"I know your type," says the blond to the black on the subway. Her type vacilates: death, Lilith, shadow, anima, serial killer. She talks about his manhood and he about the corporate godhead. They eat apples. Others on the train fail to react, even when she stabs him, until she screams, "Get this man off me!"
At the end of Sartre's play No Exit in which hell is other people, the door to the eternal room is revealed to be open. Still nobody can leave. Baraka shows us that a dyad is as full of Pinteresque menace as Sartre's triad naked as earthworms. We are witnesses to murder and seduction and madness. The train keeps right on in Wright's underground.
At the end of Sartre's play No Exit in which hell is other people, the door to the eternal room is revealed to be open. Still nobody can leave. Baraka shows us that a dyad is as full of Pinteresque menace as Sartre's triad naked as earthworms. We are witnesses to murder and seduction and madness. The train keeps right on in Wright's underground.
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