Will Phillips is a deeply introspective man, given to a lot of internal dialogue and mildly dark moods. He manages it well enough, while the people around him seem to give him space to indulge this need.

Until, that is, Joe Murphy comes along and finds ways to poke and prod into Will’s adaptive loneliness. In one scene in Adjustments, as Will is descending into one of these deep cavities, Joe engages him in a meandering banter that starts with a prospect for the Chicago Cubs and ends somewhere around the untimely death of Virginia Woolf. If he must brood, Joe’s thinking seems to go, Will ought to at least make it meaningful.

Enjoy this short excerpt from that scene.

“Brooding can be useful though,” Joe said. “Some of the greatest works of literature came from a man’s brooding. Women writers brood far less, you know. They don’t have time.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t. But I know women. They wouldn’t have time to brood. It’s a luxury generally reserved for men.”

“Virginia Woolf.”

“Yes, what about her?”

“She had plenty of time to brood, as I recall.”

“That’s different. She had a room of her own. Most women don’t. And you’ll also recall that her brooding ended badly.”

“Some fine literature, though.”

“My point exactly. So what are you writing?”

“Writing?”

“Yes. For all this brooding, I’d expect to see you writing something.”

“I’m not a writer, Joe.”

“Yes.” Joe slid the magazine under his arm and folded his hands behind his back. “So you should stop. Splash some water on your face and tuck in your shirt. Brooding does not become a man who is not a writer.”

“How can you come off as a feminist and be so sexist at the same time?”

“I contain multitudes, Will.”