The unbearable fragility of life

Harold Pinter's plays are often hard to take: there is always an undercurrent of menace and violence, and the very absurdity of some of the dialogs or monologues has a disturbingly unsettling effect.

Over the weekend we went to see "The Birthday Party"; the stage was set up on a platform in the middle of the theater, with seats for the audience on all sides. It was a little like a ring during a prize fight, but it also had the actors and their whole world dangerously teetering on the edge. I left the theater thinking that Pinter is unsurpassed in conveying the fragility of the thin veneer of security and gentility of an everyday, ordinary life. That life is, indeed, fragile, with unfathomable darkness and brutality lurking just beneath the surface, ready to pounce at any time.

On Monday, I was reading a review of the play online when the horrific news from Boston flashed across the screen.