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    Author's Preface

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    Chapter 1
    In writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, I have used
    one or two words only that I have not heard among the country people of
    Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspapers. A
    certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds and
    fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women and
    balladsingers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe to
    the folk imagination of these fine people. Anyone who has lived in real
    intimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas
    in this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any
    little hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a
    collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature,
    striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller's or the
    playwright's hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It is probable
    that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat down to his work
    he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he sat at dinner, from his
    mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who know the people have the
    same privilege. When I was writing "The Shadow of the Glen," some years ago,
    I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor
    of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being
    said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of
    importance, for in countries where the imagination of the people, and the
    language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer to be rich
    and copious in his words, and at the same time to give the reality, which is
    the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modern
    literature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or prose
    poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the profound
    and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarme and Huysmans
    producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the
    reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have
    reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama
    has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy,
    that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb
    and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured
    as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by anyone who works
    among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years
    more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender;
    so that those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to
    writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten,
    and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.

    J. M. S.
    January 21st, 1907.
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