(Dances slowly toward the briefcase, then grabs it away from the Dangerous Man): Fools have known all along—
THE DANGEROUS MAN: What fools?
(Nietzsche takes papers out of the briefcase and throws them up to the sky. As they flutter down, the Scholars run in with sticks that have grabber claws on the end. They each seize a piece of paper with a grabber and extend it toward Nietzsche.)
NIETZSCHE: The one thing necessary—
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Yes?
NIETZSCHE: Is to keep—pen in motion—over the paper. The pen scribbles—?
(The grabbers move pieces of paper against the walls, and Nietzsche snatches at the papers and stuffs them in the mouth of the cannon protruding from the side cabinet as he continues.)
I say to hell with that. “Well, to hell with that.” And I say “no” to belief systems of all kinds.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Don’t do that, Mr. Nietzsche.
NIETZSCHE (Stuffs the papers in the cannon with a big cannon stuffer, which he then uses to try to write in bold strokes on the walls of the room): With thick strokes my writing flows so full and broad. So what if it’s illegible? Ow! (Loses his balance and falls to the floor) Who reads the stuff I write? Ow! I hurt my shoulder.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN (Standing over Nietzsche, who rubs his sore shoulder): I think Mr. Nietzsche had an accident.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: There’s not much we can do about accidents. They happen.
THE CHILD: We could get medical help.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Is your shoulder really that bad? Are you a Bad Bad Boy?
NIETZSCHE (Crawling up onto a bench): It still hurts, but not so much. I don’t think it’s broken.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Oh—it’s not broken.
NIETZSCHE (Thinks, then holds out his hand): But I hurt my hand.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Oh? Your HAND?
NIETZSCHE: My writing hand.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Then your scribbling days are over, right?
THE CHILD: What’s wrong, Mr. Nietzsche?
(She giggles, then all run offstage.
Nietzsche turns around, then slowly comes down and shows his hand to the audience.)
NIETZSCHE (Quietly): Once upon a time I tried writing a letter to a beloved friend, using my left hand, but the letter was unreadable, of course—not because of its content, which came from my heart—but using my left hand I could only partially control the formation of letter after letter after letter! (Tries to write on the walls, but again—falls) Ow! I hurt my left hand!
(The Child enters with a big loaf of bread, with a large knife stuck in the center. The others follow.)
I better use my right hand to cut some slices from this holy bread which enters my life like an unexpected guest.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Your right hand? You mean your writing hand, Mr. Nietzsche?
NIETZSCHE (Holding the bread): Have some slices of this holy bread which trembles in expectation.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: That looks like normal bread to me, Mr. Nietzsche.
NIETZSCHE: There are valuable jewels in this bread.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: What did you say?
NIETZSCHE: This bread is very unusual. You eat it—you grow bigger. Your body becomes strong and your head—double—
THE DANGEROUS MAN: Is that really desirable? Such a big head?
NIETZSCHE: There are jewels—ow! (He trips and falls on a bench)—Valuable jewels in this holy bread.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN (Posing against a white screen): I heard him say something unusual.
THE DANGEROUS MAN: So did we all.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: He said—there are “Jews” in this bread.
NIETZSCHE: No, no, you misunderstand me. There are jewels, valuable jewels in this bread.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: I would not eat this bread if there were Jews in this bread. (Slowly advances and takes the bread from Nietzsche. She turns toward the audience and puts her hand on the knife) You understand why I say that? Jews—I do not eat Jews. You better make me believe there are no Jews in this bread, because, my dear Fritz— (Lifts the knife out of the bread) —if there are Jews in this bread, then I will put not even the tiniest morsel of this bread in my mouth. But on the other hand— (Lifts the knife higher. A siren is heard, and she swoons to the floor. Then she slowly rises to her knees) —if I am certain there are no Jews in this bread, then I will open my mouth and allow a few tiny crumbs of bread to enter my own, sweet— (Licks the edge of the knife)
NIETZSCHE: I do not move.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: If you don’t move, you’re in trouble, Mr. Nietzsche.
NIETZSCHE: I hope to prove to you, however, that I do not bake Jews in this bread. So please. Feed me some of my own bread. (She holds the knife to his mouth) I would never eat bread baked with Jews inside. Because to do so would be to hurt, terribly . . .
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Let’s find out.
NIETZSCHE (Licks the knife): What I have in my stomach now. —No Jews in there!—only—jewels baked in my bread, now in my stomach. (Suddenly holds his stomach in pain, tumbling to the floor, as the Scholars beat him) Oww! Can you possibly understand how painful to me to have sharp jewels inside one’s stomach?
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN (Still kneeling on the floor): I am imagining that.
NIETZSCHE: You tell me what it feels like in the imagination.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: It would be very painful.
NIETZSCHE: Yes! It is!
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Like broken glass—
NIETZSCHE: Yes! It is!
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN (As a small target passes in front of her eyes): Or long splinters, driven
