Tom Stoppard's self-definition

Tom Stoppard isn’t just a playwright, he’s an adjective, says Nigel Farndale in the London Daily Telegraph. Critics routinely use the word “Stoppardian” to describe drama in which eloquent characters dissect their own foibles and complex philosophical ideas with self-deprecating wit. But the 72-year-old author of such groundbreaking works as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead isn’t quite so high-minded. “I don’t think Stoppardian has a precise definition,” he says. “For me, personally, it means another hapless, feckless, fatuous episode in my life, brought on by my own forgetfulness or incompetence.” He offers the recent example of waiting for a train in Tokyo. “I was standing on the platform with two cases and a bag. It had my passport in it, my money, credit cards, everything. A train arrived early and, as they are incredibly punctual about everything there, I figured it couldn’t be mine. But to make sure, I got on the train to find a guard to show my ticket to. Then I heard a hiss and a clunk behind me, and the doors were closing and the train was moving off—with my bags still on the platform. ‘That’s it,’ I thought. ‘I’m f--ked.’” Stoppard eventually recovered his belongings, but to him the experience was typical. “The point of that story is that Stoppardian for me means the ability to cock things up.”

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