The trouble with Harold Pinter is his public image: the insufferably pompous, sanctimonious, philistine, humourless, politically sciolistic, intellectually suburban, ex-adulterer, who writes pretentious and empty rubbish which complaisant companies such as the Royal Court encourage him to foist on audiences, for whom he appears to have total contempt.
I am assured by a mutual acquaintance that the real Harold Pinter is a warm, amusing, bright, compassionate man with a delightful sense of humour, who creates profound works for the theatre. For all I know this is the truth, but Pinter does not help himself with remarks about “shit-stained centuries of…
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