expulsion of a theatrical register

At some point I convinced myself, "You should read Harold Pinter."

I said okay and my fingers started to peruse the pages of "The Room". But I read "La habitación." I have sacrificed an opportunity. The chance to read "The Room" with a clear feeling of newness is now a lost offering, released without considering before the act. Yes, translation tweaks a work in a way that presents anew certain subjects, especially poetry and narrative. And I assume it is similar reading theatre pieces. But again, I convinced myself to read theatre and did it. More chore than aesthetic stimulation. The takeaway: Harold Pinter avoids any definitive matters. He seems to blatantly suggest to avoid at all costs, writing decisively. At least it seems this way to a malleable theatre mind. But both my mind and memory falter and the interest I had while I was reading was minimal. For the discipline and obligation connected to the text- both the transposed speech "advice on writing theatre (rough translation from the Spanish)" and "La habitación"- dominated the entire experience. Now I wonder to myself, "is my reading and comprehension in Spanish poor? Or is the lack of interest and excitement for the material the reason I faintly recall what I gulped down a few weeks ago? The ambiguity in "The Room" or rather, in "La habitación", was the driving force. Why did the man sit and not speak? Where the hell could this room be and why was it called La habitación? Why did it seem that they were actually to be speaking in English when the typed text was in Spanish. Are these characters each speaking different languages and their mutual understanding an expanding tension on the verge of snapping?

At some point I convinced myself, "Deberías leer a Harold Pinter."