...whether Life, teh urine-smelling, blood-stained, greasy-haired reality, should intrude into theatre, or it should stay outside. Seemingly this is not a qestion: why not, art is only worth doing with our two feet standing on the ground and with or head amond the starts.

... real, fail, flesh-and-blood people, and the, and this is what makes the play really cunning. For Life is there, on the stage, but neither the one smelling of sweaty feet nor the murderous, but the petty, ordinarily cruel reality. The performance answers the question asked by the play.