This post was written by Friday guest blogger Annie Reid.
By God, I’m thrilled it was Pinter who won the Nobel. (Sorry, my adoration is a bit like an old wound. I really don’t want anyone to see how easily I can be cut, yet somehow those marks make you what you are, and you can’t help telling the stories of your old scars.) So here’s the thing: I’ll never forget the first time I read The Homecoming. It really hadn’t occurred to me before that silence could be so luxuriously menacing, that poetry could be so truncated, so strangled but still so very lovely.
Pinter’s work is really about power and illusion — less the sort of lies we tell others than the sort we tell ourselves, and what Michael Billington calls “the way our existence is haunted by a recollection, however fallible or imaginary, of some vanished world in which everything was secure, certain and fixed.”
How much do you know about Pinter? Take the quiz here. The best part is that after you take it, it scolds you for not doing a bit better.