Death of a Salesman.

Death of a Salesman
Never struck me the way it did when I saw Mike Nichols’ production this weekend.
You never really understand this play until you’ve worked in an office, dreaming of outside…

BIFF: And suddenly I stopped, you hear me?  And in the middle of that office building, do you hear this?  I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw – the sky.  I saw the things that I love in this world.  The work and the food and time to sit and smoke.  And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for?  Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be?  What am I doing in an office, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am!  Why can’t I say that, Willy?

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Death and the Piano

“The piano is a very finicky instrument to record, with an existential problem: attack followed by decay, every note a death. You want to capture the ping, the clarity of the beginning of each note, but you also want to get the ephemeral singing tone that remains. It’s a complicated balance: the souls of the piano and of the pianist hang on it.”

From Jeremy Denk’s nice piece “Flight of the Concord” in this week’s New Yorker