It is a Monday morning, after a week’s run of Summer and Smoke, and following the example of Tennessee Williams I have just brewed myself a coffee pot of liquid dynamite, and sitting down immediately after breakfast I am hoping its pressure on my heart will stimulate this article. Tennessee Williams was a proud punisher of his heart and, if I wished to follow his example to the letter, I would just now be preparing myself a little intramuscular injection of a secret formula concocted by my doctor. While I would still hate the business of pushing a needle into my skin, the immediate rush of creative energy, combined with the calming effect of subsequent pills and a single Martini, would give me the necessary strength.
For Tennessee Williams, doctors in all guises — psychologists, pathologists, surgeons — were people to keep closer than enemies. Intimacy with strangers was welcomingly simpler than intimacy with people he had lasting relationships with.
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