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EXCUSE ME MADAME BUT IT SEEMS TO ME UNLESS I’M MISTAKEN THAT I’VE MET YOU SOMEWHERE BEFORE

IN JANUARY, EUGENE LONESCO’S most recent play, Voyages chez les morts, received its premiere, at the Riverside Studios in London, at the same time that his first one. La Cantatrice chauve, was running in Paris at the Theatre de la Huchette, where it has played continuously to full houses for thirty years, in a double bill with his La Leçon. Not far away, at the Théâtre de Poche Montparnasse, was a fourth piece, Amédée ou comment s’en débarrasser, along with an exhibition of the author’s recent paintings. Clearly, lonesco’s early work has kept its interest for modem audiences, while he has continued to produce new writing and to enter completely new fields.

Ionesco lives in Paris, but he is originally from Romania, as I am, and I saw his plays performed there while I was growing up. They made a great impression on me; today, they are banned there. One day last summer, years after I had first

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