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Updated: May 22, 2023

For the next few weeks, in honor of Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month, I will celebrate my mentor and teacher David Henry Hwang and his impressive body of work. In the winters of 2001 and 2002, I served as David’s intern in New York City. It was my first trip to the Big Apple and David was generous with his time in taking me to meetings, introducing me to other playwrights, taking me to my first Broadway and Off-Broadway shows, and talking with me endlessly about his career (he’s been my favorite playwright since age 11 and I’m proud to say I reminded him of a ten-minute play he had completely forgotten he had written!).


He gave of his time even as he was raising two small children. I will forever be grateful for the experience. He even invited me to the Broadway premiere of his revision of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein, II’s Flower Drum Song. Taking into account his generosity, dedication to mentoring young writers, and his position (I believe) as our greatest living playwright—let’s just say it was an honor and one of the highlights of my life. This week, I’ll take a look at his non-musical plays, next week his work in musical theatre and opera (he is the most performed living opera librettist), and the next his adventures in Hollywood.


I first published a long-form version of this profile in my collection Everyone Else is Wrong (And You Know It).

David Henry Hwang is a playwright, screenwriter, and librettist from Los Angeles, California. He wrote the plays Kung Fu, Chinglish, Yellow Face, Tibet Through the Red Box (adapted from Peter Sis’ book), Golden Child, Face Value, M. Butterfly, Rich Relations, Family Devotions, and FOB as well as the short plays Cain and Abel, A Very DNA Reunion, The Great Helmsman, Jade Flowerpots and Bound Feet, Merchandising, Bang Kok, Trying to Find Chinatown, Bondage, As the Crow Flies, The Sound of a Voice, The House of Sleeping Beauties (adapted from Yasunari Kawabata’s novella House of the Sleeping Beauties), and The Dance and the Railroad. Along with Stephan Müller, he created a new version of Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. He was educated at the Yale School of Drama and Stanford University. He lives in New York City.


*****

Something was happening in California in the late 1970s that was akin to the Civil Rights Movement of the late ‘60s. Budding Asian American consciousness had hit college campuses. Groups formed to begin examining the meaning of being from Asian descent in the melting pot of America where Caucasians were becoming a plurality rather than a majority. At Stanford University, a young Chinese American student named David Henry Hwang was beginning to discover the power of the theatre while playing in pit orchestras for musicals and studying with novelist John L’Hereux. These two elements collided at the perfect time for Hwang to complete a play called FOB (from the term “Fresh Off the Boat”) that took elements of Chinese folk tales and opera and clashed them with a story of young ABC (“American Born Chinese”) in L. A. The play, in metaphor and spirit, dramatized the feeling of “otherness” in one’s own country.


Hwang has since risen to prominence as the preeminent Asian American playwright, being the first person of Asian descent to win the Tony Award for Best Play and opening the professional New York theatre to the stories of Asian Americans that groups like the East West Players and playwrights like Frank Chin had been telling out West. He is a writer who tells culturally specific stories in universal and unique ways and who has a keen interest in diversifying his craft into many different forms. He has forged an inspiring career that is as unique as his take on this country and its diverse inhabitants.


As mentioned above, Hwang’s first play was FOB. The Stanford Asian American Theatre Project produced the first staging of the piece at the Okada House Dormitory in 1979 while Hwang was still a student. He was encouraged to send the play to the Eugene O’Neill Playwrights Conference in Waterford, Connecticut. Many playwrights, such as August Wilson and Christopher Durang had to submit several times before the Conference took the bait, but Hwang’s FOB was snatched up quickly and developed at the Center shortly thereafter. The famed producer Joseph Papp (who had brought Hair and outdoor Shakespeare to New York) saw the play and found a place for it as his Public Theatre. This success at such a young age was due not only to the freshness of the material, but the fact that it brought a subject to the theatre that was largely unknown to East Coast theatre audiences.

"F-O-B. Fresh off the boat. FOB."

The play premiered at the New York Shakespeare Festival in 1980 under the direction of the legendary actor/director Mako, who assembled a fresh young cast that included the graceful and talented John Lone (who had been trained in the Peking Opera) and Tzi Ma, an equally talented and familiar face (if not name) in Hollywood. The New York Times drama critic Frank Rich, the so-called “Butcher of Broadway,” went Off-Broadway to examine the talents of this new voice. Over the next decade, Rich would be Hwang’s most fervent supporter.

FOB most assuredly is the first play to read for those interested in Asian American theatre, along with Chin’s The Year of the Dragon. All the concerns, frustrations, and the glories of the immigrant/assimilation experience were found in its monologues, vignettes, and a stunning finale where the Peking Opera and American Broadway-style comedy melded together. The play won an Obie Award for Best American Play and was quickly anthologized in “Best Of” Books. It would also begin a relationship between Hwang, Papp, and Rich that would be beneficial to establishing Hwang’s assured place among the important playwrights of his generation.


Hwang’s next project, as he left L. A. for life in New York, was to be a children’s play commissioned by the New Federal Theatre. The simple, elegant language and small-scale theatrical power of the piece was retained, but The Dance and the Railroad emerged as another powerful, important work of the Chinese American experience for adults. The story concerns two Chinese railroad “coolie” laborers in the middle part of the nineteenth century. This historical drama included another combination of American theatre and the Chinese opera—the lead role written for and given the name of Lone.

Hwang, Lone, Ma.

Through long, aria-like monologues and hilarious two-person scenes, the play pits a worker who is at strike with the rest of the coolies (Ma—a part written for the FOB actor) encountering a worker who chooses the strike as time to practice the art of the opera. Ma challenges Lone to teach him the art and he becomes a dedicated student as the strike is eventually won. Lone also directed the piece and choreographed the opera movements for the show, which had its professional premiere (again at the Public) in 1981.


In his Times review, Rich wrote a glowing introduction for Hwang, calling him “a true original:” “A native of Los Angeles, born to immigrant parents, he has one foot on each side of a cultural divide. He knows America—its vernacular, its social landscape, its theatrical traditions. He knows the same about China. In his plays, he manages to mix both of these conflicting cultures until he arrives at a style that is wholly his own…By at once bringing West and East into conflict and unity, this playwright has found the perfect means to dramatize both the pain and humor of the immigrant experience.”


The Dance and the Railroad was a Drama Desk for Outstanding Play nominee. The play has often confused the author that it has been so honored as it is such a (on-the-surface) simple play. But it contains Hwang’s voice, on full display with its quirky humor and poetic passages that make the simple seem deeply profound. Also, its look at the experience of the Asian American from a historical perspective prepared Hwang for more versatility in his works. Lone and Ma’s performance was recorded for a television version of the play (directed by Emile Ardolino), which aired on what is now A&E. This production won a CINE (Council on International Nontheatrical Events) Golden Eagle Award and has sadly never been given a home-video release.


Hwang refers to his first three stage works as his “Trilogy on Chinese America” and as part of his “isolationist-nationalist” phase. His most critical, serious, and disturbing work of this early period was Family Devotions, the final play of this trilogy. The play concerns three generations of an Asian American family living in a wealthy suburb of L. A. Two elderly women—Ama and Popo—are at the delicious comic center of the first act. But, more than any work before it, Hwang’s play becomes deadly and frightening in the second act as Di-Gou—a relative from China’s mainland—returns and is forced to participate in the Evangelical Christian devotions of his family. This play also opened in 1981 at the Public under the direction of Robert Allan Ackerman, who had directed FOB at the O’Neill Center. The play featured the largest cast of Hwang’s up to that point and an ensemble was created featuring several actors who have become beloved character actors: Michael Paul Chan, Jodi Long, Lauren Tom , and Victor Wong.

"The stories written on your face are the ones you must believe."

This production was also nominated for a Drama Desk Award. Rich commented in the Times that “[t]his playwright crossbreeds sassy, contemporary American comedy with the gripping, mythological stylization of...[Asian]...theater—ending up with a work that remains true to its specific roots even as it speaks to a far wider audience” and called the play “Hwang's funniest play to date. His farcical premise is pure Kaufman and Hart.” Family Devotions deals seriously with the dangers of forcing Western religion on people of other backgrounds yet remains hilariously funny. While a black comedy, its final moments are also some of the most dramatically effective in Hwang’s canon.


He would then set out to do something else entirely. His next few plays would branch out from the Chinese American experience and look at other cultures and became a test of his versatility. He did not venture far from Asia for his next two projects—a pair of one-acts that were based on the folktales and films of Japan. Hwang had become pessimistic about relationships between men and women—his first wife, the artist Ophelia Y. M. Chong, and he would separate shortly before the success of M. Butterfly—and his new plays would highlight both the mutual distrust and intense curiosity that plagues relationships between men and women.


He turned first to adaptation as a source of inspiration. The Nobel Prize-winning writer Yasunari Kawabata had written a novella called House of the Sleeping Beauties, which his friend and supporter Yukio Mishima called “an esoteric masterpiece.” It told the story of old Eguchi and his visit to a mysterious brothel where seemingly comatose women simply sleep next to visiting customers, without engaging in sex. Hwang decided to write a play about how Kawabata might have come to write such a story. Kawabata is the central figure as he investigates a brothel he has heard about from his friend (Eguchi) and it also features Kawabata in his moment of death (though a fictional version).

Sound and Beauty.

The second play was more somber and sparer than The House of Sleeping Beauties and had less of a focus on language and more on the silence between words. The Sound of a Voice is a historical story about a samurai who stumbles upon the house of a woman rumored to be a witch. The plays went nicely together and were produced as a single evening’s entertainment, under the title Sound and Beauty, again at the Public in 1983.


It would be Hwang’s last theatrical project with Lone, who directed both plays and performed the role of the Man in The Sound of a Voice. Sleeping Beauties again featured Wong, who played the role of Kawabata. Mystifyingly, the plays earned Hwang his first negative reviews. Rich called the show an “earnest, considered experiment furthering an exceptional young writer’s process of growth,” but found both shorts contrived and less mature than Hwang’s previous work. Still, the plays didn’t incite Rich’s normal ire as it was apparent he found this writer special.


Both works, I believe, show the writer at his best. Critics often have trouble with writers changing direction if they’re on a roll, but Hwang has admitted there have been few very good productions of the two plays. Sleeping Beauties features lines of aching (not to put too fine a point on it) beauty and a touching death scene. Also, an early scene of the two characters playing a game (not unlike Jenga) shows a writer with an extreme verbal dexterity and clearness of dramatic thought. Voice remains elusive and is more striking in performance than on paper, but it has one of the most effective climaxes in all of Hwang’s plays as the Woman dangles from a rope, surrounded by the sharp beauty of swirling flowers and the Man begins his first notes on the shakuhachi in the adjoining room. In 2002, Susan Hoffman directed a short film, Sound of a Voice, based on the play. Made through the American Film Institute's Directing Workshop for Women, it was written by Hoffman and Masanubo Takaynagi and starred Lane Nishikawa. The film premiered in 2003 at the Mill Valley Film Festival.


The short play As the Crow Flies, tells the story of Hwang’s grandmother’s African American cleaning woman who, it seems, had a split personality. Hwang wrote the play as an alternate companion to The Sound of a Voice for the famous Iranian director Reza Abdoh, who directed the two plays at the Los Angeles Theatre Center in 1986.


The charming story features two now archetypal Hwang characters in the role of an elderly, goind-deaf Chinese husband and wife. At this point, Hwang had mastered the dialect of American speech in the mouths of Chinese characters and many of Mrs. Chan and P. K.’s lines are cleverly constructed, not to mention blisteringly funny. The play is not often anthologized with the rest of Hwang’s work and is not mentioned by many Hwang chroniclers, but it has a magic all its own.


One thing Hwang had been impervious to at this point was a so-called “artistic failure.” It was at this point that Hwang left the Asian dialect altogether and wrote a play featuring all non-Asian characters. The result was a theatrical experiment that would free him a three year-long writers’ block. That play was Rich Relations, a comedy that returned to spiritual matters as its jumping-off point.

"Listen-- Can you hear it?A voice which carries hope from beyond the grave."

Set in the second living room of a large mansion in the hills above Los Angeles, the play concerns a college teacher escaping to his father’s house with his girlfriend, who happens to be his student. While there, Keith becomes the center of controversy as his aunt Barbara threatens to commit suicide unless he marries her introverted daughter—his first cousin—to improve the money flow between the families. The featured character is Hinson, Keith’s dad, who claims to have risen from the dead after a bout with tuberculosis and has since re-dedicated himself to God. Written with an eye toward Neil Simon, but still featuring moments of mysticism typical of a Hwang play, Rich Relations was more of a straight-on comedy than had been written previously.


The play was produced by the Second Stage Theatre and the director was the late Harry Kondoleon, who had had success Off-Broadway as a playwright. The cast assembled featured veteran comic actor Jerry Stiller as Hinson, the charming though never wildly successful Keith Szarabajka as Keith, and Hollywood darling Phoebe Cates, making her New York stage debut as Keith’s girlfriend Jill. Sadly, Stiller had to leave the show and was replaced by Joe Silver, who was thought by many to be miscast.


The play opened to universally negative reviews. Rich called it an “aberration that a talented writer had to get out of his system.” In spite of this, many consider Rich Relations important in that his greatest success—M. Butterfly—would largely feature Caucasian characters. I personally find Rich Relations very funny and its second act shift to mystical drama is as potent as any of Hwang’s second act interruptions from the otherworldly. The play was also important in the respect that its set featured several up-to-date technological equipment that were smashed up by the end of the evening. Rich noted it was probably the first play in New York to feature the C. D. as a prop. Rich Relations would go on to be produced with all Asian casts on the West Coast to acclaim.


The year Relations opened, Hwang had been asked by a friend if he had heard the story of a French diplomat named Bernard Boursicot and a Chinese opera star, Shi Pei Pu. Apparently, the two had carried on a twenty-year on-again/off-again affair and Boursicot was under the impression Shi had been a woman the entire time. He was wrong. The story was a scandalous headline in Europe. How could he not have known? Hwang had reasoned to himself that he must have thought he had found a “Madame Butterfly.” Hwang did not know much about the Giacomo Puccini opera Madama Butterfly, but a “butterfly” had become an Asian American term for a submissive “Oriental” woman bowing to a white man’s desires.


Hwang studied the opera, which had a libretto by Luigi Illicia and Giuseppe Giacosa and was adapted from the play by David Belasco and the novella by John Luther Long. The opera is, of course, one of the most performed operas all over the world, largely due to the unrivaled beauty of the music. Hwang saw a way to deconstruct the opera while telling a fictionalized account of the confused European man. Hwang had no interest in writing docudrama; he was writing theatrical metaphor that was going to expound upon national and international issues related to men and women, East and West. It would be the most talked-about play of the 1980s, an international success, a groundbreaking work for the Broadway stage, and would give Hwang a permanent spot in theatre history.


The play was originally conceived as a musical. But this notion was dropped early on due to what he perceived would be a lengthy process of collaboration. What was formulated was not merely a political diatribe, but an impassioned story of a tragic figure—his betrayals and deceptions as well as his sexual and racial misconceptions. The play was snagged by producer Stuart Ostrow (who had brought Pippin and 1776 to Broadway) and he sent the play to the formidable English director John Dexter, who thought it was the best play he had read in years. The play was soon on its way to Broadway and John Lithgow was chosen to play the lead role of René Gallimard. Actor B. D. Wong would go through a six-month audition for the role of Song Liling (Hwang’s name for Shi). Both actors would play roles that many would consider tour de forces and would be hallmarks of their stage careers.

"There is a vision of the Orient that I have..."

The play got a terrible review in Washington, D. C., but it found its home when it moved to Broadway in 1988. The play was an immediate success and would go on to run three years. In what would be Rich’s last review of a Hwang piece, he called the play “a visionary work that bridges the history and culture of two worlds” as well as “a brilliant play of ideas.” The play was universally praised and found its way to the West End with Sir Anthony Hopkins and then, all over the world. It won the Tony Award, the Outer Critics Circle Award, the John Gassner Award, and the Drama Desk Award. It was also Hwang’s first play to be a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.


M. Butterfly has often over-shadowed some of Hwang’s other plays. As with most American plays and playwrights (Arthur Miller with Death of a Salesman, Tennessee Williams with A Streetcar Named Desire), dramatists achieve some massive success and are expected to repeat the process over and over. Such a thing is impossible, and most writers become pigeon-holed by their most successful triumph and never move on. Even still, M. Butterfly propelled Hwang’s career in many different directions—the world of the musical theatre, film, television, and opera opened up to him. Hwang later created a new version of the text for its 2017 Broadway revival, directed by Julie Taymor.


Hwang’s next work for the theatre was a short play for the Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky. Bondage, like M. Butterfly, has its primary concern sexual and gender stereotypes. This was perfectly dramatized in the figure of two completely disguised, clad-in-leather figures—one a dominatrix and the other a man visiting an S & M parlor. The play had more of an eye to the ‘90s and, though serious in its implications, is one of Hwang’s funniest plays.

"Who knows? Anything's possible. This is the 1990s."

The cast featured B. D. Wong and Kathryn Layng, an actress who had appeared in M. Butterfly and became Hwang’s second wife. The actors were not credited in the program as their true race was not to be revealed until the end of the play, when you realize they are the races of the first couple they “role-play" (through the course of the play, they portray several stereotypical racial couplings). The play was directed by Oskar Eustis and was produced in tandem with future Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks’ short Devotees in the Garden of Love under the omnibus title Rites of Mating at the 1992 Humana Festival of New American Plays. Mel Gussow, in the New York Times wrote “the author of M. Butterfly proves to be a wry observer of contemporary mores and racial stereotypes.” In 2015, a short film version, written and directed by Esquire Juachem, was released and can be streamed online.


Seeking a sophomore run on the Great White Way, Hwang’s next full-length play was the ill-fated Face Value. Hwang had been involved in an intense battle within the New York theatre community over the casting of English actor Jonathan Pryce as a central Eurasian character in Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, and Richard Maltby, Jr,’s musical Miss Saigon. In fact, the musical’s Broadway opening had been postponed by Hwang’s (and other’s) protests. Hwang decided to respond to this incident with what he would call a “farce of mistaken racial identity.” This would be his second project with Broadway producer Ostrow and would showcase Hwang’s musical leanings. He would write music and lyrics for a phony show-within-the-show called The Real Manchu. In the play, Manchu opens at the "Imperialist Theatre" on Broadway leading to two out-of-work Asian American actors breaking in backstage intending to ruin the show—mostly because they had been rejected for parts.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I just can't go on with this play."

Hwang learned quickly that farce was a difficult theatrical medium. Veteran comic director Jerry Zaks had been brought into helm the project in Boston and then move it to Broadway. B. D. Wong returned to star, along with other well-respected comic actors like Jane Krakowski, Mark Linn-Baker, and Gina Torres. Rehearsals were hampered by the general confusion over whether the play would ever really work. The farcical moments were not sharp enough and the one scene that did work—a Pirandelloesque scene where the actual actors of the show stop the play to reflect on how stupid their characters are and how insensitive the play is—was not fully integrated into the rest of the show. Face Value opened in Boston in 1993 to disastrous reviews. The most damning criticism came from the Boston Globe’s Kevin Kelly, who wrote “it's not very funny, struggles to keep going, exhausts itself long before it's over and ends up sentimentalizing its own thought.” But D. C. had not stopped M. Butterfly, and with an eleventh-hour revision, Boston wasn’t seeming to stop Face Value. However, after eight previews, the producers announced the rather expensive show would not open. Though frustrated by the experience, Hwang would return to this experience in one of his greatest plays, Yellow Face.


Not to be discouraged, Hwang had a productive year in 1996 when he wrote another short for the Humana Festival—this time one of their “ten-minute plays.” The piece, Trying to Find Chinatown, has a simple set-up: an Asian American street musician confronts a Caucasian man who purports to be Asian and who is looking for his family’s home in Chinatown. The Asian man is offended while the white man reveals he was adopted by an Asian family and was therefore as much an Asian as the fiddle player.


The play furthered an idea brought up by Hwang in Face Value­—that race was rather fluid. This was quite far removed from the Hwang who had written those first angsty plays of Asian America.. The play premiered under the direction of Paul McCrane and has become a benchmark of Hwang’s drama—the title would be the title of his third collection of plays, printed in 1999. Trying to Find Chinatown was adapted into a short film written and directed by Jeff Liu in 2022 and premiered as a streaming event through the Signature Theater.


Hwang’s second ten-minute play of 1996 was Bang Kok, written to be a part of Pieces of the Quilt, Sean San José’s Magic Theatre experiment in San Francisco. The play, in a largely stylized fashion, features two guys in a bar—one of whom had contracted A. I. D. S. in Thailand from a prostitute, who interrupts the action as the set breaks apart and she tells her story.


That year would also see the world premiere of his next full-length play. At the age of ten, Hwang had collected the stories of his ancestors from his maternal grandmother, who he thought was dying (she lived many years after this). Hwang’s printing of his family history became an important factor in one of his most mature plays. The story of his grandfather breaking tradition, setting up with Western religion, and un-binding his daughter’s feet was captured in Golden Child, an almost classical meditation on family and change. The historical play was book-ended by a contemporary story of a man dealing with his identity in the wake of his new family.


The play premiered Off-Broadway under the direction of James Lapine, who had made a name for himself in the commercial theatre writing and directing the Stephen Sondheim musicals Sunday in the Park with George, Into the Woods, and Passion. The original version of Golden Child was deemed a bit long and loose, but Lapine’s direction gave it grace and beauty. Vincent Canby in the New York Times wrote "There is a quiet, though highly theatrical, intelligence at work in Golden Child...A play composed of many small moments of grace, which are not often seen on our stages." The production won Hwang his second Obie Award for Best Play.

"Some people were not created for change. Their minds are not large enough, their souls insufficiently ruthless."

Hwang took a year to continue working on the piece. Productions occurred in California and Singapore before Hwang and Lapine felt like they had finely honed the play. With more streamlined bookends and bringing the un-binding of the feet onstage, Golden Child became a diamond from the rough. The play opened on Broadway in 1998, making it Hwang’s return after a decade away from New York. The play featured Randall Duk Kim, Ming-Na Wen, Jodi Long, and a find in the newcomer Julyana Soelistyo, who wowed audiences with her portrayal of the “Golden Child,” Hwang’s grandmother.


Reviews were, overall, very encouraging. Clive Barnes in the New York Post wrote that it was “[a] wonderfully provocative play, showing a family torn apart and a civilization in flux. Polished and truly rewarding—Hwang's most sophisticated play so far.” And Mark Harris in Entertainment Weekly declared it “[a]n engaging, deeply intelligent meditation on the rewards and bitter costs of freedom and individuality.” Ultimately, the play gave Hwang his second Tony nomination, but as New York audiences had already seen the play, they did not flock to the Longacre Theatre and the play closed after a relatively short run. Golden Child remains, particularly in the individual scenes with the First, Second, and Third Wives, an exceptionally powerful play. Frank Rich maintained that it was his favorite play since he had retired from the Times in the early 1990s.


Eustis’ collaboration on Bondage had been successful and he invited Hwang to serve for a time as the Playwright-in-Residence at the Trinity Repertory Theatre in Providence, Rhode Island. Eustis paired Hwang with the Swiss director Stephan Müller and the two prepared a new adaptation of Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen’s classical drama Peer Gynt. Gynt has long been both a favorite and a challenge for theatre companies, with few able to perform the original piece as written.

"Now, nothing can stop me from going into the world-- and being Myself."

The intent of the project was to bring Hwang’s characteristic humor to the piece and achieve a workable length. The adaptation inserts contemporary references and rock songs into the classic tale. It also featured modernized language to tell the story of the “to-thine-own-self-be-true” wanderer. The production ran in 1998 at Trinity and was the first of only two non-musical play adaptations for Hwang. William K. Gale wrote in the Providence Journal that the adaptation was “scathingly funny.”


Hwang's last play of the '90s was one short enough to be printed on the back of a tee-shirt! For the 1999 Humana Festival, he and other major writers such as Wendy Wasserstein, Mac Wellman, and Tony Kushner contributed to "The T-Shirt Plays," printed on the back of souvenir shirts sold in the lobby. Merchandising was Hwang's wry, sardonic look at Hollywood's use of marketing and could be read a humorous take on the "project" itself.


In the early part of the twenty-first century, Asian-American playwright Chay Yew and the director Lisa Peterson, under direction from the Ma-Yi theatre company, enlisted several playwrights to contribute ten-minute pieces for an evening of plays on the Asian American experience. Hwang’s contribution to this project, Jade Flowerpots and Bound Feet, is a play about a Caucasian woman who tries to pass herself off as Asian to sell a book of fiction as a memoir. The play ends on a macabre note as the publisher takes blood from the woman to get proof of her ancestry. The Square, the collective title of all the plays, premiered Off-Broadway in 2001 under the direction of Peterson and received positive notices. Bruce Weber in the New York Times specifically pointed to Hwang’s piece, calling it “an arch spoof of intellectual predisposition and pretension.” The play was published in the 2004 edition of Best Ten-Minute Plays for Two Actors by Smith and Kraus.

"The inter-connectedness of all things..."

In 2004, Hwang wrote a children’s piece commissioned by the famous Seattle Children’s Theatre. Czech writer Peter Sis had written a semi-autobiographical children’s book telling the story of a young boy awaiting his father’s return from travels in Tibet. The book was critically lauded, and Hwang was thought the perfect writer to translate and expand the piece into a full-length play for young audiences. Opera director Francesca Zambello staged the piece. Although some critics were skeptical of Hwang’s loose adaptation, Joe Adcock in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer wrote, “this big, bold Red Box is bursting with possibilities.”


In 2007, another Hwang one act was produced as a part of the night of new works Ten. The show premiered at the Public Theatre, which had set Hwang off on his career over twenty years previous. Lloyd Suh directed Hwang’s contribution, The Great Helmsman, an uproarious play where the wives of Mao Zedong have a verbal sparring match as to who is the best wife of the notoriously dangerous leader of the Cultural Revolution. Smith & Kraus included it in their collection 2007: The Best Ten-Minute Plays for Three or More Actors.

"And I go back to work, searching for my own face."

A month later, the Mark Taper Forum, in association with East West Players, premiered Yellow Face, in some ways a major departure from Hwang’s previous work while still retaining his flair for crackling comic dialogue amid serious themes of identity. Long haunted by the failure of Face Value, Hwang took the experience and turned it on its head. Inserting himself as the lead character, DHH, he dramatized his involvement with the Miss Saigon protests and his attempt to get Face Value to Broadway. Going a step farther, Hwang invented a fictional story that musses even further dogmatic notions of race and identity. In the play, DHH casts (unintentionally) a white actor in the lead Asian American role in Face Value, leading to a double debacle for the struggling writer. There are also touching scenes between DHH and his real-life father Henry Yuan Hwang. Yellow Face opened Off-Broadway the following year under the direction of Leigh Silverman and featured Hoon Lee and Noah Bean in the lead roles. The play garnered his third Obie Award for Best Play and his second time as a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Yellow Face has gone onto be produced internationally as well as being adapted into a two-part film uploaded to YouTube, directed by Leff Liu and featuring Sab Shimono.

"I'm hangin' out with my family."

Another night of ten-minute plays, The DNA Trail: A Genealogy of Short Plays about Ancestry, Identity, and Confusions, conceived by Jamil Khoury, opened under the auspices of the Silk Road Theatre Project in Chicago, Illinois on March 8, 2010. Produced in association with the Goodman Theatre, at the historic Chicago Temple Building, Hwang offered A Very DNA Reunion, a play that dealt with the now ubiquitous subject of the imprecise, but fascinating science of DNA. The play was directed by Steve Scott.

"There, in black and white, you can see we really don't understand each other too well."

His next full-length success also originated in Chicago, winning the Joseph Jefferson Award for Best New Work. Chinglish, a play inspired by Hwang's trip to China where he noticed the often absurd translations from Chinese to English that appear on signs ("Handicapped Restroom" becomes "Deformed Man's Toilet," for example). In the play, a Westerner, who it is later revealed worked for Enron, attempts to save his family's signage business by offering to correct these problems in a relatively small Chinese province (meaning a population of six million). In trying to navigate the complicated world of Chinese business relations (and with little help from the translators), he becomes entangled in an affair with the privince's Vice Minister of Culture. A seriocomic play partly about the pawns one uses in the world of business, it has continued to delight audiences in multiple productions since. Produced first as the Goodman Theatre, and again directed by Silverman, the play had its Broadway premiere at the Longacre in 2011, when it was nominated for the Drama Desk Award.

"The art of fighting without fighting."

Hwang’s most recent full-length play is Kung Fu, a play that combines dance, Chinese opera, and martial arts to tell the story of the legend Bruce Lee. The play premiered as part of an entire season of Hwang’s works (including revivals of Golden Child and The Dance and the Railroad) at the famed Signature Theatre in New York in 2014, directed once again by Silverman. The same year saw his most recent one-act, the Biblical-themed Cain and Abel. Ed Sylvanus Iskandar commissioned four dozen playwrights for a modern take on the medieval Mystery plays. Including contributions by Lucas Hnath, Craig Lucas, Dael Oerlandersmith, and José Rivera, The Mysteries premiered at the Flea Theater Off-Broadway.


David Henry Hwang is a writer who always challenges the audience. He opened the eyes of many to the struggles of Asian America. He has stood as a respected figure in the Asian community for his works that explore diversity, friction, and harmony among all peoples of this experimental country. In his honor, the East West Players christened their most recently built main stage the David Henry Hwang Theatre.


Next week, David’s adventures on musical stages…

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Updated: May 19, 2023


Thích Quảng Đức

I actually believe I first saw film footage of another monk setting himself on fire before I had even heard of Thích Quảng Đức, the Vietnamese Buddhist who did the same act on June 11, 1963, protesting the minority Catholic President’s treatment of Buddhists in South Vietnam in the early days of the war, before American troops were sent.


But I am certain the famous photograph by Malcolm Browne was in one of our high school textbooks, for which I will always be hostile. There is something about images of violence—and suicide, rightly or wrongly, has always seemed to me to be homicide one commits on oneself—that repel me. Of course, such images are meant to repel. Or one should be repellant. But images like that haunt me in the wee hours and, for that, I remain ungrateful.


Before the act


Recently, I finished a new play called There Will Always Be a Fire, a one-act of eight scenes on the events of Thích’s “martyrdom.” Obviously, no violence appears on the stage and Mahayana Buddhism is about as far removed from my life experience as Ancient Greek, so I had to concentrate on the conflict that spurned his self-immolation.


Thích was protesting (again) not the war itself, but Ngô Đình Diệm’s persecution of Buddhists while he was President of South Vietnam. Ngô was a Catholic in a majority Buddhist nation. Like certain Catholics of old, he forced conversions, only gave military promotions to fellow Catholics, and in some instances, refused to allow Buddhists to fly their flags (protests of which led to people being gunned down in the streets).

Ngô Đình Diệm

Eventually, Diệm and his brother Đình Nhu, were murdered in a coup organized by the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN). In fact, the coup had been officially authorized by President John F. Kennedy, though his plans were for the Ngôs to go into exile. Their assassination was the second of Kennedy’s horrific encounters with the war he foolishly escalated. Earlier in the year, upon seeing Browne’s image of Thích’s self-immolation he exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” and remarked, “no news picture in history has generated so much emotion around the world.”


At first, I imagined the work I would create would be a novella with spare, austere writing—an imagistic piece describing Thích’s day—riding in the blue sedan, using his seniority against a younger monk who wished to perform the act himself, and (eventually) lighting and dropping the match that caused the end of his life.


In the end, Thích’s suicide did bring attention to an important problem—the persecution of any religious sect is something, at least in America, we have had no tolerance for (with notable exceptions I shan’t explore here). But there was a lot more to explore—a lot of dramatic coincidences that could be formed into a play. For example, Ngô and Kennedy both were Catholics, the main differences being one had flawed domestic policies and the other flawed foreign policies (to put it mildly).


Thoughts such as these led to quite a different piece of writing on my part. I used the form I know best—the stage play—to offer theatrical snapshots of Thích’s journey to a busy intersection in front of the Cambodian embassy in Saigon along with the after effect of the Ngôs murders, and Kennedy’s reaction. But those events alone wouldn’t make a play.

The religion on the other side of the world

It was the comparing/contrasting of East and West, Buddhism and Catholicism, peace and war that ultimately fueled the play I did write. To explore some of these larger themes, I added a fictional story about a Catholic Priest attempting to comfort a family after losing their son in Vietnam three years after Thích’s protest when Americans were finally on the ground in Southeast Asia and Kennedy was long gone. So, the play turned out to be a panoply of scenes—set in Saigon, South Vietnam and Washington, D. C. in 1963 and Boston, Massachusetts in 1966.


The play made me look frankly at issues of faith, religion, suicide, and martyrdom. At the end of the day, my personal faith tradition is a peaceful one. We have fought in the past, but also produced conscientious objectors and have, in recent years, promoted nonviolence as a part of our mission of peace and reconciliation. In other words, we have had too many martyrs and need of no more.


And yet people have not stopped killing themselves for causes. Even before Thích’s self-immolation, Buddhists had performed that act in times of strife. As in all faiths, suicide is frowned upon in Buddhism, but those who choose the act are not condemned for it. It is quite different in Christianity where most traditional churches proclaim those who commit it are doomed to Hell, while others do their best to comfort the families left behind and know that Heaven/Hell and judgment in general is left to a higher power.


As a matter of fact, Christianity has not been without its own sects who’ve promoted suicide. One early sect believed if we were to be happier in Heaven, it might be a way to get there faster. Other sects prevailed against such foolish notions (this was before even the oldest still-extant Orthodox churches) and suicide has remained, in the West, a taboo. Nevertheless, Christians have never been without martyrs. Aside from being thrown to the lions, there were many Christians trussed up and used as oil lamps for Roman streets in the nighttime.


So, martyrdom is common to Western and Eastern religions, but martyrdom in the form of suicide will never be something I can fully wrap my head around. I acknowledge, as a Westerner, I can never fully understand the Eastern perspective on this.

A scene from LOVE SUICIDE (2004)

I dealt with Eastern “acceptance” of suicide directly in a play from 2004, Love Suicide. My junior project at Bennington College, it was an experimental adaptation of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s The Love Suicides at Sonezaki, a famous Bunraku (puppet) play. Chikamatsu wrote in a time where double suicides were common among lovers of different classes who could not marry, but believed they would live in the afterlife as couples. Chikamatsu took such ripped-from-the-headlines stories and theatricalized them, writing some of Japan’s great masterpieces of dramatic literature, including The Love Suicides at Amijima. Unfortunately, these plays eventually had to be banned for a time because the number of double suicides went up with it being sensationalized (and, therefore, disseminated to the wider public).


When I first learned of Chikamatsu's plays, I was struck by the words “love” and “suicide” being so close together in the title. At the time, I was a hopeless romantic and such an idea horrified me. Over the years, the inherent violence that can occur with people in rapturous/over-passionate love has made, if not more sense, more comprehendible. After all, the spousal abuse among us—perpetuated by men and women equally (women lead in verbal abuse rather than physical)—is proof that the closeness which occurs within couples can have disastrous consequences given the heat of passion.


So, I found myself writing again about suicide in the East. One of Chikamatsu’s translators, Donald E. Keene, commented that Japan had the unenviable reputation of being a place where suicide was seen as something noble. I can’t think of anything sadder, but it is not my place to judge.


The experience of writing Fire ended up being an uplifting thing. In a way, it wrote itself. So much fire imagery—from lit peace candles to the gasoline-fuelled death of Thích to the fires of Hell so much feared by the character of the Priest—the themes were there, waiting for a writer to attempt it.

The dreamer

I’m not sure I’ve said anything here about “martyrdom,” and I have even less to say regarding suicide, but I am certainly someone who only agrees partly with John Lennon’s (musically) beautiful and (lyrically) juvenile song “Imagine.” “Imagine there’s no countries/It isn’t hard to do/Nothing to kill or die for,” I’m with him there. Of course, he pins the whole concept of killing and dying on religion in the next line. He has already absconded with Heaven and Hell in the first verse, but I’m sort of with that in the sense that those concepts, again, are fluid among believers and only rigidly interpreted by fundamentalists (who espouse no interpretation of Scripture at all—a curious, mostly 19th century invention). Still, Heaven is an ironic thing to dismiss as the world Lennon describes is exactly the kind of New Jerusalem or Zion that mainline Christians yearn for—a Heaven on Earth.


Fire was not the play I wanted to write. I had been telling folks I wanted to write more plays about joy, a concept with which I’m becoming familiar as I try to let my worries go. But the world we find ourselves in has regressed to a world where people kill at random, people broken (I think) by our divided nation. An artist must respond to the world in which they live. Or, at the very least, not ignore it.


The main thrust of my play is the character of The Photographer. In reality, Malcolm Browne was thinking of technical things when he took the pictures of the self-immolation—aperture, whether he had enough film stock, etc. I couldn’t write a character like that, so I suppose my character stands in for me, a man affected by the fires we start and the fires we don’t start but still engulf us. He tries, as I often do, to remain aloof to such horrors. But, since his character is talking as a ghost (he died in 2012) looking back at the past, he compares the fires of the past to the burning cities we have now and the (mostly) fruitless protests of our present age. In the end, like me, he is moved by people’s desire to create change, but longs for a day when the killing—especially the self-killing—will stop.


There may be no joy in these thoughts, but I don’t think the play or I am without hope either. We have to believe there is something that can be done, even if so much of what people are trying to do now to make the world better will certainly make it worse. “There will always be a fire,” the Photographer says near the end of the play, but then adds, sadly, “Then again, I suppose there is also someone will burn.” There are vulnerable people out there who need protection and any way to help them without more violence should be our goal.

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Updated: Apr 29, 2023

On March 28, 1997, I sat down at my desk and wrote a one act play. It wasn’t the first play I wrote exactly, but it was the first one to look and feel like a play. Although it might have been 12-16 typed-out pages (and not in manuscript format—what was that?), it understood something about theatrical time, it had some jokes that landed, and it had a melodramatic plot which made zero sense. I wrote it probably in a four- or five-hour heated rush. It was magical to wake up the next morning with this new thing saved on the computer that had not been there previous.


I’ve always remembered the date I became a playwright and, since this is my 26th year writing the darned things (about fifty of which I’ve completed), I thought I could look back now with some utility to see if there is something I’ve learned from the practice of sitting at a table and writing a play. What I’ve taken away from the whole thing is the table itself, for I realized a long time ago that a well-wrought table is a very good metaphor for a play.


Any playwright worth their salt has paid attention to the word “playwright.” “Wright” is related to the shipwright, the wheelwright, the cartwright. We are makers of plays rather than writers of them. Playwriting is anything but spilling your emotions on the page. Plays are wrought from you.

We do not expect a lot from a table in our life. As a college student in a dormitory, you are lucky to have one. As a person with no money and a first home, the table that was already there or one passed on from a family member will suffice. However, if you are an adult (and are presumably picky about your tables), there are a few things you should expect.


You can expect your table, at the very least, to be made of firm, attractive wood and for it to be stable. The stable table prevents food spillage and is there to serve the purpose of elevating the food from the floor, allowing you to comfortably sit while you eat. We take tables for granted, but we expect them to be well-made.


A play is a well-designed, well-crafted, four-legged table. The four legs of which are 1) Character, 2) Plot, 3) Action, and 4) Dialogue. The tabletop is the premise. The nails that hold this table together is Theme.


This table can be made of oak, gopher wood, pine, or balsa wood. This is to say that, when you create your play, it doesn’t have to follow a formula; it doesn’t matter what kind of wood you use if you do a good job of keeping the table level, standing, and performing its function. William Shakespeare’s plays may be fine oak. Samuel Beckett’s, rough cordwood.


So, here are a few bullet-points I’ve learned about each element that makes up our “table.”


Character


*If one begins with character, it is possible they have set themselves up for potential failure. We have often seen the folly of the playwright who allows vivid characters to take over the script to the extent that other elements are allowed to warp. See Tennessee Williams’ The Night of the Iguana. Nodding to Luigi Pirandello, those are characters in search not of an author, but a story.

Luigi Pirandello, in search of a new play.

*Characters do not exist. They are part extension (of yourself) and part invention.


*The over-concentration on a character in the process of writing a play is a lot like only using eggs to bake a cake. Neglect the flour, etc. and you lose the real ingredients that provide the consistency.


*If the dramatist creates characters for which we sincerely feel, they have completed a good part of the full illusion (just not all).


*Characters do not exist outside of the plays for which they are created. It is amusing and can be exciting to create the background stories for each character one invents—to imagine their father, their Christening, and their “first time.” But, to fashion oneself toward the over-construction of character is to waste a lot of time that could be spent writing more plays.


*If a character is honest (or, better yet, dishonest), if they do not deny their humanity (or if they deny it vehemently), if they are African American, Caucasian, female, male, or cross-eyed, they can have resonance with all of us. Even a complete concoction—such as Pozzo in Waiting for Godot—can have resonance. If a bad character is created by a playwright, it would have to be because they have tried to do so. We are all human. We have never been anything else. If a character does not have resonance to humanity, the playwright has been denying humanity.


Plot


Recent revival of WAITING FOR GODOT.

*Plot can be anything. It can be a progressive series of events that occur linearly (as in most of Shakespeare’s plays) or it can be a retrogressive unraveling of events that occurred previously (as in Henrik Ibsen’s). It can be connected to the structure of music as in August Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata. It can be repetitive as in Beckett’s Godot. It can go anywhere and nowhere. And it does not have to be the Inciting Incident-Rising Action-Climax-Denouement contraption that we are all taught in high school.


*It is important to note how connected structure and plotting are, yet they are not always the same thing. The structure of a play consists of the many elements in their working order. Presumably (and hopefully), a play’s structure should not work without all its parts. The plot is the schematic process of the events of the play. In the end, one may not even be conscious of the difference structure and plot take in the play one writes, but if the playwright is conscious of the piece itself (and they shouldn’t write it if they’re not), the structure may even reveal itself to them after a first draft. From that point, they could simply rewrite with the notion that they always knew that was the structure. After all, no one else must know.


*All great drama is about exposing lies. In a way, the plot can write itself—tell the lies, believe the lies, confront the lies, expunge the lies. Look at Oedipus Tyrranos.


Action


*The most misunderstood and elusive aspect of playwriting is action. But it can be understood if one remembers this maxim: Without action, a character is only a figment of your imagination with a name.


Thornton Wilder at work. Novel or play? He could do both with great utility. Rare.

*Novels and epic poems can have dialogue, characters, theme, story, plot, structure, etc. The action of such characters, however, can be given, understood, or explained. Thornton Wilder set up the difference in this way: “The novel is a past reported in the present. On the stage it is always now. This confers upon the action an increased vitality which the novelist longs in vain to incorporate into his work.”


*Action is something the character is capable of when the stakes are high and the only thing in the way is everything important to them.


*Characters for the theatre cannot be created successfully if they do not hold potential for change. Human beings have the potential for change, but we often wait on Fate or God or politics to somehow cure everything so our potential cannot ever be exerted/realized because we are afraid to fail. Drama has a responsibility to imagine characters having this potential and are willing to act upon principle or, at the very least, to act when all other options have been exhausted.


*We do not have to move in this life. Rather, we do not have to analyze our movement. After we have settled into what becomes our lives—jobs, relationships, etc.—we might only work to make it very safely into the grave without embarrassing ourselves. Such characters do not belong in plays unless this action of trying not to rock the boat can manifest itself into conflict.


*Our potential desire/ability to move and how that is tied up in our over-thinking brains, is part of what separates us from other living creatures. We are not born into nature, but into formed civilizations. We discover our nature rather late, and instincts are impeded upon by the enculturation of societal norms. The dramatist, once they recall their nature, must fight this. And it is enough reason to continue to hone our sense of action as we craft plays.


Dialogue


*The young playwright, the beginning playwright, the adolescent composing their first sketches of juvenilia will undoubtedly fall under the misconception that a play is all about dialogue. They will try to come up with witty phrases in their dialogue that try to explain a situation. If they do not begin to pay attention to how plays work, they may sink into the delusion that such drivel as witty dialogue alone is playwriting.

Henrik Ibsen. A modern man, still, even with those whiskers.

*If the way Ibsen and Eugene O’Neill wrote dialogue is not always as languid and “pretty” as the way Shakespeare wrote it, the important thing to remember is that their lines do serve a purpose (and that’s the goal). After all, sometimes a car will still start even if there is a delay owing to a small technical problem. That is not to say that one should not try to create dialogue that also achieves some beauty. But a play that is structurally sound with clunky words is better than one built on a foundation of sand with lines that make you weep. If you were to cry at such lines, it would only be because of their beauty, not because of their meaning.


*Aesthetic beauty is not what should come from dialogue. What one may instead wish for is dialogue that is playable to the actor. If the dialogue is playable, the actor enjoys the challenges of finding the way to fully express the words.


*No one can be taught what playable dialogue is or how you can discover it. It is best learned by active listening to the words in the mouths of actors—either at informal or formal readings or in performance. In the theater itself they will learn how the words echo from the stage to the audience. The playwright who does not familiarize themselves with the job and responsibility of acting will not go far in their search for writing better dialogue.


*Playability is not the only issue. The dialogue can be playable without being truly good. If dialogue does not further the action of the play, it is useless.


*Dialogue should reveal information about the character that can and cannot be played.


*Dialogue is not something to stress over. The language your characters use will be dependent on who those characters are and in what situations. The language will also change once an actor in rehearsal proves or disproves the playability of your lines. After these principles are in place, it can be used as a sounding-board for the larger themes being broken down in the piece. But, if this is a usage, it should never be allowed to speak for the author, but for the character. Plays are not your sermons, and they should never be used as such.


Theme/Premise


Lajos Egri's THE ART OF DRAMATIC WRITING should be on your reading list.

*The theme of the play should connect everything else in the play together. In this regard, it dictates structure to an extent. A premise, as Lajos Egri reminded us, is an action-oriented thumb nail sketch of a play.


*Think of the play as our bodies in a genetic sense. The theme is the DNA. When one develops as a dramatist, the theme is with you generally from your first premonition of a play. If the playwright is new, they may be able to write even full-length scripts which are not germane to a single thematic thread.


*In the beginning, the theme should be with the premise, the premise with the theme. If the writer is willing to be aware and awake, they can begin to devise the full arc of the play from these two notions. All that is left is the application of these materials in terms of character, plot, action, and dialogue.


Conclusion


Why would anyone want to write a play? It is a legitimate enough question, but easier to ask than answer. The economics are grim and that may be reason enough to question. The truth is that if one is incomplete unless they engage in the act of writing plays then they ought not be doing it—and they probably wouldn’t ask a question like that in the first place. But, in case you have queried so, let me attempt to locate the answer.


Drama inevitably pulls certain people to it like nails to a magnet. Those who become accomplished dramatists often have an interest in the spoken word and not the written one. For example, Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood can be a striking evening of theatre and a marvelous work of poetry. But it isn’t a play. While Thomas might have been actively engaged in how the listener takes in a word rather than how they peer at it from above the page’s texture, he was not as interested in the event of a theatre story as are other dramatists.


One must understand playwrights are grateful and proud when they acknowledge they have written something pretty, but unless it is woven into the fabric of an action-driven, character-infused drama, the playwright will do without it. Some highly acclaimed playwrights simply do not enjoy the act of proofreading manuscripts of their work when it goes into publication. While this quirk should be avoided (since the printed script is proof of the notion that the dramatist truly leaves something behind that will outlast them—and all writers write to be immortal), it does makes sense because the way a word appears on the page is not really what a playwright is after.


Also, the dramatist is formally interested in conflict and human relationships. This does not mean that the playwright craves conflict in their daily personal lives. In fact, the playwright should seek out the most sober, calm life they can (their plays will be better for it). But a character one creates is only as good as the journey they venture on—including the hills and valleys of that trail.


If one has been called to the drama, they have been called to one of the oldest, most elemental acts of the human being’s attempt at understanding this thing called life. Interviewed for Eugene O’Neill: A Documentary Film, the critic and author Edward L. Shaughnessy reminded us:


“These are the age-old questions of the theater itself: Who am I? And where do I come from? And what is my part in—do I have a part in—my own fate? Or am I simply a checker on the board being moved around? Do I belong to anything? To anyone? To whom do I belong now? To God, who seems to be abandoning me?”

If these questions do not fuel your interest, then you might not be a playwright.


Eugene O'Neill, our first American Master.

Finally, you must remember, at various times in history, playwrights have been warriors (as was Aeschylus), priests (as was Sophokles), philosophers (as were Schiller, Camus, and Sartre), and leaders of nations (as was Havel). They began as choreographers, singers, and dancers (as in Athenian tragedy) and eventually became movers and shakers in world literature (as in the time of Shaw and Beckett). The subjects to which playwrights have always aspired have been those of the Cosmos; the functions in which they have operated and still operate were/are imperative. One should not don the shoes of such great people lightly. I merely wear the slippers, but I'm going to keep trudging onward.

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