Unto a dive I go; I crawl, I creep
   Her lustre shining brighter in the eve
Visage provoked a feeling in the deep
  And if I press the throw, she may bereave
The diff’rence here is one provoked by terms
  But abstract words pollute my gushing soul
Releasing dormant care perceived as germs
  A breakfast poured before a shaky bowl
And should she touch I know I don’t know why
  The quaver seen, disguising proper place
The bootstrapped battles turning out a sigh
  Reveal commiserating face, sere pace
Middling shadows flocking for the light
I hope two hands departing in the night

Source A: John Simon, “Ignoble Nobel: Let Us Pause.

Source B: Dale Peck, “The Moody Blues.”

CRITICAL FUSION:

Harold Pinter is the worst Nobel Prize winner of his generation.

As I made my way through Pinter’s incomprehensible labyrinths, all of them laden with pregnant pauses which kept me perplexed, wondering all the while why the Nobel Committee had not given me the prize, I contemplated my own considerable grace in how to broach this seminal problem in a Radar Magazine essay — which is to say, without humility or nuance.

“Do you have the pepperpot?” “Yes, I have the pepperpot.” This is the stuff of meaningful dialogue? I think not.

Yet another false start: What are we to say to such widespread acceptance of a playwright who specializes in the banal? Are we to cut off the forefingers of every fawning Pinterite to prove a point? Sad to say, this may be the only solution. If we are placed in the position of identifying those who are poorly educated, the dupes and charlatans, by counting nine fingers on their two hands, then it will become that much easier to avoid callow banter at a cocktail party.

For the enlightened members in our society are those who refuse to give Harold Pinter credence. They are the ones who will be invaluable during the upcoming eugenics war, when we wipe the anti-Pinterites from the face of the earth, allowing them to language through slow torture. Who needs the Geneva Convention when so many people are willing to love Harold Pinter? When indeed those pesky Swedes, who have invaded our homeland with their precious IKEAs, give this diabolical menace their highest award?

As to the question of who shall lead this cadre of torturers, I shall be only too happy to put my name at the forefront. I shall lead by example, storming into Greenwich Village apartments (in particularly, those easily amused theatrical types) and start hacking off fingers with a machete after administering a government-devised TTE (Theatrical/Torture Exam).

The salient problem here is that Pinter is no longer writing plays. He insists upon tossing off hastily composed poems as he is dying of cancer. Here is one such poem titled “Malignant”:

Smoked too many fags
Now the scrotum sags

Sags

I ask: is this even poetry? I have passed notes in class that have been more significant. And let’s be perfectly clear about the issue: never once has my scrotum sagged. And how does this even pertain to cancer?

If the Nobel people must encourage such doggerel, then the time has come to cut off their forefingers, ideally throwing them into a burlap sack and hanging this collection of fingers from the highest pike. This will set an example for those proud Pinterites who believe they sit safely behind their Playbills. I call upon our Attorney General to begin counting Pinterites, for they are the greatest threat to our country’s democratic fabric.

PINTER — GENERAL:

• Harold Pinter: the official site.
• Harold Pinter timeline.
• Contemporary Writers: lengthy critical perspective on Pinter.
• The Harold Pinter Society: publisher of The Pinter Review.
• BBC Four: Harold Pinter page (includes Pinter quiz).
• Internet Broadway Database: Pinter credits.
• Internet Movie Database: Pinter credits.
• The Harold Pinter Collection: University of Texas at Austin.

PINTER — EXCERPTS:

• “Girls”: “‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But do they?” (Granta)
• Pinter on Samuel Beckett: “His work is beautiful.”
• Excerpt from The Dumb Waiter.
• Excerpt from Old Times.

PINTER PERSPECTIVES:

• Review of “Betrayal.”
• Review of “The Caretaker.”
• Curtain Up: an overview of Pinter’s career.
• Ian Mackean: “Winners and losers in the plays of Harold Pinter.”

PINTER — INTERVIEWS:

• The Paris Review: Fall 1966.
• The Independent: Pinter on creating a radio play for his 75th birthday and fighting cancer.
• The New Statesman: November 8, 1999.
• The Guardian: August 3, 2001 (mostly political).
• BBC: Harold Pinter vs. Arnold Wesker.

PINTER — POLITICS:

• “The War Against Reason” — Pinter arguing against the war in Iraq (Red Pepper, December 2002).
• “Carribean Cold War”< ?a> — a Pinter pro-Cuba piece (Red Pepper, May 1996).
• “The American administration is a bloodthirsty wild animal.” (The Daily Telegraph, November 12, 2002).
• Pinter on NATO (BBC, June 1, 1999).

Taking a cue from The Mumpsimus:

THE OFFICER: Now hear this. You are mountain people. You hear me? Your language is dead. It is forbidden. It is not permitted to speak your mountain language in this place. You cannot speak your language to your men. It is not permitted. Do you understand? You may not speak it. It is outlawed. You may only speak the language of the capital. This is the only language permitted in this place. You will be badly punished if you attempt to speak your mountain language in this place. This is a military decree. It is the law. Your language is forbidden. It is dead. No one is allowed to speak your language. Your language no longer exists. Any questions?

YOUNG WOMAN: I do not speak the mountain language.

Silence. The OFFICER and SERGEANT slowly circle her. The SERGEANT puts his hand on her bottom.

SERGEANT: What language do you speak? What language do you speak with your arse?

OFFICER: These women, Sergeant, have as yet committed no crime. Remember that.

SERGEANT: Sir! But you’re not saying they’re without sin?

OFFICER: Oh, no. Oh, no, I’m not saying that.

SERGEANT: This one’s full of it. She bounces with it.

OFFICER: She doesn’t speak the mountain language.

The WOMAN moves away from SERGEANT‘s hand and turns to face the two men.

YOUNG WOMAN: My name is Sara Johnson. I have come to see my husband. It is my right. Where is he?

OFFICER: Show me your papers.

She gives him a piece of paper. He examines it, turns to SERGEANT.

He doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s in the wrong batch.

SERGEANT: So is she. She looks like a fucking intellectual to me.

OFFICER: But you said her arse wobbled.

SERGEANT: Intellectual arses wobble the best.

From Harold Pinter’s Mountain Language.