There was a long awkward pause, and then finally, Warren Whatmore laughed. This was a dim dusty claustrophobic room, unsuited to laughter. Warren’s laughter did not sound at all genuine, but then no one’s could have. In any event, it allowed too much dust into his throat and he choked on it.
 “Oh, you naughty naughty boy. You’re leading me on, aren’t you?”
    I had not noticed that I had done anything naughty, but I did wrong things with such frequency that when someone said so, I was always willing to believe it.
“I’m sorry,” I said.

An interesting thing about Three Players of a Summer Game by Tennessee Williams is that in the twelve stories offered therein, written between 1945 and 1948, you find the basic ideas for each of the great plays he would write over the next couple of decades. Only the last, Night of the Iguana is a complete version of the story, the rest are fragments that grew into the eventual plays. Could it be that after that, he never had another original idea?
  The Night of the Iguana was my first Williams experience, for it turned up as a movie which was pretty good. It was Richard Burton’s first screen appearance without Liz Taylor since the whole Cleopatra thing erupted and it just didn’t look right, even if Dick had Ava Gardner, Deborah Kerr and Sue Lyon (proving she would never be anything other than Lolita) as compensation. He played a drunken, defrocked priest, which seemed most appropriate. As for a drama itself, almost all of it escapes my memory.