As I was flirting with my college-bound next-door neighbour’s daughter, I found a copy of Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. By the way, I was 11 years old. Back then, besides my next-door neighbour’s daughter, I was intrigued by Miller’s play. I read parts of it so that I could inspire a great conversation with my object of desire, but the play remained in my mind longer than the college-bound woman of my youth.