Macbeth and King Lear are both well-written tragedies, but I find the former exciting, the latter mostly depressing. I think the reason I have a sneaking love for melodrama is that everything in it is of overwhelming urgency. More realistic works feed my underlying suspicions that my own concerns are petty, my actions trivial, and most of my striving ultimately pointless. It is sometimes difficult for me to distinguish quiet dignity from quiet desperation. I get fed up with the quiet and go looking for something that makes a satisfactory amount of noise.