Inspiration is a rare and flighty bird. Most of us never catch a glimpse of it. Very occasionally it settles down helpfully in the corner, cawing advice to artists as they pile up those bodies of work on which their hopes of immortality rest. More usually--and this was the case with Arthur Miller--it touches down briefly, then darts away. The artist may catch tantalizing sight of the creature as he walks on through the woods, but it never again perches long on his shoulder.
It was in the spring of 1947 that the 31-year-old Arthur Miller heard the sweetest--and most profound--birdsong...
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