smother me mother

My homework is slightly back on track, which isn’t saying much, but anyway it doesn’t really matter much, because tomorrow I’m off with the Lit class to watch Pillowman! It promises to be an eye-opener (and in any case definitely much more interesting than last year’s King Lear. I don’t think black comedy would be soporific.). My encounter with black comedy and dark humour has been limited to morbid jokes, morbid cartoons, morbid comic strips and morbid fantasies. Pillowman would be fun. Adrian Pang would make a good black comedy character – I’ve no idea why, really, his ability to remain impassive in the face of comic drama, perhaps – and Corbidge a perfect retarded brother.

That said, I don’t think I’ll like black comedy, or ever will. I know it’s usually what I think about, but that’s exactly why. Black comedy’s the Hyde in me coming out, and I don’t really want to think about it that much. I can take blood and gore and violence, but if it were juxtaposed such that it was funny at the expense of a character we had unwittingly come to emphatically with, that’d be sad.


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