THE PERSON most affected by the success of Death of a Salesman was the author. It did fine things for him, altering his life in more ways than he realized then or perhaps—excuse the presumption—knows now. Nothing was the same for him after that play opened in New York. It even made Art reckless—albeit in a cautious way—with certain constraints on his personal life and curious about experiences that lay outside the bounds of his behavior up until that time. His eyes, to speak of externals, acquired a new flash and his carriage and movement a hint of something swashbuckling. He was at his best during this time, still searching, still unsure of himself, not yet Lincolnesque. Always an amusing man, with a lively sense of humor and a “country” gift for storytelling, he released these talents broadside and enjoyed their effect—which was seductive. It was at this time that I had a first premonition of danger coming, that particularly domestic peril which results when certain ties of restraint that a middle-class man has always lived within are snapped. Art was entering a period of personal drama, and my secret opinion was that it could do him nothing but good. I watched and waited. A writer is a spy.