Two years after that life-changing casting call, it would be too late for a cure; on the road ahead, a world of crushes would open before me. That Friday night casting call was my introduction to Richard Abbott; to everyone present--not least to Aunt Muriel, who fainted twice--it was obvious that Richard had taken charge of us all.
"It seems that we need a Nora, or a Hedda, if we're going to do Ibsen at all," Richard said to Nils.
"But the leafs! They are already color-changing; they will keep falling," Borkman said. "It is the dying time of the year!"
He was not the easiest man to understand, except that Borkman's beloved Ibsen and fjord-jumping were somehow connected to the serious drama, which was always our fall play--and to, no less, the so-called dying time of the year, when the leafs were unstoppably falling.
Looking back, of course, it seems such an innocent time--both the dying time of the year and that relatively uncomplicated time in my life.
John Irving, A Widow for One Year
(Series: # )
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