(Ben Brantley,’s article appeared in the New York Times, 10/2; via Reg.)
Three faces have been staring at me from the shadows since I heard that Brian Friel had died. None of them belong to Mr. Friel, whom I have never met and don’t think I’d even recognize from a photograph.
But more than any image I can recall, these three faces capture the stricken, eloquent loneliness that made Mr. Friel feel like an intimate companion of mine, one who whispered in my ear that he knew exactly where all of us really live, underground and in secret, nursing wounds we can never entirely reveal to others.
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