Given the rivalries, resentments, and sheer bitchiness that suffuse the worlds of theater and literature, the almost universal outpouring of grief, love, admiration, and gratitude for the life and works of Sir Tom Stoppard on his death, at home in Dorset in late November, was truly extraordinary. Almost every obituary from around the world declared that his greatest plays — Arcadia, Jumpers, Travesties, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, The Real Thing, Night and Day, The Coast of Utopia, The Invention of Love, and Leopoldstadt — have secured his reputation as one of Britain’s greatest playwrights, of this or any period. Fault-finding critics, professional rivals, and grateful actors and directors alike told tales of his kindnesses, repeated his jokes, and competed to claim his friendship.
“It is actually one of Tom’s achievements that one envies him nothing, except possibly his looks, his talents, his money, and his luck,” said his friend and fellow playwright Simon Gray. “To be so enviable without being envied is pretty enviable.”
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