Rest in peace, Arthur Miller. I apologize on behalf of all of the drama club geeks, myself included, who sullied your good name with our seven-minute competition-style renditions of scenes from “Death of a Salesman” and “The Crucible” and “All My Sons” in high school. We really did think we were Something Else, and we really did revere you as only hormonal teenaged misfits can.
Many years later, I would see “Death of a Salesman” on stage with real live grownup actors, and the tears after the final curtain would stick me to my seat long enough for two ushers to ask if I was going to be okay.
I was okay, of course. More than okay, even better, and never the same again. You left the rest of the world that way, too. Thank you.