Reading Ibsen? —Yes, The Master Builder. —Hmmm, lovely play but fraught with symbolism. —I hadn’t noticed, I said. He stood before the fire for a moment then shook his head and left. Personally, I’m not much for symbolism. I never get it. Why can’t things be just as they are? I never thought to psychoanalyze Seymour Glass or sought to break down “Desolation Row.” I just wanted to get lost, become one with somewhere else, slip a wreath on a steeple top solely because I wished it.
