All great writers—especially playwrights—become, at some point, drunk on their own words. Ben Johnson accused Shakespeare of such literary inebriation. I think the same could be said of Eugene O’Neill, Edward Albee and James Joyce—which brings me nicely to Tom Stoppard and his own great, besotted spillage of verbiage, TRAVESTIES, revived by the Roundabout Theatre Company. I first saw this play on Broadway in 1975 with the wonderful John Wood as Henry Carr. That was in my salad days, when I was green in judgment—by which I mean a lot of the play was WAY over my head. Yet I still