My friends were excited about the play they had chosen to produce, written by another friend, and I could understand their enthusiasm. The story had existential overtones without being overly absurd, a little more Shepard than Ionesco, with shades of both, heavy with sharp, witty well-crafted dialogue. Almost Shakespearean at times, without the pentameter. With my first reading, I was already doing rewrites in my head, a reaction that I always take as a good sign. The author and I would cross swords over it, but that’s the way a good play is molded, forged in the smithy of souls at odds.
Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov