Contiene un ensayo de Elka Fediuk sobre la Organización Teatral de la Universidad Veracruzana. TEATRO O ARTES ESCÉNICAS DUBATTI .. plantea un proyecto a largo plazo a partir de determinadas concepciones de teatro. Jorge Sago. otros tomaron la estafeta y continuaron reinventando el teatro de cada día. Maria Eugénia, Dubatti, Jorge, Dubbelman, Teun, DuBois, Page, Dubrovsky, Martin accused and condemned, accusés et condamnés, ACE/ Teatro do Bolhão Concepciones, Concepcionista, Concepções, Concepções de educação. Buscar una obra de teatro en este blog Teatral: introducción al Teatro Comparado Jorge Dubatti · Casanova Marcos CALZONUDO Y PUNTO!! .. en la Edad Media y concepciones estético ideológicas Jorge Dubatti · Poiret.

Author: Zolora Kejinn
Country: Libya
Language: English (Spanish)
Genre: Video
Published (Last): 8 August 2010
Pages: 324
PDF File Size: 4.8 Mb
ePub File Size: 19.16 Mb
ISBN: 463-6-12927-471-4
Downloads: 99188
Price: Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]
Uploader: Natilar

Antrobus home, Excelsior, New Jersey. Atlantic City, New Dubztti. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Act I [Lights dim; Projection: Weather Guy, what happened.

In an unrelated story, President Wil B. Dunn announced that the US would no longer export of snow shovels to Mexico. But all joking aside, I have Prophet Klump here with me. Prophet Klump, how do you explain the world not ending this morning. When I found myself still in my body this morning, I looked at my watch and realized that it was made in China. Antrobus before house displaying objects.

Like her husband, she comes from very old stock. Pray God nothing serious has concepcionea to featro. If anything happened to him, we would certainly be inconsolable and have to move into a less desirable neighborhood.

The fact is I don’t know what’ll become of us.

Here it is the middle of August and the coldest day of the year. It’s simply freezing; the dogs are sticking to the sidewalks; can anybody explain that? The whole world’s at sixes and sevens, and why the house hasn’t fallen down about our ears long ago is a miracle to me. In the midst of life we are in the midst of death, a truer word was never said. Antrobus is a very fine man, an excellent husband and the pillar of the community. Antrobus is as fine a woman as you could hope to see.

If you want to know anything more about Mrs. Antrobus, just go and look at a tigress, and look hard. As to the children — Well, Henry Antrobus is a real, clean-cut American boy. He’ll graduate from High School one of these days, if they make the alphabet any easier. I didn’t mean to say that!

  AT-FS708 POE-50 PDF

Antrobus’ daughter is named Gladys. She’ll make some good man a good wife some day, if he’ll just come down off the movie screen and ask her.

: THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH Thornton Wilder

So here we are! We’ve rattled along, hot and cold, for some time now. One more tight squeeze like that and where will we be? Pray God nothing has happened to him. It’s simply freezing; the dogs are sticking. Yes, where will we be? Oh, where will we be? I hate this play. I don’t understand a single word of it, anyway, —all about the troubles the human race has gone through, there’s a subject for you.

Besides, the author hasn’t made up his silly mind as to whether we’re all living back in caves or in New Jersey today, and that’s the way it is all the way through. Oh —why can’t we have plays like we used to — Thor and the Giants or The Sound of Music —good family entertainment with a tune you can whistle when leaving the theater? It’ll all be the same in a hundred years.

featro Sabina, concepcions let the fire go out. One-thing-and-another; don’t-know-whether-my-wits-are- upside-or-down; might-as-well- be-dead-as-alive-in-a -house-all- sixes-and-sevens.

You’ve let the fire go out. Here it is the coldest day of the year right in the middle of August, and you’ve let the fire go out. A girl like I can get a situation in a home where they’re rich enough to have a fire in every room, and Mrs. Antrobus, don’t have to carry the responsibility of the whole house on her two shoulders. And without children, Mrs.

Antrobus, because children are a thing only a parent can stand, and a home, Mrs. Antrobus, where the master don’t concepciomes decent, self-respecting girls in a dark corridor. I mention no names. So you have my notice, Mrs.

I hope that’s perfectly clear. You’ve let the fire go out! Antrobus comes home we have no food and we have no fire, You’d better go over to the neighbors and borrow some fire. I’d die on the way, you know I would.

It’s worse than January. The dogs are sticking to the sidewalks. Very well, I’ll go. How do we know Mr. Every night it’s the same thing. Will he come back safe, or won’t he?


Will we starve to death, or freeze to death, or boil to death, or be eaten by saber-tooth tigers? I don’t know why we go on living. I don’t know why we go on living at all. It’s easier being dead. In each of the succeeding speeches she flings her head up — and sometimes her hands — then quickly buries her head again. Always throwing in the sponge, Sabina.


Always announcing your own death. But give you a new dress — or a bowl of ice cream — or a ticket to the movies, and you want to live forever. You don’t care whether we live or die; all you care about is those children. If it would be any benefit to them you’d be glad to see us all stretched out dead.

cobcepciones Well, maybe I would. And what do they care about? Concepcions —that’s all they care about. They’re ashamed of you. Half the time, they pretend they’re someone else’s children. Little thanks you get from them. I’m not asking for any thanks. Antrobus —you don’t understand him. All that work he does —trying to discover the alphabet and the multiplication table. Whenever he tries to learn anything you fight against it. Oh, Sabina, I know you.

Antrobus carried you home from that raid on the Sabine hills, he did it to insult me.

He did it for your pretty face, and to insult me. For a year or two you lay on your bed all day and painted the nails on your hands and feet. And I washed your underclothes and I made you lattes. I bore children and between my very groans I stirred the cream that you’d put on your face.

But I knew you wouldn’t last. But it was I who encouraged Mr. Antrobus to make the alphabet. Antrobus, but you’re not a beautiful woman, and you can never know what a man could do if he tried.

It’s girls like I who inspire the multiplication table. I’m sorry to say it, but you’re not a beautiful woman, Mrs. Antrobus, and that’s the God’s truth.

And you didn’t last —you sank to the kitchen. And what do you do there? Reading and writing and counting on your fingers is all very well in their way, —but I keep the home going. You go around back where you belong.

I never wanted this part.