The tragedy of our time in the theatre is the tragedy of Clifford Odets. Not that I share the sentiment expressed in his obituaries that he’d failed in his career. Clifford influenced a generation of playwrights—Art Miller, who’s sitting here; Tennessee Williams, who told me that his first arousing experience in the New York theatre was Awake and Sing!; and a roomful of other writers. Like all true creators, he influenced men who’ll never know it.

Cliff spent the last dozen years of his life writing films to pay bills that were too large for a man who hoped to continue working in the theatre. He made his home in a Beverly Hills “Spanish mansion.” He drove a Lincoln Continental and had what he claimed to be the outstanding collection of Paul Klee in the country. He worked frequently and was well paid by New York theatre standards. But he was always broke or near it, and I believe he died broke or near it.