YOUNG MAN: You will if you can. But you probably won’t be able. The question is this: What do you make of it all?

DOROTHY: I don’t understand—All what?

YOUNG MAN: The world? The universe? And your position in it? This miraculous accident of being alive! [Soft music in the background.] Has it ever occurred to you how much the living are outnumbered by the dead? Their numerical superiority, Miss Simple, is so tremendous that you couldn’t possibly find a ratio with figures vast enough above the line, and small enough below to represent it.

DOROTHY: You sound like you were trying to sell me something.

YOUNG MAN: I am, I am, just wait!

DOROTHY: I’m not in the market for—

YOUNG MAN: Please! One minute of your infinitely valuable time!

DOROTHY: All right. One minute.

YOUNG MAN: Look!

DOROTHY: At what?

YOUNG MAN: Those little particles of dust in the shaft of April sunlight through that window.

DOROTHY: What about them?

YOUNG MAN: Just think. You might have been one of those instead of what you are. You might have been any one of those infinitesimal particles of dust. Or any one of millions and billions and trillions of other particles of mute, unconscious matter. Never capable of asking any questions. Never capable of giving any answers. Never capable of doing, thinking, feeling anything at all! But instead, dear lady, by the rarest and most improbable of accidents, you happened to be what you are. Miss Dorothy Simple from Boston! Beautiful. Human. Alive. Capable of thought and feeling and action. Now here comes the vital part of my question. What are you going to do about it, Miss Simple?

DOROTHY [who is somewhat moved, in spite of her crushed petunias]: Well, goodness—gracious—sakes alive! I thought you came in here to buy some socks?

YOUNG MAN: Yes, but I’ve got to sell you something first.

DOROTHY: Sell me what?

YOUNG MAN: A wonderful bill of goods.

DOROTHY: I’ll have to see it before I sign the order.

YOUNG MAN: That’s impossible. I can’t display my samples in this shoppe.

DOROTHY: Why not?

YOUNG MAN: They’re much too precious. You have to make an appointment.

DOROTHY [retreating]: Sorry. But I do all my business in here.

YOUNG MAN: Too bad for you. —In fact, too bad for us both. Maybe you’ll change your mind?

DOROTHY: I don’t think so.

YOUNG MAN: Anyway, here’s my card.

DOROTHY [reading it, bewildered]: —LIFE—INCORPORATED. [Looks up slowly.]

YOUNG MAN: Yes. I represent that line.

DOROTHY: I see. You’re a magazine salesman?

YOUNG MAN: No. It isn’t printed matter.

DOROTHY: But it’s matter, though?

YOUNG MAN: Oh, yes, and it’s matter of tremendous importance, too. But it’s neglected by people. Because of their ignorance they’ve been buying cheap substitute products. And lately a rival concern has sprung up outside the country. This firm is known as DEATH, UNLIMITED. Their product comes in a package labelled WAR. They’re crowding us out with new aggressive methods of promotion. And one of their biggest sales points is EXCITEMENT. Why does it work so well? Because you little people surround your houses and also your hearts with rows of tiresome, trivial little things like petunias! If we could substitute wild roses there wouldn’t be wars! No, there’d be excitement enough in the world without having wars! That’s why we’ve started this petunia-crushing campaign, Miss Simple. Life, Incorporated, has come to the realization that we have to use the same aggressive methods of promotion used by DEATH, UNLIMITED over there! We’ve got to show people that the malignantly trivial little petunias of the world can be eliminated more cleanly, permanently and completely by LIFE, INCORPORATED than by DEATH, UNLIMITED! Now what do you say, Miss Simple? Won’t you try our product?