Goodbye to a man that gave us a place to ponder on what we try so hard to hide from ourselves... to no avail.
I love poets because their entire lives are given to create magic, beauty and sense out of fleeting glimpses. Pinter was no different but he held a special place in my heart because, unlike Beckett or others lost in the same absurdity they were trying to denounce and observe, he decided to fight the lies and the abuse of power.
I can't believe how the "L'Art pour l'art" sake crowd still do not understand how their supposedly "neutral" or "ironic" stance is actually a participative one, ingrained in the dominant culture dynamics. I think that the artists that count for me are those that, like Pinter himself, Toni Morrison, Jamaica Kincaid or Salman Rushdie (though the last two would denie such active posturing), understand that their art is not created in a vacuum nor that disengagement is a "cool" position hinting at moral and political independence: it's just naivete in action. Dangerously seductive but inanely stupid.
When I see my monsters die one after the other (Paul Newman is another cherished icon from my youth that I mourn), I wonder who can replace them or give us some of what they gave us throughout their lives. And the emptiness only gets darker, the loss harsher...
