Less the American Dream, and more the particular dreams of a particular American family. So much has been said and written about this landmark play that I really only want to focus on a few minor moments I’ve only recently come to understand. The first is a line in the famous first stage directions: “On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands.” I always knew this trophy represented Biff’s youthful glory, Willy’s expectations and the like, but I always glossed over the fact that it is silver (i.e., second place). And as we know in America, coming in second means losing. And perhaps it is because I recently blogged about Oedipus, but line 28, after Linda reminds him he never went for his glasses, Willy says: “No, I see everything.” Of course this is ironic, but it is also a tragic moment of admitting he really believes what he sees, including his past and his dead brother. Thus, a few lines later where he describes his long drive back into the city: “But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the tress are so thick, and the sun so warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m going off the road!” As we later find out, they no longer even have a car with an opening windshield, but that is irrelevant because it is truly what he “sees.” And it is this error — this longing — that sets the play in motion. Finally, I’ve always felt like the play belonged to Biff. He is the one who finally recognizes who he is (”I’m a dime a dozen,” “I’m a nothing.” Then why isn’t the play called “Life of a Salesman’s Son?” Well, I think the beauty of the actual title is it works for both Willy and Biff. After the humiliating visit to Oliver’s office, where Biff steals his pen, Biff finally recognizes (and admits) “Who ever said I was a salesman . . . I was a shipping clerk . . . I was never a salesman.” Here, too, is the death of a salesman; the death of Biff’s false sense of self. For him, there may still be time. For Willy, not. Already “the woods are burning.” The same woods that Willy “saw” out the open windshield as “so beautiful . . . so thick.” And yet, even if they are a dime a dozen (the 10 of 12), that means they are the same. Or if they are the the lucky and unique pair out of that dozen (the 2 of 12), they are still the same. Either way, it is both a comfort, and a tragedy.

Short. Poignant. “I Love Lucy” and 9/11. Sanchez offers a moving example of what all good monologues should do: approach their subject from the side, not head on. It’s the key to avoiding sentimentality. The young character Tomas can only come to terms with his father’s death through the seemingly unconnected memory of the re-runs constantly playing in his house. His imitation of Lucy’s cry “Wah!!!!!!” quickly changes into “real pain” then “silence.” It’s a well crafted shift on the part of the playwright, and a subtle entry point for this character into real grief and commemoration. Good monologues should have a certain tension; a sense of reluctance on the part of the speaker to actually talk about the subject at hand. So they often pick an arbitrary, random, unlikely departure point. But good monologues also make sure we end up where the speaker doesn’t really intend to go, but certainly needs to. And we appreciate it.

Comedy equals contrast. And this delightful little monologue is the perfect illustration of that equation. It also has the most brilliant set up: “(In the darkness, we hear an announcement.) Due to the unfortunate fencing mishap in the scene previous, the part of Robert Keyes will be played the remainder of this evening by assistant stage manager, Morris White.” Then lights up on the terrified ‘fish out of water’ upon whom everything now depends. Unfortunately for our hero, the show must go on, even though he desperately wants it to end. This gem is an hysterical curtain raiser, a great audition piece, and a downright hoot.

Often everyone’s first classroom introduction to drama, and the reason so many then turn away. Why is it taught so often and so poorly? It is not about “man being a puppet in the hands of the gods” or there being “no free will.” It is not a moral lesson against pride. It is not an attempt to answer the question “Who am I?” but rather a desperate inquiry into the uglier question “Why am I?” We often think of Oedipus’ hubris as trying to solve the riddle of himself without the help of others or the gods, but he knows who he is. He says so within the first ten lines: “I am Oedipus.” Now, just because he learns the truth of his past does not change who he is, but rather, why he is who he is. And his true arrogance is actually quite noble. He says to his suffering people, “I am ready to help, I’ll do anything.” That is where the tragedy begins. In truth, it is often our best qualities (helping, listening, loving) that get us into the most trouble, and our worst qualities (insert yours here) that save you in the end. If only Oedipus had a good defense attorney, because the reasonable doubt is right there in the text. Over and over again, the story of Laius’ death reveals “a whole band, not single-handed, cut King Lauis down.” Over and over again, the reports say he was killed by “robbers” or “thieves” or “bandits.” All in the plural. Yet over and over again, Oedipus puts it into the singular: “robber, thief, bandit.” He knows he was alone, on his own when he killed that man where the three roads meet. Yet he also knows a good king must sacrifice himself for his people. Whether he really killed his own father, and as a result married his own mother, is cast into doubt. And ironically, that is of little real interest. What matters here is that this lone individual, in his attempt to figure out why he is who he is, learns that such inquiry always comes at a great cost. His true strength is pursuing that answer regardless of the expense, finding the truth, enduring it once found, and accepting the responsibility for all of his actions — both unthinkable and innocent. It is a great testament to the human intellect to discover happiness is built upon an illusion, and to go on living with — and in spite of — this knowledge.