(Or did he?)
August Strindberg blew in on a rake. He was short and stout, sour, and out of breath. Or maybe he was tall and thin. His hair was a mess, but everyone got the sense that it was always kind of like that, rake or no. He was rocking the mustache and soul patch look that was so so popular for a while there. It goes a bit better with a three-piece suit, than a ripped up tee shirt. Just saying.
Anyhow, where did he blow in from and why was he there? everyone wondered. Good questions, both. Regardless of where he came from or what he’d been doing before, he looked vexed, cranky even. He blew in from Sweden, of course, and he was there to bend time and space to his will by occluding and warping the very stuff of space and time through the weaving of supernatural forces to his will. Yes, everyone whispered, magic! Yes, our August, our dear August Strindberg, was down from his own personal Inferno to cast about for such raw supernatural power that all the world would tremble and quake. Or maybe he was just looking for a cup of milk for his biscuit recipe. You never can tell with August Strindberg.
That was the trouble with August Strindberg, everyone thought, he was always rushing to and fro on his rake, stirring up trouble, and writing his damned plays. So actually, yes, it was just a cup of milk he was after. Everyone sort of giggled at how silly they’d been, but then August Strindberg, it was so hard to tell with him, you know?
Everyone went back to their knitting, crocheting, dynamiting, or whatever it was they’d been doing before he swept in on his rake. Really, everyone was just as happy to forget that August Strindberg had ever been there.