Sartre’s hellish play about eternity, where if it isn’t one thing, it’s another.
The tribade now has the man forever in her ménage, she is the mirror of the infanticide, who cannot redeem the coward.
They view the scenes on Earth they have left behind, memory serves them for that, the living die or forget, the view is lost.
The dull point of pain persists in a Second Empire hotel room forever.
Pinter rearranges all that or translates it openly as Old Times, in a way.