“Six Characters in Search of an Author” is an absurdist metaplay that deals with the nature of reality and illusion. While a theater company is rehearsing “Mixing It Up” by Pirandello, a family of six characters arrive in search of an author. They insist that the Manager write their story. The characters have quite a melodramatic tale to tell, and the Manager, eventually intrigued, asks the actors to observe and the Prompter to take it down in shorthand while the characters reenact their story. What I liked best were the sarcastic and self-referential lines rather than the more philosophical themes. Examples of the latter:

The Father: “And how can we ever come to an understanding if I put in the words I utter the sense and value of things as I see them; while you who listen to me must inevitably translate them according to the conception of things each one of you has within himself. We think we understand each other, but we never really do.”

The Father: “A character, sir, may always ask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked with his especial characteristics; for which reason he is always ‘somebody.’ But a man—I’m not speaking of you now—may very well be ‘nobody.’”

Examples of the former:

The Manager: “Oh for God's sake, will you at least finish with this philosophizing and let us try and shape this comedy which you yourself have brought me here? You argue and philosophize a bit too much, my dear sir…”

The Step-Daughter: “In my opinion he [their original author] abandoned us in a fit of depression, of disgust for the ordinary theatre as the public knows it and likes it.”

and especially, near the beginning, which serves as both a good introduction and a neat summary:

The Manager: “Ridiculous? Ridiculous? Is it my fault if France won’t send us any more good comedies, and we are reduced to putting on Pirandello’s works, where nobody understands anything, and where the author plays the fool with us all?”

Pirandello won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1934 "for his bold and ingenious revival of dramatic and scenic art.” It is probably worth noting that he donated his Nobel Prize medal to the Italian Fascist government to be melted down as part of the 1935 Gold to the Fatherland campaign to raise funds in face of League of Nations sanctions. ( )

3½ stars. Upgraded this to 4 after discussion.

It took me a bit to warm up to this unusual play but in the end it was thought-provoking. I would like to see a performance! ( )

Once upon a time this must have been brilliant, but it was already old hat when I was in high school. That's a problem with most things "experimental".

Library copy ( )

L'ho letto quando ero in seconda media e non ci capii niente. l'ho ripreso poi quando ho avuto gli strumenti necessari a capire questa affannosa ricerca! ( )

"Six Characters" is a pivotal text in modernist studies, as well as theatre arts. But saying that does not communicate nearly enough the dynamism and brilliance of this text. Taking it apart on the levels of action, theme, and philosophy makes one's mind bubble with new insights into theatrical conventions, but what's more, the work forces you to ask yourself questions about issues of living, being, and essence. In addition to being a joyous read, it is wonderful to teach in a variety of contexts. ( )

"Six Characters" is a pivotal text in modernist studies, as well as theatre arts. But saying that does not communicate nearly enough the dynamism and brilliance of this text. Taking it apart on the levels of action, theme, and philosophy makes one's mind bubble with new insights into theatrical conventions, but what's more, the work forces you to ask yourself questions about issues of living, being, and essence. In addition to being a joyous read, it is wonderful to teach in a variety of contexts. ( )

meh, a play about a play by characters who don't play nice ( )

This creepy little one act play is strange but also captivating. A theatre crew is about to start a rehearsal when six people show up asking for help. They need someone to listen to their story and they want to perform it at the theatre. The crew finally agrees and is quickly drawn into the world the create.

The six people are claiming to be characters created by an author who never completed their story. They want nothing more than to know how their tale ends. The idea for the book alone is enough of a reason to read it.

BOTTOM LINE: It's an eerie little book and a production I would love to see preformed some day. I'm sure seeing it would pack a bigger punch.

"Like most people I can only act the part I've chosen for myself, or that's been chosen for me. But as you see, the role sometimes runs away from me, and I get a little melodramatic. All of us do." ( )

I don't normally enjoy reading plays. It is like reading music notes on page instead of listening to the orchestra, or reading about perfume instead smelling the scent. I would much rather watch the play than read it. But I picked this one up because of the author and found myself enraptured by the concept.

As a part of inspiration for Waiting for Godot and other existentialism plays, this play focuses on six characters in search of an author - and their drive to make their lives into some semblance of reality.

I loved this. It was a mix of philosophy and contemplating the meaning of life, all the while breaking the fourth wall, naming the author by name, and asking whether we are all actors in a play.

This is one of my more favorited quotes.

The Father [with dignity, but not offended ]. A character, sir, may always ask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked with his especial characteristics; for which reason he is always "somebody." But a man – I'm not speaking of you now – may very well be " nobody.

Characters who have come to life, yet have no author to claim them, ask the actors whether they are playing at an illusion when they try to imitate the characters. And it is ironic because they actually do have an author.

There is just so much packed into 70 short pages.

4.5 stars. Quite lovely. ( )

They say I was born in June. The day, the year somehow ceases to exist. I live with my mother. She stares at the wall, singing songs unnoticing my existence in the house. Is this how being an orphan feels like? I used to work at Madame Pace’s dress shop. Only it wasn't a dress shop. It was a whore house where I used to entertain clients throughout the night. My mother was unaware of my earnings, but as if it mattered. Then, one day I fell in love. In fact, I fell in love with his eyes. The same brown affectionate eyes that I own. They were so memorable, they were mine. I could see myself in them. My eyes on this strange face, mesmerizing yet daunting. He was my client, elderly yet so affectionate. Months went by, but he never visited me again. I looked for him but no avail. They say, he shot himself out of guilt. He was my biological father. The shame of seducing his own blood ate him up after finding my truth. So, as I lay in a pool of blood, the cold metal burning against my sinful hands, I pierce the sharp edge into the warm blob of flesh. I killed my baby. I killed my brother. I practically cease to exist now. Shame and numbness has weighed my soul into nothingness. The man once my mother had left my father for took her away. So, here I come to you with an unfilled life and an unfinished story pleading you to bring an authored conclusion.

“You imbecile”, yelled the stage-manager. “You expect me to believe this garbage and let my actors perform your absurdity".

“Yes”, I affirm, “The settings should be realistic and the truth should be told in its unaltered form.”

“I am an unrealized character sir”, I humbly say, “I need you to finish my story and bring it to life”.

The stage manager now enraged walks away hurling obscenities and muttering, “Acting is our business here. Truth up to a certain point, but no further”; as he looks at me with a sardonic smile.


Pirandello illuminates the ‘Theatre of Absurd’ genre in this bizarre performance. A form of drama that emphasizes the absurdity of human existence by employing disjointed, repetitious and meaningless dialogue, purposeless and confusing situations and plots that lack realistic or logical development. Purely in its theatrical form he depicts a tale of six characters in search of an author who is able not only to complete their fragmentary story but to perform their ingenuous legitimacy. A story which is not a story after all. Through the numerous arguments between the six characters and the stage manager about portrayal of reality in its unaltered state to the audiences marks the debate of life reality v/s stage reality. The sense of illusion what is illustrated to be a reality on performance stage is far from the factual forms.

The plethora of reality television that demarcates an entire generation outlook mutates the genuineness of its characters. How real are the nuances of these actors who state publicly that their respected shows are not scripted but spontaneous? The movies that state ‘based on a true story’, how far do they enact the truth or is pragmatism edited to normalization of absurdity. Pirandello stresses on the theatre being an illusion of reality where actors masquerade real emotions through rehearsals and mutability.

A brilliant existentialism perception of individuals being characters all through their life portraying roles that they're born into and the normality of emotions attached to their specific roles. Who are we? The roles that we are born into or the tangible roles we want to play. ( )

They say I was born in June. The day, the year somehow ceases to exist. I live with my mother. She stares at the wall, singing songs unnoticing my existence in the house. Is this how being an orphan feels like? I used to work at Madame Pace’s dress shop. Only it wasn't a dress shop. It was a whore house where I used to entertain clients throughout the night. My mother was unaware of my earnings, but as if it mattered. Then, one day I fell in love. In fact, I fell in love with his eyes. The same brown affectionate eyes that I own. They were so memorable, they were mine. I could see myself in them. My eyes on this strange face, mesmerizing yet daunting. He was my client, elderly yet so affectionate. Months went by, but he never visited me again. I looked for him but no avail. They say, he shot himself out of guilt. He was my biological father. The shame of seducing his own blood ate him up after finding my truth. So, as I lay in a pool of blood, the cold metal burning against my sinful hands, I pierce the sharp edge into the warm blob of flesh. I killed my baby. I killed my brother. I practically cease to exist now. Shame and numbness has weighed my soul into nothingness. The man once my mother had left my father for took her away. So, here I come to you with an unfilled life and an unfinished story pleading you to bring an authored conclusion.

“You imbecile”, yelled the stage-manager. “You expect me to believe this garbage and let my actors perform your absurdity".

“Yes”, I affirm, “The settings should be realistic and the truth should be told in its unaltered form.”

“I am an unrealized character sir”, I humbly say, “I need you to finish my story and bring it to life”.

The stage manager now enraged walks away hurling obscenities and muttering, “Acting is our business here. Truth up to a certain point, but no further”; as he looks at me with a sardonic smile.


Pirandello illuminates the ‘Theatre of Absurd’ genre in this bizarre performance. A form of drama that emphasizes the absurdity of human existence by employing disjointed, repetitious and meaningless dialogue, purposeless and confusing situations and plots that lack realistic or logical development. Purely in its theatrical form he depicts a tale of six characters in search of an author who is able not only to complete their fragmentary story but to perform their ingenuous legitimacy. A story which is not a story after all. Through the numerous arguments between the six characters and the stage manager about portrayal of reality in its unaltered state to the audiences marks the debate of life reality v/s stage reality. The sense of illusion what is illustrated to be a reality on performance stage is far from the factual forms.

The plethora of reality television that demarcates an entire generation outlook mutates the genuineness of its characters. How real are the nuances of these actors who state publicly that their respected shows are not scripted but spontaneous? The movies that state ‘based on a true story’, how far do they enact the truth or is pragmatism edited to normalization of absurdity. Pirandello stresses on the theatre being an illusion of reality where actors masquerade real emotions through rehearsals and mutability.

A brilliant existentialism perception of individuals being characters all through their life portraying roles that they're born into and the normality of emotions attached to their specific roles. Who are we? The roles that we are born into or the tangible roles we want to play. ( )

They say I was born in June. The day, the year somehow ceases to exist. I live with my mother. She stares at the wall, singing songs unnoticing my existence in the house. Is this how being an orphan feels like? I used to work at Madame Pace’s dress shop. Only it wasn't a dress shop. It was a whore house where I used to entertain clients throughout the night. My mother was unaware of my earnings, but as if it mattered. Then, one day I fell in love. In fact, I fell in love with his eyes. The same brown affectionate eyes that I own. They were so memorable, they were mine. I could see myself in them. My eyes on this strange face, mesmerizing yet daunting. He was my client, elderly yet so affectionate. Months went by, but he never visited me again. I looked for him but no avail. They say, he shot himself out of guilt. He was my biological father. The shame of seducing his own blood ate him up after finding my truth. So, as I lay in a pool of blood, the cold metal burning against my sinful hands, I pierce the sharp edge into the warm blob of flesh. I killed my baby. I killed my brother. I practically cease to exist now. Shame and numbness has weighed my soul into nothingness. The man once my mother had left my father for took her away. So, here I come to you with an unfilled life and an unfinished story pleading you to bring an authored conclusion.

“You imbecile”, yelled the stage-manager. “You expect me to believe this garbage and let my actors perform your absurdity".

“Yes”, I affirm, “The settings should be realistic and the truth should be told in its unaltered form.”

“I am an unrealized character sir”, I humbly say, “I need you to finish my story and bring it to life”.

The stage manager now enraged walks away hurling obscenities and muttering, “Acting is our business here. Truth up to a certain point, but no further”; as he looks at me with a sardonic smile.


Pirandello illuminates the ‘Theatre of Absurd’ genre in this bizarre performance. A form of drama that emphasizes the absurdity of human existence by employing disjointed, repetitious and meaningless dialogue, purposeless and confusing situations and plots that lack realistic or logical development. Purely in its theatrical form he depicts a tale of six characters in search of an author who is able not only to complete their fragmentary story but to perform their ingenuous legitimacy. A story which is not a story after all. Through the numerous arguments between the six characters and the stage manager about portrayal of reality in its unaltered state to the audiences marks the debate of life reality v/s stage reality. The sense of illusion what is illustrated to be a reality on performance stage is far from the factual forms.

The plethora of reality television that demarcates an entire generation outlook mutates the genuineness of its characters. How real are the nuances of these actors who state publicly that their respected shows are not scripted but spontaneous? The movies that state ‘based on a true story’, how far do they enact the truth or is pragmatism edited to normalization of absurdity. Pirandello stresses on the theatre being an illusion of reality where actors masquerade real emotions through rehearsals and mutability.

A brilliant existentialism perception of individuals being characters all through their life portraying roles that they're born into and the normality of emotions attached to their specific roles. Who are we? The roles that we are born into or the tangible roles we want to play. ( )

Oh, this play is great. What a fucking thing it is. It's about how we create our own realities: how each of us choose to play a character, to such an extent that we sometimes sit outside ourselves, watching our characters act out their scenes. And it's about the subjective nature of reality: how to each of us, the scenes we live through may be be completely different to each actor in them.

I was talking to a friend recently about the beginning of our relationship, and discovered that her perception of that period has almost nothing in common with mine. If we both explained it to a third party, we would tell wholly different stories. Weird, huh? Both of our stories are equally true; they're just different.

Recently, in an unguarded moment, a different friend of mine let slip who he thinks I am. It was not at all who I think I am! Among other things, his version of me - inexplicably - is not a Viking. I'm pretty sure he was projecting there, but how would I know? Is there anyone less qualified to interpret me than me?

This is what Pirandello's dealing with, at least until Act III when he starts to talk about the writing process and also to wrap up his own plot. It's a very smart play, and years ahead of its time. My character enjoys it. A character under that thinks it's a little show-offy. A character under that is scared that he didn't get it at all, and a character under that is afraid that his opinion hasn't even been written. ( )

Abbiamo tutti dentro un mondo di cose: ciascuno un suo mondo di cose! E come possiamo intenderci, signore, se nelle parole ch'io dico metto il senso e il valore delle cose come sono dentro di me; mentre chi le ascolta, inevitabilmente le assume col senso e col valore che hanno per sé, del mondo com'egli l'ha dentro? Crediamo di intenderci; non ci intendiamo mai!
Seis Personagens à Procura de um Autor é o drama da incomunicabilidade, da dúvida sobre o que é real ou não. Foi recebido, na estréia, com gritos de “Manicômio”. Hoje é considerado uma obra indispensável. A primeira peça moderna que eu li, e a que me ensinou que teatro não é um livro com as falas de cada personagem marcadas, ou um guia para uma representação, mas algo completamente diferente de um romance.
(Depois descobri que a tradução que eu tinha lido, da criminosa coleção de Obras Primas da Abril, era um plágio de uma tradução anterior, como a maioria das obras dessa coleção. Prova:
http://naogostodeplagio.blogspot.com/2008/11/assassinado-tradutores-7-crime-e.ht... ( )

Excellent play. If you are in the London area it's a must-see. I don't want to spoil it, but it is fantastic, so I had to get a copy of the play and read the adaptation. Very well done. ( )

This is a play from 1921 – an intellectual comedy which contrasts illusion with reality by introducing six individuals to a bare stage occupied by actors in rehearsal. These six characters proclaim themselves to be the incomplete creations of an author’s imagination and demand dialog for the story of their lives. The following is a favorite quote from the play where the character of the Father is talking to the Manager of the theater company. Needless to say the Manager has been skeptical that the six characters solely exist because they were created by an author.

“It's only to show you that if we (indicating the CHARACTERS) have no other reality beyond the illusion, you too must not count overmuch on your reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday, it may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.”

I found the whole play to be fascinating. What an idea that characters are more real than us and their reality is more concrete because it always remains what was created by an author. This is available through Project Gutenberg and is a really quick read. If this concept is at all interesting to you, I would strongly recommend talking the time to read it. ( )

Is this one of the greatest plays ever? No. Is it worth reading? Yes. The concept is extremely interesting. Six characters simply show up on stage during some other play, and they claim that they are characters from another play that went unfinished because the author died. In telling their story, it is clear that they have their story already and they need no one to finish it for them. Creative idea and a short, quick read. ( )

Six Characters in Search of an Author was moderately interesting, but horribly didactic. For its time and context is is incredible, but I don't think it holds up as well today. ( )

A seminal work in modern drama, and generally regarded as Pirandello's masterpiece, Six Characters is more thought provoking than entertaining (although I've never seen a live performance, and I imagine it works pretty well on stage).

All of Pirandello's plays explore the conflict between appearance and reality, and Six Characters adds an additional dimension by separating the "characters" from their author's concept (almost like a platonic "ideal" that is only vaguely understood by the author who puts the role on paper). ( )

848130137X

Italian Edition

Sundays-are-for-Reading Program, drama edition. ( )

Six lost, unfinished characters interrupt a play rehearsal and beseech the theater manager to complete and perform their story.

MANAGER: [astonished and irritated, turning to his ACTORS]. If this fellow here hasn't got a nerve! A man who calls himself a character comes and asks me who I am!

FATHER: [with dignity, but not offended] A character, sir, may always ask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked with his especial characteristics; for which reason he is always "somebody." But a man - I'm not speaking of you now - may very well be "nobody."

MANAGER: Yes, but you are asking these questions of me, the boss, the manager! Do you understand?

FATHER: But only in order to know if you, as you really are now, see yourself as you once were with all the illusions that were yours then, with all the things both inside and outside of you as they seemed to you - as they were then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions that mean nothing to you now, of all those things which don't even seem to you to exist any more, while once they were for you, don't you feel that - I won't say these boards - but the very earth under your feet is sinking away from you when you reflect that in the same way this you as you feel it today - all this present reality of yours - is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow?

MANAGER: [without having understood much, but astonished by the specious argument]. Well, well! And where does all this take us anyway?

FATHER: Oh nowhere! It's only to show you that if we [indicating the CHARACTERS.] have no other reality beyond the illusion, you too must not count overmuch on your reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday, it may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.

MANAGER: [determining to make fun of him]. Ah, excellent! Then you'll be saying next that you, with this comedy of yours that you brought here to act, are truer and more real than I am.

FATHER: [with the greatest seriousness]. But of course; without doubt .... If your reality can change from one day to another ...

MANAGER: But everyone knows it can change. It is always changing, the same as anyone else's.

FATHER: [with a cry.] No, sir, not ours! Look here! that is the very difference! Our reality doesn't change: it can't change! It can't be other than what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an immutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the conditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by an intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow ... who knows how? ...Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it were to end ... then why, all would be finished.

MANAGER: Oh for God's sake, will you at least finish with this philosophizing and let us try and shape this comedy...?