I know the man who cleans my Workshop office. I know all about his cockatiel’s game of taking this fellow’s cell-phone from his pocket during naps. The bird loves to poke phone buttons, trying to make sounds, all while chewing off the cell’s plastic numerals. We are sometimes so busy inventing clever issues and synthetic characters, we miss the person who all but shares our office. Chekhov insists that, on and off the page, no one must ever be humiliated.
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