Something I Love

This is from the preface of the play Dylan, and I absolutely love it.

In the dark of the theatre we remember ourselves. And we know we are
not average men and that Madison Avenue shall not sell us that we are.
In the inner space of the theatre, our blood turns red. Our nerves
signal us...across the orchestra pit, straight to the pit of our
stomachs with the pitiless speed of feeling which, if not faster, is
more revealing than light. In the bell and siren of the theatre, the
dormant half of the brain wakes up. Speaks up, saying, "Who can
identify with ordinary men?" For non of us is ordinary to ourselves.
And it is ourselves that we awaken, in the morning of the theatre.
Nobody is John Doe, but everybody is Hamlet, prince, insane, with
murders to commit, with trapdoor graves of Ophelia-loves to leap into,
with wit and poetry on the tongue's apt tip. And everybody is
Falstaff, gross drunk, thief, liar, and scoundrel...All men want to
turn a flower girl into a princess. And all women, once having been
turned into a princess, want to turn about and tell the teacher off.
And both may relish having the mind of Shaw to do it with... And that
is where we live. In the reality of the theatre. Not in the fiction of
society. But where we can identify. Where we are extraordinary. Where
we speak like angels, feel like saints, and act like heroes. Where
life is romantic and true as the telescopes tell us. Where we remember
ourselves, in the passionate, compassionate, tall, large, deep,
bright, dark of the theatre.