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The "angry young men" were a group of mostly working- and middle-class British playwrights . by technique. That much fitted in with the overlapping movement poets, identified as such a year or two before, also a journalistic label.
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What lifts Mr. Parichy's work beyond decoration and into poetry is his ability to unfurl the transitory sky that hasn't yet determined what's going to be. It's that blank canvas of heaven, pregnant with the volatile possibilities of precipitous change, that gives the beach its true romance. Parichy's art is worth talking about in its own right, but also because it so aptly reflects the quality of Ms. Howe's play, her first since ''Painting Churches. And, some Act II erosion aside, Ms. Howe has kept up her end of the bargain with the same watercolor delicacy of Mr. Parichy's lighting.

The people in ''Coastal Disturbances,'' four generations' worth of vacationers on a private Massachusetts beach, are always welling up with exhilaration or lust or love or anger whenever one least expects. As written by Ms. Howe and acted by one of the finer casts in New York, the emotional cloudbursts, no less than the meteorological, can take the breath away.

A modern play about love that is, for once, actually about love - as opposed to sexual, social or marital politics - ''Coastal Disturbances'' usually just lets its disturbances happen.

Disturbances of the Mind and Heart in Early Greek Poetry - Persée

A heretofore chipper divorced woman named Ariel Joanne Camp starts to chew out her young son and suddenly loses self-control, flying past boiling point to violent rage. Ariel's old Wellesley roommate, the pregnant Faith Heather MacRae , gossips merrily once too often about the beach's ''well-endowed'' lifeguard, Leo Timothy Daly , and finds herself breaking into uncontrollable, sidesplitting laughter.

The play's heroine, a photographer named Holly Dancer Annette Bening , tells the lifeguard a phantasmagoric fantasy about an orgiastic all-night party of well-heeled, anthropomorphized dolphins, and, as she does so, Leo can't resist the frantic urge to bury the dream-dizzied Holly in the sand. These incidents are, respectively, aching, hilarious and erotic.

In each of them Ms.

HISTORY OF A DISTURBANCE

Howe takes a specific character's concern - the battle-scarred Ariel's hatred of men, Faith's ecstatic anticipation of motherhood, Holly's and Leo's growing sexual attraction - and distills it into a concentrate of intoxicating feeling. Yet, like Holly, who is seeking a ''wider focus'' in her photographs and life, the playwright wants to examine love from all the additional points of view she can find. An older couple, played by Rosemary Murphy and Addison Powell, provide the perspective of age: having survived nine children, decades of marriage and infidelities, they now can see that younger people are ''always losing things'' that they at last have found.

At the other end of the cycle are Ariel's son, Winston Jonas Abry , and Faith's adopted daughter, Miranda Rachel Mathieu -kids already parroting both the ''kissy'' and tragically self-destructive behavior of adults. Howe even takes into account generations to come. Transcendentally obsessed with the ''biological chain,'' Faith reminds us that a girl is ''born with all her eggs'' and tells of how she used to shake Miranda to hear them rolling about.

Howe's vignettes are brief and pointedly impressionistic - in the style of the young painter who kept trying to find the right angle on her parents' portrait in ''Painting Churches. Murphy, who could be the Brahmin mother in the previous play, paints tightly composed, realistic beach scapes. Howe understands that everything must keep moving, that there is no ''right'' angle, that love and its responsibilities are something to ''figure out as you go along. Murphy reading Quentin Bell's biography of Virginia Woolf on the beach. Howe, who shares with Woolf what one character calls ''the transforming eye of the artist,'' sees all her people, the men included, in the funny, sexy and finally forgiving round.

Carole Rothman, who also directed ''Painting Churches,'' is unfailingly sensitive to Ms. Howe's airy technique, which could be mutilated by either too light or heavy an application of theatrical brush strokes. In league with Mr. Straiges, the director creates the illusion that a small stage is a vast stretch of coast, seen from an ever-rotating vantage point and rippling with overlapping waves, action and conversation. You put your hand on my arm.

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All was well. All was not well. In bed I lay awake, thinking of my irritation, thinking of the silence, which had been, I now thought, not like some big swelling rubbery thing but like a piece of sharp metal caught in my throat. What was wrong with me? Did I love you? Of course I loved you.

But to ask me just then, as I was taking in the night. Besides, what did the words mean? Oh, I understood them well enough, those drowsy tender words. You know how I love supermarkets. At the same time I enjoy taking note of brand-name readability, shelf positioning, the attention-drawing power of competing package designs.

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I was in a buoyant mood. My work had gone well that day, pretty well. I wheeled my cart into the checkout line, set out my bags and boxes on the rubber belt, swiped my card. The girl worked her scanner and touch screen, and I watched with pleasure as the product names appeared sharply on the new LCD monitor facing me above her shoulder. I signed my slip and handed it to the girl.


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Instantly my mood changed. What was she trying to say to me? I realized that this thought was absurd. At the same time I stared at the girl, trying to grasp her meaning. Have a good day! What were the words trying to say? She looked at me. Good day! Things became very still.

I saw two tiny silver rings at the top of her ear, one ring slightly larger than the other. I saw the black plastic edge of the credit-card terminal, a finger with purple nail polish, a long strip of paper with a red stripe running along each border. These elements seemed independent of one another. Somewhere a cash tray slid open, coins clanked. Then the finger joined the girl, the tray banged shut, I was standing by my shopping cart, studying the mesh pattern of the collapsible wire basket, trying to recall what was already slipping away.

At dinner that evening I felt uneasy, as if I were concealing a secret. Once or twice I thought you were looking at me strangely. In the middle of the night I woke suddenly and thought, Something is happening to me, things will never be the same. Then I felt, across the lower part of my stomach, a first faint ripple of fear. In the course of the next few days I began listening with close attention to whatever was said to me. I listened to each part of what was said, and I listened to the individual words that composed each part. Had I ever listened to them before? Words like crackles of cellophane, words like sluggish fat flies buzzing on sunny windowsills.

The simplest remark began to seem suspect, a riddle—not devoid of meaning, but with a vague haze of meaning that grew hazier as I tried to clutch it. A group of words would detach themselves from speech and stand at mock attention, sticking out their chests, as if to say, Here we are! Who are you? It was as if some space had opened up, a little rift, between words and whatever they were supposed to be doing.

Angry young men

I stumbled in that space, I fell. At the office I was still having difficulties with my report. The words I had always used had a new sheen of strangeness to them. I found it necessary to interrogate them, to investigate their intentions. Sometimes they were slippery, like fistfuls of tiny silvery fish. I knew what words meant, more or less.