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Quote by John Patrick Shanley

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Doubt, a Parable

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Author

John Patrick Shanley
John Patrick Shanley

John Patrick Shanley is an American playwright known for his profound exploration of human nature and unique narrative style. His works have won numerous Tony Awards and Pulitzer Prizes, with his most famous play being 'Doubt: A Parable'. more

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“Where Christ is, he rules; for he takes the keys of the house and governs all. Where he is in the heart and affections - there he rules; and where he takes not his lodging in the affections and in the heart, in the joy, desire, and delight, he is not at all. To have him in the brain to talk, and in the tongue to discourse, and yet to keep the heart filled with worldly lusts, shows that Christ does not reside there. By the heart, I mean, especially, the will and the affections. He draws the will to cleave to him, to choose him for the best good.”

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“I want to be a cleaner, A person cleaner of his own heart, I want to be a bodyguard, A person guarding his own heart, I want to be a farmer, A farmer farming his own heart, I want to be a carpenter, A person crafting his own heart, I want to be a doctor, A person treating his own heart, I want to be a seeker, A person seeking his own heart, I want to be a perfect human, A person perfecting his own heart.”

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“The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart I do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break; I mean this lump of muscle that contracts like a flayed biceps, purple-blue, with its skin of suet, its skin of gristle, this isolate, this caved hermit, unshelled turtle, this one lungful of blood, no happy plateful. All hearts float in their own deep oceans of no light, wetblack and glimmering, their four mouths gulping like fish. Hearts are said to pound: this is to be expected, the heart’s regular struggle against being drowned. But most hearts say, I want, I want, I want, I want. My heart is more duplicitous, though to twin as I once thought. It says, I want, I don’t want, I want, and then a pause. It forces me to listen, and at night it is the infra-red third eye that remains open while the other two are sleeping but refuses to say what it has seen. It is a constant pestering in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum, a child’s fist beating itself against the bedsprings: I want, I don’t want. How can one live with such a heart? Long ago I gave up singing to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled. One night I will say to it: Heart, be still, and it will.”

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