'Antigone' de Jean Anouilh

I've had this copy of Anouilh's Antigone kicking around the flat for several years--having no idea of its worth or merits--and only yesterday, needing something to preoccupy me while standing in line at the Food Bank, started reading it. Somewhere about the twenty-ninth page, standing there like a fool with my empty cardboard box in hand, I burst into tears--and cried all the way through macaroni, frozen chicken, cookies, spaghetti sauce, and oranges. Today visiting the cardiologist, dry-eyed but aching inside, I finished it. Never in Sophocles, never in Racine, have I read anything that simply tore my heart out like the tirade of the Messager describing the hanging of Antigone and the suicide of Hémon--but the tears were gone, already spent.

Note to self: Just because it's modern doesn't mean it's not good.