Happened to be looking at the opening stage direction for Miller's Death of a Salesman this week. Willy's entrance is surely one of the great moments in theatre. Those cases, the sore palms, that profound, heart-breaking weariness. Without a word, except the muttering under his breath, it tells you almost all you need to know about the man.
When I first read the play, at sixteen, for 'A' level I just couldn't see the strange nobility, almost grandeur of the character. Now, despite the deep, comic stupidity of the man I see little else.
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