Powell To The Playwright

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If my sword can pink that old pachyderm hide
of the public, then I’ve got what it takes.

The playwright’s necessity is neither to pacify
nor please but to refurbish the mind,
houseclean it, shake it up
ready to meet problems,
and not to feed
complacencies.









Time was the thing. You would say that Life and Death were the ingredients of a play,
but it was time that was used, by the bolt, by the carload. Time cut up in squares,
rolled in balls, distorted, braided, twisted, painted, now it was a flag,
now a flag cut up into bits, now magically it was whole again.                                               

Dawn Powell
The Happy Island

The next Dawn Powell page is here.
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