The following is a copy of a letter I have sent to the magazine of my Theatre Group:
Arthur Miller has died - probably of terminal boredom from re-reading his own plays. The liberal 'literati' are weeping buckets despite the fact that this 'Valiant for Truth and Justice' contrived during his life to 'ditch the bitch' and marry Monroe, and later, to consign the mongoloid son of his thrid wife to an institution for life without once visiting him. From the comforts and privacy of his 300-acre estate in Connecticut, this zillionaire socialist never stopped prating on behalf of the working class, but alas, his famous plea on behalf of his deadbeat (and dead thick!) Salesman, "Attention must be paid!", simply invites a yawn followed by a "Why?"
I write these moderate and considered words lest our Play Selection Committee fall prey to the sort of sopping sentimentality with which Miller outdid even the lachrymose Walt Disney, and feels impelled to put one of his tedious plays in our programe for next year. Don't do it! Apart form anything else, it will only provoke a really rude letter from me. Hard to believe, I know, but you have been warned.
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