Starting all that again, should her horse collar sprout the fresh flowers of her grovelling desire. When she said, “I want a baby Henry,” it sounded like some grim confession. “I've got cancer.” “I had it with your best friend” “I want a baby, Henry.”[…]

But the play’s snatches of racy prose do not offset its stretches of lumpish playwriting. Too often both untidy and oldfashioned, it closed after four performances.

The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good Witch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed:

Janzen's critiques of most of my present chapters, with his soaring imagination, unencumbered passion for theologizing, and relentless wrestling, often revealed and challenged my flat-footed muddlings […]