| Farewell to Fringe |
| Words: Curio | |
| Sunday, 12 August 2007 | |
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In Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms, troops march in the rain; a rain that brings not just temporary suffering but cholera that will wipe out thousands of them. The rain is a motif of war and death, nature and life, and it is rain that falls on the hero at the end of the novel, as he mourns the death of his loved one. On Saturday night, the Edinburgh skies opened and the city became one miserable dank puddle. The rain fell on the army of entertainers and their entourage, who’ve all arrived and made camp in the city. I sat in a huddle of comedians, actors, and their friends as the rain fell. The talk was bitter, savage, and uncomfortable. The rain slunk down my neck. Neither the company nor the wine made me feel any good. This is the worst side of the Fringe. Where a freakish scrum of busted egos and poisoned dreams take shelter with one another and prey upon each other at the same time. With the rain came this outpouring of all that is vile and poisonous and twisted with those who reach an imagined zenith among their fellow man. It was odd that those who can bring laughter and love and joy so effortlessly to a stage, were the main protagonists of such rank behaviour. By midnight I’d had a bellyful. After awhile I went out and left the Fringe and walked back to my room in the rain. Exeunt. |