARRY:  I don't know how to give a poodle haircut, but even if I knew how, I wouldn't do it.

THE GIRL:  Why not?

HARRY:  I don't give women's haircuts.  The only women who visit this shop bring their small children for haircuts.

THE GIRL:  I want a poodle haircut, Mr.Van Dusen.

HARRY:  I'm sorry, Miss McCutcheon.  In my sleep, in a nightmare, I would not cut your hair.  (The sound of the truck stopping is heard from across the street)

THE GIRL: (softly, patiently, but firmly) Mr. Van Dusen, I've decided to stay, and the first thing I've got to do is change my appearance.  I don't fit into the scenery around here.

HARRY: Oh, I don't know – if I were a small boy going to school, I'd just say you look just right.

THE GIRL: You're just like children.  They don't take me seriously either: they think I'm nothing more than a pretty girl who is going to give up in despair and go home. If you give me a poodle haircut, I'll look more – well, plain and simple.  I plan to dress differently, too.  I'm determined to teach here.  You've got to help me.  Now, Mr. Van Dusen, the shears, please.

HARRY:  I'm sorry, Miss McCutcheon.  There is no need to change your appearance at all.

(Clark Larrabee comes into the shop)

HARRY:  You're next, Clark.  (Harry helps Miss McCutcheon out of the chair.  She gives him an angry glance.)

THE GIRL:  (whispering)  I won't forget this rudeness, Mr. Van Dusen.

HARRY:  (also whispering)  Never whisper in O.K.-by-the-Sea.  People misunderstand.  (Loudly) Good day, Miss.

(Miss McCutcheon opens her parasol with anger and leaves the shop.  Clark Larrabee has scarcely noticed her.  He stands looking at Harry's junk on the shelves.)

HARRY:   Well, Clark, I haven't seen you in a long time. 

CLARK:  I'm just passing through, Harry.  Thought I might run into Clay here.

HARRY:  He was here a little while ago.

CLARK:  How is he?

HARRY:  He's fine, Clark.

CLARK:  I been working in Salinas.  Got a ride down in a truck.  It's across the street now at a gasoline station.

HARRY: You've been home, of course?

CLARK:  No, I haven't.

HARRY:   Oh?

CLARK:  (after a slight pause)  I've left Fay, Harry.

HARRY:  You got time for a haircut, Clark?

CLARK:  No, thanks, Harry.  I've got to go back to Salinas on that truck across the street.

HARRY:  Clay's somewhere on the beach.

CLARK:  (handing Harry three ten-dollar bills)  Give him this, will you?  Thirty dollars.  Don't tell him I gave it to you.

HARRY:  Why not?

CLARK:  I'd rather he didn't know I was around.  Is he all right?

HARRY:   Sure, Clark.  They're all O.K.  I mean …

CLARK:  Tell him to take the money home to his mother.  (He picks up the newspaper 'The Gull'.)

HARRY:  Sure, Clark.  It came out this morning.  Take it along.

CLARK:  Thanks.  (He puts the paper in his pocket.)  How've things been going with you, Harry?

HARRY:  Oh, I can't kick.  Two or three haircuts a day.  A lot of time to read.  A few laughs.  A few surprises.  The sea.  The fishing.  It's a good life.

CLARK:  Keep an eye on Clay, will you?  I mean – well, I had to do it.

HARRY:  Sure.

CLARK:  Yeah, well …  That's the first money I've been able to save.  When I make some more, I'd like to send it here, so you can hand it to Clay, to take home. 

HARRY:  Anything you say, Clark. (There is the sound of the truck's horn blowing.)

CLARK:  Well …  (He goes to the door.)  Thanks, Harry, thanks a lot.

HARRY:  Good seeing you, Clark.

(Clark Larrabee goes out.  Harry watches him.  The truck shifting gears is heard, then the sound of the truck driving off.  Harry picks up a book, changes hats, sits down in the chair and begins to read.  A man of forty or so, well-dressed, rather swift, comes in.)

THE MAN:  Where's the barber?

HARRY:  I'm the barber.

THE MAN:  Can I get a haircut, real quick?

HARRY: (getting out of the chair)  Depends on what you mean by real quick.

THE MAN: (sitting down)  Well, just a haircut then.

HARRY:  (putting an apron around the man) O.K.  I don't believe I've seen you before.

THE MAN:  No.  They're changing the oil in my car across the street.  Thought I'd step in here and get a haircut.  Get it out of the way before I get to Hollywood.  How many miles is it?

HARRY:  About two hundred straight down the highway.  You can't miss it.

THE MAN:  What town is this?

HARRY:  O.K.-by-the-Sea.

THE MAN: What do people do here?

HARRY:  Well, I cut hair.  Friend of mine named Wozzeck repairs watches, radios, alarm clocks, and sells jewelry.

THE MAN:  Who does he sell it to?

HARRY:  The people here.  It's imitation stuff mainly.

THE MAN:  Factory here?  Farms?  Fishing?

HARRY:  No.  Just the few stores on the highway, the houses further back in the hills, the church, and the school.  You a salesman?

THE MAN: No, I'm a writer.

HARRY:  What do you write?

THE MAN:  A little bit of everything.  How about the haircut?

HARRY:  You got to be in Hollywood tonight?

THE MAN:  I don't have to be anywhere tonight, but that was the idea.  Why?

HARRY:  Well, I've always said a writer could step into a place like this, watch things a little while, and get a whole book out of it, or a play.

THE MAN:  Or if he is a poet, a sonnet.

HARRY:  Do you like Shakespeare's?

THE MAN:  They're just about the best in English.

HARRY:  It's not often I get a writer in here.  As a matter of fact you're the only writer I've had in here in twenty years, not counting Fenton.

THE MAN:  Who's he?

HARRY:  Fenton Lockhart.

THE MAN:  What's he write?

HARRY:  He gets out the weekly paper.  Writes the whole thing himself.

THE MAN:  Yeah.  Well… How about the haircut?

HARRY: O.K.

(Harry puts a hot towel around the man's head.  Miss McCutcheon, carrying a cane chair without one leg and without a seat, comes in.  With her is Clay with something in his hand, a smaller boy named Greeley with a bottle of sea water, and Roxanna with an assortment of shells.)

CLAY:  I got an oyster here, Mr. Van Dusen.

Greeley: Miss McCutcheon claims there ain't a big pearl in it.

HARRY:  (looking at Miss McCutcheon) Is she willing to admit there's a little one in it?

GREELEY: I don't know.  I know I got sea water in this bottle.

Miss McCutcheon:  Mr. Van Dusen, Clay Larrabee seems to believe there's a pearl in this oyster he happens to have found on the beach.

CLAY:  I didn't happen to find it.  I went looking for it.  You know Black Rock, Mr. Van Dusen?  Well, the tide hardly ever gets low enough for a fellow to get around to the ocean side of Black Rock, but a little while ago it did, so I went around there to that side.  I got to poking around and I found this oyster.

HARRY:  I've been here twenty-four years, Clay, and this is the first time I've ever heard of anybody finding an oyster on our beach – at Black Rock, or anywhere else.

CLAY: Well, I did, Mr. Van Dusen.  It's shut tight, it's alive, and there's a pearl in it, worth at least three hundred dollars.

GREELEY:  A big pearl.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Now, you children listen to me.  It's never too soon for any of us to face the truth, which is supposed to set us free, not imprison us.  The truth is, Clay, you want money because you need money.  The truth is also that you have found an oyster.  The truth is also that there is no pearl in the oyster.

GREELEY: How do you know?  Did you look?

MISS McCUTCHEON:  No, but neither did Clay, and inasmuch as only one oyster in a million has a pearl in it, truth favors the probability that this is not the millionth oyster… the oyster with the pearl in it.

CLAY:  There's a big pearl in the oyster.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Mr. Van Dusen, shall we open the oyster and show Clay and his sister Roxanna and their friend Greeley that there is no pearl in it?

HARRY:  In a moment, Miss McCutcheon.  And what is that you have?

MISS McCUTCHEON:   A chair, as you see.

HARRY:  How many legs does it have?

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Three of course.  I can count to three, I hope.

HARRY:  What do you want to do with a chair with only three legs?

MISS McCUTCHEON: I'm going to bring things from the sea the same way as everybody else in the town.

HARRY:  But not everybody else in town bring things from the sea – just the children, Judge Applegarth, Fenton Lockhart, and myself.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  In any case, the same as the children, Judge Applegarth, Fenton Lockhart, and you.  Judge Applegarth?  Who's he?

HARRY:  He judge swine at a county fair one time, so we call him Judge.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Pigs?

HARRY:  Swine's a little old-fashioned but I prefer it to pigs, and since both words mean the same thing -  Well, I wouldn't care to call a man like Arthur Applegarth a pig judge.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Did he actually judge swine, as you put it, at a county fair – one time?  Did he even do that?

HARRY:  Nobody checked up.  He said he did.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  So that entitled him to be called Judge Applegarth?

HARRY:  It certainly did.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  On that basis, Clay's oyster has a big pearl in it because he says so, is that it?

HARRY:  I didn't say that.

MISS McCUTCHEON: Are we living in the Middle Ages, Mr. Van Dusen?

GREELEY:  No, this is 1953, Miss McCutcheon.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Yes, Greeley, and to illustrate what I mean that's water you have in that bottle.  Nothing else.

GREELEY:  Sea water.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Yes, but there's nothing else in the bottle.

GREELEY:  No, but there's little things in the water.  You can't see them now, but they'll show up later.  The water of the sea is full of things.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Salt, perhaps.

GREELEY: No.  Living things.  If I look hard I can see some of them now.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  You can imagine seeing them.  Mr. Van Dusen, are you going to help me or not?

HARRY:  What do you want me to do?

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Open the oyster, of course, so Clay will see for himself that there's no pearl in it.  So he'll begin to face reality, as he should, as each of us should.

HARRY:  Clay, do you mind if I look at the oyster a minute?

CLAY: (handing the oyster to Harry)  There's a big pearl in it, Mr. Van Dusen.

HARRY: (examining the oyster)  Clay … Roxanna … Greeley … I wonder if you'd go down the street to Wozzeck's.  Tell him to come here the first chance he gets.  I'd rather he opened  this oyster.  I might damage the pearl.

CLAY, GREELEY, and ROXANNA:  O.K., Mr. Van Dusen. (They go out.)

MISS McCUTCHEON:  What pearl?  What in the world do you think you're trying to do to the minds of these children?  How am I ever going to teach them the principles of the truth with an influence like yours to fight against?

HARRY:  Miss McCutcheon.  The people of O.K.-by-the-Sea are all poor.  Most of them can't afford to pay for the haircuts I give them.  There's no excuse for this town at all, but the sea is here, and so are the hills.   A few people find jobs a couple of months every year North or South, come back half dead of homesickness, and live next to nothing the rest of the year.  A few get pensions.  Every family has a garden and a few chickens, and they make few dollars selling vegetables and eggs.  In a town of almost a thousand people there isn't one rich man.  Not even one who is well-off.  And yet these people are the richest I have ever known.  Clay doesn't really want money, as you seem to think.  He wants his father to come home, and he thinks money will help get his father home.  As a matter of fact his father is the man who stepped in here just as you were leaving.  He left thirty dollars for me to give Clay, to take home.  His father and his mother haven't been getting along.  Clark Larrabee's a fine man.  He's not the town drunk or anything like that, but having four kids to provide for he gets to feeling ashamed of the showing he's making, and he starts drinking.  He wants his kids live in a good house of their own, wear good clothes, and all other things fathers have always wanted for their kids.  His wife wants these things for the kids, too.  They don't have these things, so they fight.  They had one too many fights about a month ago, so Clark went off – he's working in Salinas.  He's either going to keep moving away from his family, or he's going to come back.  It all depends on – well, I don't know what.  This oyster maybe.  Clay maybe.  (Softly)  You and me maybe.  (There is a pause.  He looks at the oyster.  Miss McCutcheon looks at it, too.)  Clay believes there's a pearl in this oyster for the same reason you and I believe whatever we believe to keep us going.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Are you suggesting we play a trick on Clay, in order to carry out your mumbo-jumbo ideas?

HARRY:  Well, maybe it is a trick.  I know Wozzeck's got a few pretty good-sized cultivated pearls.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  You plan to have Wozzeck pretend he has found a pearl in the oyster when he opens it, is that it?

HARRY:  I plan to get three hundred dollars to Clay.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Do you have three hundred dollars?

HARRY:   Not quite.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  What about the other children who need money?  Do you plan to put pearls in oysters for them too?  Not just here in O.K.-by-the-Sea.  Everywhere.  This isn't the only town in the world where people are poor, where fathers and mothers fight, where families break up.

HARRY:  No, it isn't, but it's the only town where I live.

MISS MCCUTCHEON:  I give up.  What do you want me to do?

HARRY:  Well, could you find it in your heart to be just a little less sure about things when you talk to the kids - I mean, the troubled ones?  You can get Clay around to the truth easy enough just as soon as he gets his father home.

(Arthur Applegarth comes in.)

HARRY:  Judge Applegarth, may I present Miss McCutcheon?

THE JUDGE: (removing his hat and bowing low)  An honor, Miss.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  How do you do, Judge.

HARRY:  Miss McCutcheon's a new teacher at school.

THE JUDGE:  We are honored to have you.  The children, the parents, and – the rest of us.

MISS McCUTCHEON:   Thank you, Judge.  (To Harry, whispering)  I'll be back sooon as I change my clothes.

HARRY:  (whispering)  I told you not to whisper.

MISS McCUTCHEON: (whispering)  I shall expect you to give me a poodle haircut.

HARRY: (whispering)  Are you out of your mind?

MISS McCUTCHEON:  (aloud)  Good bye, Judge.

THE JUDGE: (bowing)  Good day, Miss.  (While he is bent over he takes a good look at her knees, calves, ankles, and bowtied sandals.  Miss McCutcheon goes out.  Judge Applegarth looks from the door to Harry.)

THE JUDGE:  She won't last a month.

HARRY:  Why not?

THE JUDGE:  Too pretty.  Our school needs an old battle-ax, like the teachers we had when we went to school, not a bathing beauty.  Well, Harry, what's new?

HARRY:  Just the teacher I guess.

THE JUDGE:  You know, Harry, the beach isn't what it used to be – not at all.  I don't mind the competition we're getting from the kids.  It's just that the quality of the stuff the sea's washing up isn't good any more.  (He goes to the door.)

HARRY:  I don't know, Clay Larrabee found an oyster this morning.

THE JUDGE:  He did?  Well, one oyster don't make a stew, Harry.  On my way home I'll drop in and let you see what I find.

HARRY: O.K., Judge. (The Judge goes out.  Harry comes to life suddenly and becomes businesslike.)  Now, for the haircut!  (He removes the towel he had wrapped around the writer's head.)

THE JUDGE:  Take your time.

HARRY:  (He examines the shears, clippers, and combs.)  Let's see now.  (The writer turns and watches.  A gasoline station attendant comes to the door.)

THE ATTENDANT:  (to the writer)  Just wanted to say your car's  ready now.

THE WRITER:  Thanks.  (The attendant goes out.)  Look.  I'll tell you what.  How much is a haircut?

HARRY:  Well, the regular price is a dollar.  It's too much for a haircut, though, so I generally take a half or a quarter.

THE WRITER:  (getting out of the chair)    I've changed my mind.  I don't want a haircut after all, but here's the dollar just the same.  (He hands Harry a dollar, and he himself removes the apron.)

HARRY:  It won't take a minute.

THE WRITER:  I know. 

HARRY:  You don't have to pay me a dollar for a hot towel.  My compliments.

THE WRITER:  That's O.K. (He goes to the door.)

HARRY:  Well, take it easy now.

THE WRITER:  Thanks.  (He stands a moment, thinking, then turns.)  Do you mind if I have a look at that oyster?

HARRY:  Not at all.

(The writer goes to the shelf where Harry has placed the oyster, picks it up, looks at it thoughtfully, puts it back without comment, but instead of leaving the shop he looks around at the stuff in it.  He then sits down on the whicker chair in the corner, and lights a cigarette.)

THE WRITER:  You know, they've got a gadget in New York now like a safety razor that anybody can give anybody else a haircut with.

HARRY:  They have?

THE WRITER:  Yeah, there was a full-page ad about it in last Sunday's Times.

HARRY:  Is that where you were last Sunday?

THE WRITER:  Yeah.

HARRY: You been doing a lot of driving.

THE WRITER:  I like to drive.  I don't know, though – those gadgets don't always work.  They're asking two-ninety-five for it.  You take a big family.  The father could save a lot of money giving his kids a haircut.

HARRY:  Sounds like a great idea.

THE WRITER:  Question of effectiveness.  If the father gives the boy a haircut the boy's ashamed of, well, that's not so good.

HARRY:  You got a big family?

THE WRITER:  I mean for myself.  But I don't know – there's something to be said for going to a barber shop once in a while.  No use putting the barbers out of business.

HARRY:  Sounds like a pretty good article, though.

THE WRITER:  (getting up lazily)  Well, it's been nice talking to you.

(Wozzeck, carrying a satchel, comes in, followed by Clay, Roxanna, and Greeley.)

WOZZECK:  What's this all about, Harry?

HARRY:  I've got an oyster I want you to open.

WOZZECK:  That's what the kids have been telling me.

ROXANNA:  He doesn't believe there's a pearl in the oyster, either.

WOZZECK:  Of course not!  What foolishness!

CLAY:  There's a big pearl in it.

WOZZECK:  O.K., give me the oyster.  I'll open it.  Expert watch repairer, to open the oyster!

HARRY:  How much is the big pearl, Louie?

WOZZECK:  Oh, a hundred.  Two hundred, maybe.

HARRY:  A very big one?

WOZZECK:  Three, maybe.

THE WRITER:  I've looked at that oyster, and I like to buy it.  (To Clay)  How much do you want for it?

CLAY:  I don't know.

THE WRITER:  How about three hundred?

GREELEY:  Three hundred dollars?

CLAY:  Is it all right, Mr. Van Dusen?

HARRY:  (He looks at the writer, who nods.)  Sure it's all right. 

(The writer gives Clay the money.)

CLAY:  (looking at the money and then to the writer)  But suppose there ain't a pearl in it?

THE WRITER:  There is, though.

WOZZECK:  Don't you want to open it first?

THE WRITER:  No, I want the whole thing.  I don't think the pearls stopped growing.

CLAY:  He says there is a pearl in the oyster, Mr. Van Dusen.

HARRY:  I think there is, too, Clay; so why don't you just go on home and give the money to your mother?

CLAY:  Well…  I knew I was going to find something good today! 

(The children go out.  Wozzeck is bewildered.)

WOZZECK:  Three hundred dollars!  How do you know there's a pearl in it?

THE WRITER:  As far as I'm concerned, the whole thing's a pearl.

WOZZECK:  (a little confused)  Well, I got to get to the shop, Harry.

HARRY:  Thanks for coming by.

(Wozzeck goes out.  The writer holds the oyster in front of him as if it were an egg, and looks at it carefully, turning it in his fingers.  As he is doing so, Clark Larrabee comes into the shop.  He is holding the copy of the newspaper that Harry gave him.)

CLARK:  We were ten miles up the highway when I happened to see this classified ad in the paper.  (He hands the paper to Harry and sits down in the chair.)  I'm going out to the house, after all.  Just for the weekend of course, then back to work in Salinas again.  Two or three months, I think I'll have enough to come back for a long time.  Clay come by?

HARRY:  No, I've got the money here.

CLARK:   O.K.  I'll take it out myself, but first let me have the works – shave, haircut, shampoo, massage.

HARRY:  (putting the apron on Clark)  Sure thing, Clark.  (He bends the chair back, and begins to lather Clark's face.  Miss McCutcheon, dressed neatly, looking like another person almost, comes in.)

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Well?

HARRY:  You look fine, Miss McCutcheon.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  I don't mean that.  I mean the oyster.

HARRY:  Oh, that!   There was a pearl in it.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  I don't believe it.

HARRY:  A big pearl.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  You might have done me a courtesy of waiting until I had come back before opening it.

HARRY:  Couldn't wait.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Well, I don't believe you, but I've come for my haircut.  I'll sit down and wait my turn.

HARRY:  Mr. Larrabee wants the work.

MISS McCUTCHEON:  Mr. Larrabee?  Clay's father?  Roxanna's father?  (Clark sits up.)

HARRY:  Clark, I'd like you to meet our new teacher, Miss McCutcheon.

CLARK:  How do you do?

MISS McCUTCHEON:  How do you do, Mr. Larrabee.  (She looks bewildered.)  Well, perhaps some other time, then, Mr. Van Dusen.  (She goes out.  Clark sits back.  Judge Applegarth stops at the doorway of the shop.)

THE JUDGE:  Not one thing on the beach, Harry.  Not a blessed thing worth picking up and taking home.  (Judge Applegarth goes on .  The writer looks at Harry.)

HARRY:  See what I mean?

THE WRITER:  Yeah, well … so long.  (He puts the oyster in his coat pocket.)

HARRY:  Drop in again any time you're driving to Hollywood.

THE WRITER:  Or away.  (He goes out.)

CLARK:  (after a moment)  You know, Harry, that boy of mine, Clay … well, a fellow like that, you can't just go off and leave him.

HARRY:  Of course you can't, Clark.

CLARK:  I'm taking him fishing tomorrow morning.  How about going along, Harry?

HARRY:  Sure, Clark.  Be like old times again.  (There is a pause.)

CLARK:  What's all this about an oyster and a pearl?

HARRY:  Oh, just having a little fun with the new teacher.  You know, she came in here and asked me to give her a poodle haircut?  A poodle haircut!  I don't remember what a poodle dog looks like, even.