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Ashes to ashes:Harold Pinter

What is real and what is unreal?

In a state of delirium, pumped up with medication, laid up in bed, swathed in white from a lightbulb that hurts the eyes, I can see clearly. I can see the reality of the unreal, the unreality of the real. A cliché would refer to it as truth being stranger than fiction.

You said in art there was no difference between the true and the false. Both could co-exist. But, you emphasised, as a citizen one must ask what is true and what is false.

How many times have we seen truth falsified and how often has falsehood been repeated to let each layer get calcified as truth?

I am lying down here and reading. Weapons are ready in little minds more lethal than guns. They are talking; they can only talk.

As you once pointed out, we too will have a Tony Blair moment with a child that survives and a caption that says 'grateful'. What are we grateful for?

We are grateful when those wielding arms declare a ceasefire. We are grateful when war-mongers decide it's time for peace. We are grateful for being alive among the dead. We don't even know we have gone through death in the mortuaries that our souls have become.
I am tired and dizzy. You are gone. It feels the same.

Let me switch off the white light and utter the words that will make me feel I am not alone: Talk to me, Harry.