On the Nature of Tragedy.

There’s something intensely tragic about the sight of a dead housefly on the windowsill. The poor little guy made one mistake out of understandable ignorance – he came into my house where there was nothing for him to eat, and was too scared of me to allow himself to be guided out again. And as he grew weaker he made one final bid to reach the light, only to find an impenetrable barrier which he had no way of understanding. Is that not the essence of tragedy whatever the life form?