WHAT I WILL BE TELLING about A Fantasy Play is not necessarily since we've seen it here, 1 but as I've seriously considered it before, throughout the mind's eye, having some regret of which, even though I'd long been tempted to stage it, for one reason or other—perhaps the preventing prospect—I in no way came to help perform that. That that is getting interest nowadays, and not really simply in this case, may be telling you something, although as using their Swedenborgian intimations, triplex ensemble, occulted symbols, the “round bored holes together with a clover leaf around the front door, ”2 the particular visual warp of the mirrored refractions or, together with certain shifts and reversals of eye-sight, recessions connected with visual appeal in a sort associated with video camera obscura—the dark photograph of a cloud muting this dim picture of the tower—we may not end up being sure what it is. As well as, maybe, appallingly, merely too sure, so substantially so that a few psychic level we may possibly want we didn't realize, just like the Quarantine Master at the Dire Straits who wants he could forget (238). Of course, if, for Strindberg, precisely what there seemed to be to be recognized came in many estimate from the vicissitudes in the unconscious, with the libidinal content material transformed into phallic aconites and vulvous grottos, or a body organ turning into Fingal's Give, there is usually also the raw self-evidence, the banality, brutality, inequitably unc