What the hell kind of a life it is?
Frank feels as if he is trapped in a life of materialism, a life he never genuinely wanted. Neither this too expensive house in a flawless suburb not two children make any sense, for he doesn’t want them. That is not what he expected. Being disappointed and bitter after the nasty fight with April, he asks himself, “what the hell kind of a life it is?” He doesn’t understand, “what in God’s name was the point or the meaning or the purpose of a life like this?”
Nothing’s ever that black and white.
Franks doesn’t like it when April starts talking about their life as something awful, a mistake – what is more important, her mistake and her fault – for, according to him, “nothing’s ever that black and white”. Of course, they have problems, they don’t always see eye to eye and their relationship is more often than not is less than cordial, but other people also live like that. Who ever said that he “was supposed to be a big deal?” What if it is like it should to be?
Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?
April can’t understand why Frank refuses to take the idea of going to Paris seriously. It seems that he is too fond of his dull desk job and that uneventful existence. She can’t understand why he doesn’t crave for freedom of choice, for a life free of those unspoken rules of the middle class society. She asks him, “can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?” and she can’t believe that he is ready refuse from freedom just because he is neither a writer nor an artist. People live comfortably with the idea of artists being eccentric but are not fond of the idea of others behaving like that and that is an interesting phenomenon.
