from
A Man for All Seasons
by
Robert Bolt

The economy was very progressive, the religion was very reactionary. We say therefore that the collision was inevitable, setting Henry aside as a colorful accident. With Henry presumably we set aside as accidents Catherine and Wolsey and Anne and More and Cranmer and Cromwell and the Lord Mayor of London and the man who cleaned his windows; setting indeed everyone aside as an accident, we say that the collision was inevitable. But that, on reflection, seems only to repeat that it happened. What is of interest is the way it happened, the way it was lived.

But society can have only as much idea as we have what we are about, for it has only our brains to think with. And the individual who tries to plot his position by reference to our society finds no fixed points, but only the vaunted absence of them, “freedom” and “opportunity”; freedom for what, opportunity to do what, is nowhere indicated. The only positive he is given is “get and spend” (“get and spend—if you can” from the Right, “get and spend—you deserve it” from the Left) and he did not need society to tell him that. In other words we are thrown back by our society upon ourselves at our lowest, that is at our least satisfactory to ourselves. Which of course sends us flying back to society with all the force of rebound.

Socially, we fly from the idea of an individual to the professional describers, the classifiers, the men with the categories and a quick ear for the latest subdivision, who flourish among us like priests. Individually, we do what we can to describe and classify ourselves and so assure ourselves that from the outside at least we do have a definite outline. Both socially and individually it is with us as it is with our cities—an accelerating flight to the periphery, leaving a center which is empty when the hours of business are over.

More:
Well . . . I believe, when statesmen forsake their own private conscience for the sake of their public duties . . . they lead their country by a short route to chaos.

Chapuys:
You are a good man.

More:
I don’t see how you deduce that from what I told you.

Boatman:
[...] From Richmond to Chelsea, a penny halfpenny . . . from Chelsea to Richmond, a penny halfpenny. From Richmond to Chelsea, it’s a quiet float downstream, from Chelsea to Richmond, it’s a hard pull upstream. And it’s a penny halfpenny either way. Whoever makes the regulations doesn’t row a boat.

Common Man:
“[...] His scholarship is supported by his writings; saintliness is a quality less easy to establish. But from his willful indifference to realities which were obvious to quite ordinary contemporaries, it seems all too probable that he had it.”

More:
[...] The law, Roper, the law. I know what’s legal not what’s right. And I’ll stick to what’s legal.

Roper:
Then you set man’s law above God’s!

More:
No, far below; but let me draw your attention to a fact—I’m not God. The currents and eddies of right and wrong, which you find such plain sailing, I can’t navigate. I’m no voyager. But in the thickets of the law, oh, there I’m a forester.

Roper:
So now you’d give the Devil benefit of law!

More:
Yes. What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

Roper:
I’d cut down every law in England to do that!

More:
Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country’s planted thick with laws from coast to coast—man’s laws, not God’s—and if you cut them down—and you’re just the man to do it—d’you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake.

Roper:
I have long suspected this; this is the golden calf; the law’s your god.

More:
Oh, Roper, you’re a fool, God’s my god . . . But I find him rather too subtle . . . I don’t know where he is nor what he wants.

Roper:
My god wants service, to the end and unremitting; nothing else!

More:
Are you sure that’s God? He sounds like Moloch.

More:
[...] Will, I’d trust you with my life. But not your principles. You see, we speak of being anchored to our principles. But if the weather turns nasty you up with an anchor and let it down where there’s less wind, and the fishing’s better. And “Look,” we say, “look, I’m anchored! To my principles!”

Chapuys:
Must I require anything? After all, we are brothers in Christ, you and I!

More:
A characteristic we share with the rest of humanity. You live in Cheapside, Signor? To make contact with a brother in Christ you have only to open your window and empty a chamberpot. There was no need to come to Chelsea.

More:
[...] Why, it’s a theory, yes; you can’t see it; can’t touch it; it’s a theory. But what matters to me is not whether it’s true or not but that I believe it to be true, or rather, not that I believe it, but that I believe it . . . I trust I make myself obscure?

More:
[...] God made the angels to show him splendor—as he made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity. But Man he made to serve him wittily, in the tangle of his mind! If he suffers us to fall to such a case that there is no escaping, then we may stand to our tackle as best we can, and yes, Will, then we may clamor like champions . . . if we have the spittle for it. And no doubt it delights God to see splendor where He only looked for complexity. But it’s God’s part, not our own, to bring ourselves to that extremity! Our natural business lies in escaping—so let’s get home and study this Bill.

Norfolk:
[...] You know those men! Can’t you do what I did, and come with us, for fellowship?

More:
And when we stand before God, and you are sent to Paradise for doing according to your conscience, and I am damned for not doing according to mine, will you come with me, for fellowship?

Cromwell:
You don’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of your position.

More:
I defy anyone to live in that cell for a year and not appreciate the seriousness of his position.

More:
[...] When a man takes an oath, Meg, he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers then—he needn’t hope to find himself again.