Watching Hedda Gabler tonight, it occurs to me that sexual frustration ripens, in due course, into an appetite for tragedy.
***
An adequate but curiously unsympathetic performance. A Hedda worthy of Strindberg rather than of Ibsen.
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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