Whatever happened to creativity? Where has fiction gone? Can’t we have GONE WITH THE WIND again, WAR AND PEACE, DEATH OF A SALESMAN? Where is the imagination, that force of intuition, that swirling gatherer of conscience, complaints, sheaves of pain, and pleasure taken in the wonder of existence. As it swoops, scrapes, and reconstitutes all its swept up fragments to build a little world of amusement like a gorgeous doll’s house—fine in every detail. To delight, surprise us, shock and stab us, even. To force open our minds to ask Why and How and If? But that wind blows only on command. Then it soughs and splutters too often in television, because it’s driven by a machine—the Network—whose rhythms are directed by Commercial; the great conductor.
