CLAIRE: Oh, yes, you do.
TOM: Your country is the inside, Claire. The innermost. You are
disturbed because you lie too close upon the heart of life.
CLAIRE: (_restlessly_) I don't know; you can think it one way--or
another. No way says it, and that's good--at least it's not shut up in
saying. (_she is looking at her enclosing hand, as if something is shut
up there_)
TOM: But also, you know, things may be freed by expression. Come from
the unrealized into the fabric of life.
CLAIRE: Yes, but why does the fabric of life have to--freeze into its
pattern? It should (_doing it with her hands_) flow, (_then turning like
an unsatisfied child to him_) But I wanted to talk to you.
TOM: You are talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never was
before--your Breath of Life.
CLAIRE: I'll know to-morrow. You'll not go until I know?
TOM: I'll try to stay.
CLAIRE: It seems to me, if it has--then I have, integrity in--(_smiles,
it is as if the smile lets her say it_) otherness. I don't want to die
on the edge!
TOM: Not you!
CLAIRE: Many do. It's what makes them too smug in allness--those dead
things on the edge, died, distorted--trying to get through. Oh--don't
think I don't see--The Edge Vine! (_a pause, then swiftly_) Do you know
what I mean? Or do you think I'm just a fool, or crazy?
TOM: I think I know what you mean, and you know I don't think you are a
fool, or crazy.
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