Further burnish to this glow is provided by the rigor and coherence of his project: to address African American life introspectively—not as a dialogue with or lesson for non-blacks—and, paradoxically, through the strength and suppleness of his artistry, enlighten both cultures. Commentary and critical response routinely reinforce the nature of this acclaim by focusing on his ambition: to document ten decades of black American life; on the authenticity of his work based on his intimacy with that life; and on the mixed-race, working-class elements in his interesting biography. Praise is regularly heaped on his “universality”—his ability to make black life (read “exotic/limited”) relate to non-black life (read “real/normal”). It is an annoying obligation that seems to beset all and only black artists. The underlying question being: “Are you an artist or a black artist?” Wilson eschews this routine question not by fusing two racial identities but by prioritizing one over the other. “Before I am anything,” he writes, “a man or a playwright, I am an African American.” His goal, as he first described it in the New York Times in 2000, was to “present the unique particulars of black American culture . . . to place this culture on stage in all its richness and fullness and to demonstrate its ability to sustain us in all areas of human life and endeavor and through profound moments of our history in which the larger society has thought less of us than we thought of ourselves.”

There are, however, some respectful reservations about the quality of certain plays—reservations that call attention to their length (too much), a plethora of deus ex machina devices (ghosts; characters who live for centuries; sudden, senseless death) and sermonizing instead of storytelling. The author’s anti-assimilationist activities are highlighted with a persistence that no other ethnic or national identity merits. It is only fair to note that Wilson provokes attention to race-inflected evaluations by insisting, for example, that only a black director could serve the film Fences, and excluding white characters from his dramatis personae altogether. Whether lavish praise or cautious reservation, few of these responses consider aspects other than historical-cum-sociological ones.

The level of his achievement is high. This comes powerfully into view when the play is read, an activity that is for me equal to, and in some ways more fruitful than, seeing its stage production.

Perhaps it was being a radio child. Listening to narrative demands waves of imagination to supply the details: furnishing the room with the fewest of clues available; visualizing the sky with a sound track of rain or chirping birds; full participation in constructing what characters look like. It certainly influenced the way I read, and I believe it instigated my preferences for reading plays whether or not I have seen them. Unlike watching one, reading a good play could never disappoint.

Good theater can be the most compelling experience, enhancing perception far beyond the text. Among the seven or eight performances of Medea I have seen, only one did that for me. On the other hand, I have seen Pinter plays that rival the pleasure of reading their texts. Actors and theater people read plays and do this imaginative work as a matter of course; it is their job. But for a nontheater person, an average alert reader, it has unique rewards. Along with reacting to a staged presentation, there is another, rather different experience; the vigorous interactions between reader and text and meeting the imaginative demands of the work on one’s own.