The Breakfast Club

Written by John Hughes

Andy: Do you guys know what I did to get in here? I taped Larry Lester's buns
together. Yeah, you know him? Well then, you know how hairy he is, right? Well,
when they pulled the tape off, most of his hair came off and some skin too. And the
bizarre thing is, is that I did it for my old man. I tortured this poor kid because I
wanted him to think I was cool. He's always going off about, you know, when he
was in school, all the wild things he used to do, and I got the feeling that he was
disappointed that I never cut loose on anyone, right? So, I'm sitting in the locker
room and I'm taping up my knee and Larry's undressing a couple lockers down
from me and he's kinda, kinda skinny, weak, and I started thinking about my father
and his attitude about weakness, and the next thing I knew I, I jumped on top of
him and started wailing on him. Then my friends, they just laughed and cheered
me on. And afterwards, when I was sittin' in Vernon's office, all I could think about
was Larry's father and Larry having to go home and explain what happened to him.
And the humiliation, the fucking humiliation he must have felt. It must have been
unreal. I mean, how do you apologize for something like that? There's no way. It's
all because of me and my old man. God, I fucking hate him. He's like, he's like this
mindless machine I can't even relate to anymore. "Andrew, you've got to be
number one. I won't tolerate any losers in this family. Your intensity is for shit."
You son of a bitch. You know, sometimes I wish my knee would give and I
wouldn't be able to wrestle anymore. He could forget all about me. 
Brighton Beach Memoirs
Written by Neil Simon

Eugene: If my mother knew I was writing all this down, she would stuff me like
one of her chickens. . . I’d better explain what she meant by Aunt Blanche’s
"situation" … You see, her husband, Uncle Dave, died six years ago from . . . (He
looks around.)… this thing. . . They never say the word. They always whisper it. It
was — (He whispers. ) — Cancer! . . . I think they’re afraid if they said it out loud,
God would say, "I HEARD THAT! YOU SAID THE DREAD DISEASE! (He
points finger down.) JUST FOR THAT, I SMITE YOU DOWN WITH IT!!" ...
There are some things that grown-ups just won’t discuss ... For example, my
grandfather. He died from — (He whispers.) —Diptheria! . . . Anyway, after Uncle
Dave died, he left Aunt Blanche with no money. Not even insurance. . . And she
couldn’t support herself because she has—(He whispers.) Asthma. So my big-
hearted mother insisted we take her and her kids in to live with us. So they broke
up our room into two small rooms and me and my brother Stan live on this side,
and Laurie and her sister Nora live on the other side. My father thought it would
just be temporary but it’s been three and a half years so far and I think because of
Aunt Blanche’s situation, my father is developing — (He whispers. ) —High blood
pressure!
The Seagull

Written by Anton Chekhov

You talk of fame and happiness, of some brilliant interesting life; but for me all
these pretty words, if I may say so, are just like marmalade, which I never eat. You
are very young and very kind, but I don't know what is so delightful about my life.
You have heard of obsessions, when a man is haunted day and night, say, by the
idea of the moon or something? Well, I've got my moon. Day and night I am
obsessed by the same persistent thought; I must write, I must write, I must
write. . . . No sooner have I finished one story than I am somehow compelled to
write another, then a third, after a third a fourth. I write without stopping, except
to change horses like a postchaise. I have no choice. What is there brilliant or
delightful in that, I should like to know? It's a dog's life! Here I am talking to you,
excited and delighted, yet never for one moment do I forget that there is an
unfinished story waiting for me indoors. When I finish a piece of work, I fly to the
theatre or go fishing, in the hope of resting, of forgetting myself, but no, a new
subject is already turning, like a heavy iron ball, in my brain, some invisible force
drags me to my table and I must make haste to write and write. And so on forever
and ever.