This is an extraordinary play--one of the best and yet one of the most confusing I have ever had the pleasure of reading.
It is confusing because it is so real, so true to life, so full of feeling and yet it depicts people so chameleon-like, one despairs of ever understanding them them, let alone comprehending the deeper meaning of their lives--and ours.
This is the story of George Sand. She is an extraordinary woman--far ahead of her time. She would have been perfectly at home in the Roaring Twenties, Haight-Ashbury of the Sixties, or perhaps even the Greenwich Village of the Beats--and they''d have been the richer for her presence (though her
writing might have been a great deal different then). She lived her life for love--and love tormented her, as it does any true genius who gives their heart and life to their art and has only a piece left to give to their beloved, all the while imagining it to be the real and whole thing. She was a genius, as were the men around her--who inspired by her, and she, them. She had the rare gift of bringing out the genius in others without squelching her own--and Moeller really makes her life sing in this play.
She was centuries ahead of her time--and cried and suffered for a freedom few people feel the need of, or can accept if it is given to them, or dare to take for themselves as their own when the time comes it appears on their horizon. Her life was a fairy tale, and she never ceased to be the princess--but she claimed a
kingdom vaster and more rarified that any merely social and political sphere could ever reach--the kingdom of the heart, the kingdom of life and its God--Love. But the men in her life--except for Chopin, eventually, could not bear to share her with her passion for writing--only one as dedicated to his art as she to hers could ever understand and escape the despair of loving someone who could no more dance the traditional dances of love and lovers than she could bear to give up love itself.