On a snowy night in Toronto way back in 1982, my then-wife took me to see Harold Pinter's Betrayal. It didn't help us settle the question of who had began the string of infidelities that would soon culminate in a mutual mercy-killing of our ill-conceived and extremely brief union. But it did awake in me a deep admiration for Harold Pinter's courage as a writer.
Betrayal used the tawdry stuff of a sexual affair with Lady Antonia Fraser made public...
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