"Such a cold winter/ With scenes as slow as..."

RIP Harold Pinter, friend to Samuel Beckett and Quentin Crisp, greatest English playwrite of the twentieth century, opponent of imperialism and force majeure. It is common in these circumstances to come up with some apt quopte from the recently deceased autho, but the extraordinary thing about Pinter's writing is that, unlike such a purported minimalist like Beckett, is that there simply are no purple passages to quote from to attach a spurious profundity to one's discourse. Pinter charted the abstract movement of forces (power, desire, language), especially attuned to their use and abuse, their potential for domination and violence. Now he is silent.