When a play is not sure if it is still a book it can suffer from an existential crisis. That was my experience last night sitting in the Abbey theatre in Dublin. I felt the story and language and themes of a novel attempt to force itself out through the skin of a play and it was uncomfortable viewing. Brave attempts to push together themes and speak through conceits. But ultimately unsatisfying.
Today, another theatre, another cast, another book. Or to be specific a book of short stories. And yet these mini moments, our glimpses of epiphanies were so vividly and robustly rendered as if the characters had stepped from the page in front of us.
This is why theatre is so addictive, voyeuristic draw among the artifice. For a few hours I held my breath, the world stilled its incessant spin and I was a world away…..in Dublin.