I read Ibsen's "A Doll's House" last night. I admit I've never enjoyed plays the same way that I enjoy prose, but it was fantastic. The freedom that comes from developing characters through their own words made it seem a lot easier, but I'm sure a play is harder to write. The characters, his portrayal of their relationship, and most of all his description of guilt is so suddenly universal. In one minute you're moving from an Act of a play to a very real, very common household situation that seems could be your own. He describes Helmer's complete misunderstanding of Nora's charachter so brilliantly. The patronage. The anger. The expectations. The loss he is at when he sees her change. And I admit, I've come to appreciate strong endings by realizing how terribly difficult they are to write.Fantastic play. And I got it for only 30 rupees too. I've always wanted to read Ibsen since Ayn Rand mentioned him in The Fountainhead.
A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the small stools in the kitchen, the ones that make you feel like a little child again, waiting for the water to boil. I was making tea for my dad and thought how cool a feeling that was, to be home again, doing home-things in a warm kitchen where everything was as familiar as it was leisurely. But later, in a different city, in a place just called home, a place that I have to remember by numbers - fourth right turn, third house on the left - a place I have to recognize by signboards and which I sometimes pass over in the dark because I miss the gate, a place where almost-strangers let you in when you ring the bell; I waited the same wait, standing and waiting for the water in a newer pateeli . It wasn't warm at all; it was just a cheerless, empty, disconsolate feeling. It made me feel low to even think of another place as home. Eating in alien plates, drinking in alien glasses. I never learnt to memorize the house number or the telephone n...
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