LADY. No.

STRANGER. Look at me.

LADY. Hasn't life brought you a single pleasure?

STRANGER. Not one! If at any time I thought so, it was merely a
trap to tempt me to prolong my miseries. If ripe fruit fell into my
hand, it was poisoned or rotten at the core.

LADY. What is your religion--if you'll forgive the question?

STRANGER. Only this: that when I can bear things no longer, I shall
go.

LADY. Where?

STRANGER. Into annihilation. If I don't hold life in my hand, at
least I hold death. ... It gives me an amazing feeling of power.

LADY. You're playing with death!

STRANGER. As I've played with life. (Pause.) I was a writer. But in
spite of my melancholy temperament I've never been able to take
anything seriously--not even my worst troubles. Sometimes I even
doubt whether life itself has had any more reality than my books.
(A De Profundis is heard from the funeral procession.) They're
coming back. Why must they process up and down these streets?