Friday, December 26, 2008

26th December 2008

The news got out yesterday that Harold Pinter has died. The poor suffering soul.

Dismayed at the level of animosity I feel towards him.

And the irritation at the thought that, given in this mad world dying tends to be a good career move, he will continue to communicate his unhappiness to us from far beyond the grave.

Mostly, I expect it's a question of vanity: because his dismal style of writing is valued, and mine on the whole is not.

Maybe there's something more: maybe his work angers me so much because it's done so much to popularise the notion that an evening in the theatre is going to be, on the whole, a pretty dismal affair. Watching a display of unhappiness and cruelty that's not very easy to understand and that, as a consequence, makes you feel ever so slightly stupid for not fully appreciating it.

Which means his work has done so much damage to theatre. So much harm to the art form I so passionately love.

As for him, poor soul, I hope he finds a measure of peace.


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