He Types His Labored Column - Weary

Fiction Is Not Photography, It's Oil Painting.

It Is Those Pent-up, Craving Children Who Make All The Wars And All The Horrors And All The Art And All The Beauty And Discovery In Life, Because They Are Trying To Achieve What Lay Beyond Their Grasp Before They Were Five Years Old.

Great Drama, Drama That May Reach The Alchemical Level, Must Have Dimension And Its Relevance Will Take Care Of Itself. Writing About Aids Rather Than The Cocktail Set, Or Possibly The Fairy Kingdom, Will Not Guarantee Importance. . . . The Old Comment That All Periods Of Time Are At An Equal Distance From Eternity Says Much, And Pondering On It Will Lead To Alchemical Theatre While Relevance Becomes Old Hat.

The Victorians Have Been Immoderately Praised, And Immoderately Blamed, And Surely It Is Time We Formed Some Reasonable Picture Of Them? There Was Their Courageous, Intellectually Adventurous Side, Their Greedy And Inhuman Side, Their Superbly Poetic Side, Their Morally Pretentious Side, Their Tea And Buttered Toast Side, And Their Champagne And Skittles Side. Much Like Ourselves, In Fact, Though Rather Dirtier.

To This Day I Am Indulgent Toward Orchestras That Are Trying To Lift Themselves In The World, While Critics Are Busy Assuring Them That They Are Not The Vienna Philharmonic And Never Will Be.