The greatest playwright in U.S. history died last week. The scene of his death, as depressing as any in his 47 plays, was a Boston hotel, where he had been living for the past two years, too sick to write. By his bedside, when a final attack of pneumonia felled him, were his doctor, a nurse, and his third wife, with whom he had quarreled bitterly (two years ago he unsuccessfully tried to have her committed to a mental hospital). .His children were dead or far away. His name, once a clarion call, threatened to be drowned out by the tinny...
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