As a people, as a culture, we have become so alienated from poetry that whenever a playwright has the pluck to raise his language above the colloquial, or goes beyond the permissible tolerances of smooth, witty, “sophisticated” expression, the effect vexes many of our critics just as Shakespeare’s eloquence confounds many of our actors and directors.

“Fire, Blood, Passion” from the book “Holes in a Stained Glass Window” (1978)