By Arthur Miller
In Joe and Kate Keller's kinfolk backyard, an apple tree - a memorial to their son Larry, misplaced within the moment international struggle - has been torn down by way of a hurricane. yet his loss isn't the purely a part of the family's previous they can't positioned at the back of them. now not everybody's forgotten the court docket case that placed Joe's companion in reformatory, or the cracked engine heads his manufacturing unit produced which prompted it and dropped twenty-one pilots out of the sky ...
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Additional resources for All My Sons
She stands, damp hair just washed cascading down her back, Streaking the clouds on this spring night with beauty. Spring! And from a shadow comes a voice Bestowing on the night the gift of song. The spirit of the aronias that must be Which on this moonlit night has ventured forth. The song now flows, now gently ebbs away, Wandering through the springtime ’neath the moon. There she stands so utterly alone, And beaten Spring draws slowly to its close. As I read these lines through, I became sleepy and began to doze.
I should still have to discipline myself more before I could say with any confidence that I was a poet or an artist. I remember hearing once that long ago an Italian painter named Salvador Rosa was so set on study ing the ways of robbers that he risked his life by joining a band of mountain brigands. It was a shameful thing if I, having wandered off suddenly from home with just a sketchbook tucked inside my kimono, did not have the same amount of resolution. How, I wondered, could you regain a poetical frame of mind at times like this?
It was no good, I just could not sleep. I lay there listen ing to the tick-tick-tick-tick of the watch under my pillow. 1 A light-weight kim ono, som etimes used to sleep in. ’ Confound it! Even something frightening may appear poetic if you stand back and regard it simply as a shape, and the eerie may make an excellent picture if you think of it as some thing which is completely independent of yourself. Exactly the same is true with disappointed love. Providing that you can divorce yourself from the pain of a broken heart and, conjuring up before you the tenderness, the sympathy, the despair and yes, even the very excess of pain itself, can view them objectively, then you have aesthetic, artistic material.