The community garden in winter

Tomatoes, lettuces, and green peppers are long gone; the fig tree only retains a bare form. It is in drab scenes like this – not in dashing gestures – and often in a shared room called home that the profound truth of human life is revealed. I am talking about plays, those great plays. Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night, Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming, Djuna Barnes’s The Antiphon, to name a few.