If we say we that we have no sin
We deceive ourselves, and we have no truth in us.
—Christopher Marlowe
Dublin, Georgia
August, 1970
One wouldn’t expect to find fine theater in a backwater town in Georgia. Especially inside of a stuffy, smelly tent. The stage was placed in the middle of the audience, and it might as well have been a dozen crates stacked next to each other, for as solid as it looked. Foldout chairs circled the makeshift stage, and behind them were benches made of wood and cinder blocks. Maybe the place would comfortably seat two hundred people. But the walls of the tent had been folded up, and there were hundreds more sitting on the grass, or milling around the perimeter. They couldn’t see the stage from where they were, but that didn’t seem to discourage them.
The Do
