In Hollywood, Clifford Odets pounded his coffee table with his fist. He jumped up, paced, and pulled at his greying and thinning but still curly hair. His bushy eyebrows rose dramatically to a point and formed a triangle with eyes that flashed fire and looked as if they might come bulleting out through the lenses of his hornrimmed glasses. He was all but shouting: "In the '30s, with all the scrabbling and pain, people had hard, hermetic identities. They knew where they were going. Today the American people don't know who they are or where they're going."
Clifford Odets knows...
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