Adaptation
Russell adapts novels and novellas into plays and screenplays.
The Age of Innocence
by Edith Wharton
GENTILE: In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs as when May, who knew exactly why Archer had pressed her to announce their engagement at the Beaufort ball - and had indeed expected him to do no less - yet felt obliged to simulate reluctance.
The Castle
by Franz Kafka
K: Is there a castle round here?
Murmurs of incredulity and shaking of heads.
SCHWARZER: There most certainly is.
K: And one must have permission to sleep here?
SCHWARZER: 'One' must have permission. Or am I mistaken? No one needs permission?
Murmurs of incredulity and laughter.
The Devil
by Leo Tolstoy
WATCHMAN: I know. I must bring you Axinya. Her husband is away in Moscow. She is a fine, fine woman. A minx but clean. You will be satisfied.
Yevgeny drinks. Watchman pours more.
YEVGENY: When is it to be?
WATCHMAN: Tomorrow. If you like.
Yevgeny hesitates. Then nods.
DOCTOR MOREAU unslings a cowherd horn. He sounds the horn - it is quite a sound.
Silence - then a crashing in, at three or four points, of the beast people. Once they arrive, they bow and fling dust upon their heads and chant:
His is the House of Pain
His is the Hand that makes.
His is the Hand that wounds.
His is the Hand that heals.
His is the lightning flash
His is the deep, salt sea.
His are the stars in the sky.
The Island of Doctor Moreau
by H. G. Wells
The H*nchb*ck of Notre-Dame
by Victor Hugo
QUASIMODO: I tried to take you. And the next day you brought me water and pity. You might have forgotten but I remember.
Quasimodo goes to leave - then turns around.
These towers are high - if a man were to fall from one he would be dead before he hit the ground. When you would like me to fall from the tower you won't even have to say a word. A glance will be enough.
HONOR: You cannot cheat the dark gods, Mr Lynch-Gibbon. Perhaps it is no business of mine if you choose to be powerless and to abandon your wife. But everything in this life has to be paid for, and love too has to be paid for. Why does my brother, who is rich, always charge high fees even to poor patients? Because without payment they would be wretched. They would be captives. I believe you love my brother. But you do him no good by letting him off. He wants, he needs, your harshness, your criticism, even your violence. By gentleness you only spare yourself and prolong this enchantment of untruth which they have woven about themselves and about you too. Sooner or later you will have to become a centaur and kick your way out.
A Severed Head
by Iris Murdoch
Butterball
by Guy de Maupassant
The sound of distant gunfire and carnage.
Inside different rooms, pairs and pairs, and a threesome or two, are entwined and fucking.
Some are spurred on by the danger and chaos beyond their walls.
Alone, Butterball listens attentively to the shots.
She flinches to the firing.
Laevsky: Challenge? Challenge? Certainly! I hate you! I hate you!
Von Koren: I'm terribly pleased. Tomorrow morning. Early. Near Kerbalays. The rest of the details I will leave to your taste: now get out.
Laevsky: (Quieter.) I hate you. I've hated you for a very long time. A duel. That's right.
The Duel
By Anton Chekhov