The oneness is a togetherness, the difference in the oneness. The oneness is not the same; it is not singular—the discovery cannot be the discovery of the self. That would be too selfish, maligning any possibility for beauty. The theatre is always dying because the selfish theatre is always prevalent. It is too selfish to last. If there is a responsibility to the other, it is merely to enhance the self, the fourth wall a mask of idolatry above the audience. That sin lies in the false definition of oneness as singular self, unity simply as uniformity, which is the death of diversity, the death of theatre.

The theatre is always dying because it is a momentary gesture. In that death it survives, it is alive, completely and utterly dependent on the other. Complete and utter dependence demands the sacrifice of the self. It is a momentous beauty.

As the collapse falls into a collapsible fall, in the midst of the sacrifice, in the midst of the awesome loss, utterly free, completely subjugated, the impulse is the other, meeting you, becoming one with you—together with you. Then, you merely move, you merely act, you merely play.

From the other, others: the discovery of relationship, discovered from the other, is the other, is the relationship. It radically changes your choices and radically changes how you perceive the audience for they are the other too. That is why character must never be separated from its image—its image is relationship, multiplied multifariously.

The complete body; the utter soul: you are for the other infiltrating the character and its objective shattering it into image, revealing a magnanimous, paradoxical reality that overturns all choice. Everything given to the other, you become yourself, completely, utterly, the other. But you must be sacrificed—all of you. That is the morality of art in all its immorality.

It is a religious experience. I cannot describe it in any other way.

How else to describe it? How else to discover it?

Perhaps joy.