No one in the middle of being in love ever sat down to write a love
story. It's only after the belongings are sorted and the shirts
returned that the pencils are sharpened and the notebooks opened.
So, in a serious way, love stories are never love stories. Love is
their inspiration, yes, but the end of love is the reason for their
existence. This is a problem. It proposes anti-journeys where we
saw only journeys, directs things toward a new negative we hadn't
intended. The Flu Season tries to be a love story, anyway. It has a
strategy. The play revels in it's ambivalence, lives in fits and
starts, and derives a flailing energy from its doubts about itself.
But these come at a price, which is paid by the characters in the
play. A kind of clarity finally comes. In the end, is the end.
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