There are 112 essays on as many playwrights in my book, of which only nine are on balance negative. Those nine all figure in the ranks of those who write about life. There is of course an honourable tradition of playwrights who write about life, who promote themselves, and draw the praise of today, if not tomorrow. The river that bears Euripides, Ben Jonson and Shaw is not a bad one to risk your brand-new canoe in, even if others risk the naked night swim in the rougher river that bore Sophocles and Shakespeare and Chekhov. Discursive, digressive, prismatic work has a place, of course.
Life has another.
But, no matter, negative thoughts aside, there were and are too many truly great new writers to list. The richness, the range, the fancy, the heart and the soul that have been on view have been breathtaking. If the energy has ebbed a little of late, no doubt it will return again soon. It has a newly politicised world to respond to now. And if the results build on the platform of what has been achieved already, we are in for treats.