But what kind of love? It had so many faces, so many names. Jealousy wove a thread around it, and envy, and fear. People died for love–and killed for it. And yet in itself it was indefinable, it wore whatever passions people brought to it, like a mountebank, with no reality of its own.

I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills.

We might as well die as to go on living like this.

In my profession, I&#39;m around a lot of people whose bodies are their instruments in one way or another.

Written By Anna Deavere Smith

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