Was I ill? Have I got well? But those are well who have forgotten!
The stage is a large dark room, with faded painted targets covering the walls like wallpaper. In addition, skulls and pillows are tacked up on the walls as decorative motifs. All over the painted walls runs scrawled, illegible writing, in chalk—as if a deteriorating Nietzsche had allowed his scribbling to escape from his notebooks and cover the walls as his feverishly productive mind overpowered his self-control.
Half of the rear wall of the room is missing, replaced by a series of vertical planes lined up one behind the other, each succeeding plane getting higher as they recede into the distance, all painted a reflective black, as if they were the planes of a stylized black ocean. Above the ocean is a decorated arch, beneath which a red sun, framed by dark wings and festooned with skulls, rises over the ocean’s horizon. In the shadows stage right sits a large cabinet with a protruding cannon. Pillowed benches line the walls of the room. Angling down from above the audience are two twelve-foot-long metal probes. Their rods, padded at one end like a swab, arrive at the front edge of the stage, tilting downward, with the padded end at chest height.
The floor is coral pink, in shocking contrast to the dark walls, and at intervals on the walls and floor, large block letters spell out fragments of words.
The name “Friedrich Nietzsche,” in three-dimensional script, floats over the stage, as do many lamps.
Loops of music are heard in the background. They change continually, but are ever-present throughout the play—sometimes childlike, sometimes military and overpowering.
Nietzsche, dressed in a long black frock coat, wearing a sleeping cap with a tassel and carrying a stuffed briefcase, ambles onstage. He does a funny little march, his head bobbing slightly from side to side. He seems to have already descended into a kind of madness. Throughout the play he does bits of a stumbling dance, or rubs his hands together and rolls his eyes, always speaking in a voice that keeps cracking and making irrational swoops and dives. As he enters, he cocks his head and repeats, “Guess . . . Guess . . .” in a childlike singsong voice to no one in particular.
The Child appears at the side—a young girl with rosy cheeks, dressed as a boy in a white shirt and tie, with a child’s cap cocked at an angle.
NIETZSCHE: Guess . . .
THE CHILD: You look very different from the way I imagined you, Mr. Nietzsche—
NIETZSCHE: Guess!
THE CHILD: I HAVE read bits and pieces of things you write, Mr. Nietzsche—so I imagined you big and strong, with eyes on fire . . .
(Nietzsche looks about distractedly as the Child advances into the room, hands on hips.)
Is it possible—maybe you aren’t the real Mr. Nietzsche?
NIETZSCHE: Guess! . . .
THE CHILD (Pointing to a stuffed toy horse hanging from the ceiling): Let’s make a test. Suppose I climb up toward that little horse hanging from the ceiling, and start beating it and beating it and beating it—would you protect that poor little horse, Mr. Nietzsche?
NIETZSCHE: Guess!
(The Dangerous Man appears through a door, hair cropped short in military fashion. His cruel beady eyes, jutting chin and storm trooper boots are in sharp contrast to the kilt he wears up over his chest as a kind of feminine kilt-bra.)
THE DANGEROUS MAN: No guesses.
NIETZSCHE: Guess.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: No guesses for me, thank you.
NIETZSCHE (Opening his briefcase): Right this minute, guess what I’m experiencing.
(He throws fistfuls of paper into the air. Four Scholars in black caps appear as the papers float to the floor. They gather the papers and bring them to Nietzsche, but he pushes them away. He rises and thrusts his chest against one of the probes, emitting a cry of pain.)
THE DANGEROUS MAN: I really don’t want to know about this, Mr. Nietzsche.
NIETZSCHE: Stage fright.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Jesus Christ—stage fright!
NIETZSCHE (Turning away, stumbling a bit over his own feet): What’s that beautiful music?
THE CHILD: Is this really you, Mr. Nietzsche?
NIETZSCHE: Oh—I’m a wonderful dancer.
(He dances in a heavy-footed way, holding the hands of the Child, as the Scholars cross the room and point at the dangling stuffed horse.)
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Oh, I bet this is gonna be special.
(The Child pulls the Dangerous Man to see the horse. He pulls away with a lurch.)
NIETZSCHE: Let’s face it. Nobody likes being chained to the wall by somebody else’s imagination.
(The Scholars carry a white screen onstage behind Nietzsche, to frame his body. He holds it behind him with two outstretched hands.)
Please! Wipe me out!
THE DANGEROUS MAN: I’d do it if I could, Mr. Nietzsche.
NIETZSCHE: You can do it. I want things said to me—that will be very disturbing—not to other people of course, but to myself in particular. (Whirls, still holding the screen behind him) I want things said to me that will cut into me like a knife. In that hope, I want everybody’s collaboration.
THE CHILD: Why should we collaborate with you, Mr. Nietzsche? A: We do not trust you, and B: We do not like you.
NIETZSCHE: Really? You don’t like me?
(The Scholars manipulate the screen so it flies over his head and comes down in front of him.)
Tell me why you don’t like me.
THE CHILD: Well, first of all, we don’t know you well enough to have definite opinions.
NIETZSCHE: OK, don’t try to know me better than you know me right this minute. OK? (Puts his chest against a probe and spreads his arms) Just sustain this same level of hostility for no particular reason, because I need to experience this kind of pressure. Remember—I’ll pay very well.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Hey! Let me think about this. (Exits)
THE CHILD (Steps forward with cake and a single candle): Hey. Is your mind really on fire, Mr. Nietzsche? (Nietzsche rolls his eyes in delight) Is this candle for you? Do you like
