is unable to face even a corpse? Yet I suppose I should have foreseen this inherent . . . infirmity of purpose, in you.
(A beat)
The fault lies in my own judgment; overestimating your
abilities, I had hoped to postpone any thoroughgoing discussion
of such tedious and disgusting matters until it might prove utterly unavoidable. Now I see that day has come.
JACK says nothing.
FATHER
There is science and there is superstition: these twin currents, alone, direct the flood of history—hot blood through the world’s vessels, refreshing and animating what religion and suchlike poppycock seek to let remain a dead and rotten corpse. All else is mere sophistry.
(Indicates the body)
Regard this—object, with care. Each of us stink the same once
the worm’s been at us, petticoats or no. My wife, your mother,
could tell you as much. Do you think this a mystery? Only cold
meat on a slab, with no more power than you give it. Don’t be
blinded by desire, for that is skin-deep at best; you’re fated to
go so much deeper. To finally see what lies beneath—not
just the clothes, but under the skin itself.
(He hands him a knife)
Make your first cut.
JACK
I can’t.
FATHER
(Grabbing his arm)
You will.
JACK
(Tries to break away)
I won’t!
FATHER
(Hisses)
You will. I’ve lost too much already to let you fail me now!
They GRUNT in STRUGGLE; then FATHER forces JACK’S hand down. They plunge the knife in together with a SICK LITTLE SOUND.