My Dinner With Andre

We can’t be direct, so we end up saying the weirdest things.-Wallace Shawn, My Dinner With Andre

There is a miracle in the cup of coffee. Stowed overnight, warmed in the morning and nary a cockroach to be found. It is something that Wallace’s friend Andre doesn’t see. Andre isn’t as far along as he thinks he might be. What’s the overall difference if you run separate from the herd but continue along its well-beaten trajectory?

That cup of coffee immolates itself for you. The whole world exists as not-you so you can enjoy its pleasures. Schopenhauer described a human as the living tombstone of thousands of dead creatures. A little gratitude is in order, whether we take that life force and aim it at becoming a playwright like Wallace or explore meaning like Andre.

Andre is on shaky ground. The splinter in his brain is telling him that there is no point in the life he has been living as a successful playwright unlike his struggling playwright friend Wallace. They catch up over a dinner that Wallace has been trying to avoid for the last couple of years. Andre has acquired the reputation of being something of a nutcase. He quit his job. Was found weeping on the streets after watching a Bergman film. Lead a moonlit acting session in rural Poland. Saw a mystical bigfoot-esque creature in a church.

All of this sounds incredulous to his down to Earth friend Wallace. He is mostly concerned with art and how to accurately portray reality in a way that will awaken the slumbering feeling function in his robotic compatriots. To him, there is as much magic in Everest as in the cigar shop next door. It only requires that one looks. But the…

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