Artaud needs to smoke, to ruin the room—to plug up his mouth and blow something out.

Do you have a light Wilde?—No.
How about a match?—Maybe.

Oscar didn’t smoke cigarettes. Thought them too much like nipples. He didn’t take tea or even handle tea paraphernalia. He didn’t believe in happiness, having seen rat after happy rat crawling up his curtains.

Wilde, this asylum is balanced on a cliff. The white-coated doctors shine like the moon.

Artaud howls at the window. Howls, for effect. The teeth of the shutters chatter like rats.

Wilde. Can I call you Wilde? Where’d you put your hands?

Oscar has a theory about these nuthouse jobs: Always wear gloves. Don’t even touch yourself.