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There’s a dramatic truism that when a character is drunk he or she will be the truth-teller. So I thought, “Hey, why not write a play where everyone is drunk – that way truth’ll be flying around everywhich everywhere.” And then I thought, “Plus it’ll be funny because drunk girls are funny and I’m gonna write about some girls in the city.” But mostly I thought, “If everyone is drunk, and the world is drunk, who knows what’ll happen and that’s usually a good start.”
And: one day I realized I lie all the time. So many of my opinions, that I speak strongly, are borrowed, or elaborated from small resentments; something is “no good” because a friend or teacher said so, or because it bored me once and from that I’ve grown an opinion. If I were ever to tell the truth, I’d have to admit much of what I say comes from a momentary passion (now passed) and I should take it back. “No, I lied.”
Behind this dishonesty waits the shocking thought: “I’ve been alone all this time.” What I thought was love was really solitary – an idle chat with some other fellow I thought I loved – all because I have never been careful enough with the truth. Have I ever truly talked to anyone else?
I keep hoping to learn how to tell the truth. That’s why I write plays. There are those beautiful moments, when we are all together, because some voice has talked to us all, and we have all heard it – “I hear that,” I whisper; “So do I,” says another – and suddenly we are all together. Feels very worthwhile to search for these moments.
-- playwright Adam Bock, program notes for The Drunken City
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