A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.

The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.

The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything.

Words, particularly in a play, should have the texture of a crisp, autumn apple.

They're cheering a young lad, the champion playboy of the Western World.

In a good play every speech should be as fully flavored as a nut or apple.