Please write a substantial paragraph (no fewer than seven or eight sentences) in response to each of the following questions.

Death of a Salesman

Arthur Miller was born in New York City to a prosperous family whose fortunes were ruined by the Depression, a circumstance that would shape his po liti cal outlook and imbue him with a deep sense of social responsibility. Miller studied history, economics, and journalism at the University of Michigan, began writing plays, and joined the Federal Theater Project, a proving ground for some of the best playwrights of the period. He had his fi rst Broadway success, All My Sons, in 1947, followed two years later by his Pulitzer Prize– winning masterpiece, Death of a Salesman. In 1953, against the backdrop of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s anti- Communist “witch- hunts,” Miller fashioned another modern parable, his Tony Award– winning The Crucible, based on the seventeenth- century Salem witch trials. Among his other works for the stage are the Pulitzer Prize– winner A View from the Bridge (1955), After the Fall (1964), Incident at Vichy (1965), The Price (1968), The Ride Down Mt. Morgan (1991), Broken Glass (1994), and Resurrection Blues (2004). In addition, Miller wrote a novel, Focus (1945); the screenplay for the fi lm The Misfi ts (1961), which starred his second wife, Marilyn Monroe; The Theater Essays (1971), a collection of his writings about dramatic literature; and Timebends (1987), his autobiography.

Certain Private Conversations in Two Acts and a Requiem

CHARACTERS willy loman the woman stanley linda charley miss forsythe biff uncle ben letta happy howard wagner bernard jenny

The action takes place in willy loman’s house and yard and in various places he visits in the New York and Boston of today.

ACT I A melody is heard, playing upon a fl ute. It is small and fi ne, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises. Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry fl ow of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small, fragile- seeming home. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality. The kitchen at center seems actual enough, for there is a kitchen table

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with three chairs, and a refrigerator. But no other fi xtures are seen. At the back of the kitchen there is a draped entrance, which leads to the living- room. To the right of the kitchen, on a level raised two feet, is a bedroom furnished only with a brass bedstead and a straight chair. On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A window opens onto the apartment house at the side. Behind the kitchen, on a level raised six and a half feet, is the boys’ bedroom, at present barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen, and at the back of the room a dormer window. (This bedroom is above the unseen living- room.) At the left a stairway curves up to it from the kitchen. The entire setting is wholly or, in some places, partially transparent. The roof- line of the house is one- dimensional; under and over it we see the apartment buildings. Before the house lies an apron, curving beyond the forestage into the orchestra. This forward area serves as the back yard as well as the locale of all willy’s imaginings and of his city scenes. Whenever the action is in the present the actors observe the imaginary wall- lines, entering the house only through its door at the left. But in the scenes of the past these boundaries are broken, and characters enter or leave a room by stepping “through” a wall onto the forestage. From the right, willy loman, the Salesman, enters, carry ing two large sample cases. The fl ute plays on. He hears but is not aware of it. He is past sixty years of age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the

house, his exhaustion is apparent. He unlocks the door, comes into the kitchen, and thankfully lets his burden down, feeling the soreness of his palms. A word- sigh escapes his lips— it might be “Oh, boy, oh, boy.” He closes the door, then carries his cases out into the living- room, through the draped kitchen doorway. linda, his wife, has stirred in her bed at the right. She gets out and puts on a robe, listening. Most often jovial, she has developed an iron repression of her exceptions to willy’s behavior— she more than loves him, she admires him, as though his mercurial nature, his temper, his massive dreams and little cruelties, served her only as sharp reminders of the turbulent longings within him, longings which she shares but lacks the temperament to utter and follow to their end.

linda: [Hearing willy outside the bedroom, calls with some trepidation.] Willy! willy: It’s all right. I came back. linda: Why? What happened? [Slight pause.] Did something happen, Willy? willy: No, nothing happened. linda: You didn’t smash the car, did you? willy: [With casual irritation.] I said nothing happened. Didn’t you hear me? linda: Don’t you feel well? willy: I’m tired to the death. [The fl ute has faded away. He sits on the bed beside her, a little numb.] I couldn’t make it. I just couldn’t make it, Linda. linda: [Very carefully, delicately.] Where were you all day? You look terrible. willy: I got as far as a little above Yonkers. I stopped for a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the coffee. linda: What? willy: [After a pause.] I suddenly couldn’t drive any more. The car kept going off onto the shoulder, y’know? linda: [Helpfully.] Oh. Maybe it was the steering again. I don’t think Angelo knows the Studebaker.

willy: No, it’s me, it’s me. Suddenly I realize I’m goin’ sixty miles an hour and I don’t remember the last fi ve minutes. I’m— I can’t seem to— keep my mind to it. linda: Maybe it’s your glasses. You never went for your new glasses. willy: No, I see everything. I came back ten miles an hour. It took me nearly four hours from Yonkers. linda: [Resigned.] Well, you’ll just have to take a rest, Willy, you can’t continue this way. willy: I just got back from Florida. linda: But you didn’t rest your mind. Your mind is overactive, and the mind is what counts, dear. willy: I’ll start out in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. [She is taking off his shoes.] These goddam arch supports are killing me. linda: Take an aspirin. Should I get you an aspirin? It’ll soothe you. willy: [With wonder.] I was driving along, you understand? And I was fi ne. I was even observing the scenery. You can imagine, me looking at scenery, on the road every week of my life. But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the trees are so thick, and the sun is warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m goin’ off the road! I’m tellin’ ya, I absolutely forgot I was driving. If I’d’ve gone the other way over the white line I might’ve killed somebody. So I went on again— and fi ve minutes later I’m dreamin’ again, and I nearly—[He presses two fi ngers against his eyes.] I have such thoughts, I have such strange thoughts. linda: Willy, dear. Talk to them again. There’s no reason why you can’t work in New York. willy: They don’t need me in New York. I’m the New En gland man. I’m vital in New En gland. linda: But you’re sixty years old. They can’t expect you to keep traveling every week. willy: I’ll have to send a wire 1 to Portland. I’m supposed to see Brown and Morrison tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to show the line. Goddammit, I could sell them! [He starts putting on his jacket.] linda: [Taking the jacket from him.] Why don’t you go down to the place tomorrow and tell Howard you’ve simply got to work in New York? You’re too accommodating, dear. willy: If old man Wagner was alive I’da been in charge of New York now! That man was a prince, he was a masterful man. But that boy of his, that Howard, he don’t appreciate. When I went north the fi rst time, the Wagner Company didn’t know where New En gland was! linda: Why don’t you tell those things to Howard, dear? willy: [Encouraged.] I will, I defi nitely will. Is there any cheese? linda: I’ll make you a sandwich. willy: No, go to sleep. I’ll take some milk. I’ll be up right away. The boys in? linda: They’re sleeping. Happy took Biff on a date to night. willy: [Interested.] That so? linda: It was so nice to see them shaving together, one behind the other, in the bathroom. And going out together. You notice? The whole house smells of shaving lotion.

1. Tele gram.

ARTHUR MILLER Death of a Salesman, Act I 1711

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willy: Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You fi nally own it, and there’s nobody to live in it.