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Death of a salesman


The play grew from simple images from a little frame house on a street of little frame houses which had once been loud with the noise of growing boys and then was empty and silent and finally occupied by strangers. Strangers who could not know with what conquistadorial joy Willy and his boys had once re-shingled the roof. Now it was quiet in the house and the wrong people in the beds.

It grew from images of futility, the cavernous Sunday afternoons polishing the car. Where is that car now? And chamois cloths carefully washed and put up to dry, where are the chamois cloths?

And the endless convoluted discussions, wonderments, arguments, belittlements, encouragements, fiery resolution, abdications returns, parting, voyages out and voyages back, tremendous opportunities and small squeaking denouement, and all in the kitchen now occupied by strangers who cannot hear what the walls are saying.

The image of aging and so many of your friends already gone and strangers in the seats of a mighty who do not know you or your triumph or your incredible value.

The image of ferocity when love has turned to something else and yet is there, is somewhere in the room if one could only find it. The image of people turning into strangers who only evaluate one another.

Above all perhaps the image of a need greater than hunger or desire or thirst, a need to leave a thumbprint somewhere on the world, a need for immortality and by admitting it, the knowing that one has carefully inscribed one’s name on a cake of ice on a hot July day and always, throughout, the image of private man in the world full of strangers, a world that is not home nor even an open battleground but only galaxies of high promise over a fear of falling.



Être un polyglotte est une lutte éternelle.

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