months or so—it is easily seen that it is not at all ready, for even under the most favourable of conditions it wanders back to the dramatist with the modest request that he should not only shorten it, but also rewrite the last act completely.
For some mysterious reason it is always the last act which requires alteration, just as it is always the last act which is sure to prove a failure on the stage, and it is always the last act which is picked out by the critics, with wonderful unanimity, as the one weak part of the play. It is really quite remarkable that in spite of this unfailing experience, dramatists do insist on having some sort of a last act. Last acts simply should not be written at all. Or they should be cut off on principle, just as the tails of bull-dogs are cut off to preserve their beauty. Or else plays should be played backwards, with the last act first, and the first act, which is always said to be the best one, at the end. In short, something should be done to free dramatists from the curse of the terrible last act.
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