Friday, December 26, 2008


Harold Pinter died on Christmas Eve. His whole life flashes before us now in the form of the obits darting around the traps.

Memories of his work and of his talk, go back to very early childhood for me, as my family was a drama-loving one, and we went to every play in town.

Any number of occasions over the years have been easily labelled, either deadly seriously or facetiously, and often with great frustration, as "Pinteresque".

What would we have done without that word?

Pinter is sewn into the fabric of our lives. He was the king of the silences between the phatic miscommunications, and so much more of course. And so influential.

One of the greats.

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