(Written for Catherine Love’s Spoonfed article, but it made me happy to write it so I thought I’d post it full, even in all it’s briefness).
Harold Pinter has long been one of my favourite writers. Perhaps it’s because I’m a die hard modernist at heart and his plays are always prodding painfully at timeless universal obsessions; power, cruelty, the search for a connection, love. If Samuel Beckett dissected the tragicomedy of accepting the futility of life, Pinter’s plays seem to me to be full of the fury of fighting it. Out of that anger comes human truths that are as pertinent now as they were when he wrote them, but also an explosive poetry that is as simple as it is immense.