“[caged, wanting to escape]”

Because of the title, I thought this book would be like one of O’Henry’s short stories. Instead, surprisingly, it has the same desperation of Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun. But don’t get me wrong though, they speak of quite different themes. Miller is truly a genius.

Here’s the thing: stories written by American authors that challenge the myth of the American Dream often don’t resonate with me, at least not as much as I expect they’re intended to. There’s a cultural disconnect. That fairytale isn’t entrenched in my culture and we don’t really have an equivalent that inspires that same fanatic hope. I haven’t been fed this narrative since birth, I haven’t internalised its message, I have no attachment to it and what it represents. Refutation of a belief I do not hold doesn’t shock me, especially when I find that belief to be, frankly, obvious bullshit. To be fair, Death of a Salesman was written for theatre-going audiences in New York in the 1940s, not some anticapitalist Brit reading the script in book form more than seventy years later.

The titular salesman, Willy Loman, is painfully sympathetic and unsympathetic. He’s a deeply flawed individual who still has value simply by virtue of being human. That’s the idea, at least, but without an actor’s charisma to sell the character, to make me care about him, he’s a little too unpleasant for my liking. Shifting moral standards have no doubt shifted perspectives on Willy. For example, him threatening to beat his kids may have been seen as harsh back in the day but now most people would call that outright abusive. It makes it hard to root for him, though I understand it’s not supposed to be easy to.

Perhaps if I’d seen Death of a Salesman performed instead of reading the script I’d have had a more profound experience. As it stands, I can give a noncommittal shrug and confess it said what Miller wanted it to say but it didn’t speak to me.