The best of our theater is standing on tiptoe, striving to see over the shoulders of father and mother. The worst is exploiting and wallowing in the self-pity of adolescence and obsessive keyhole sexuality. The way out, as the poet says, is always through.

Suicide kills two people.

Poor brain! How helplessly it dissolves when willing eyes meet and the nose warms to those old jungle scents.

There are many who stay away from church these days because you hardly ever mention God any more.

Whoever is writing in the United States is using the American Dream as an ironical pole of his story. People elsewhere tend to accept, to a far greater degree anyway, that the conditions of life are hostile to mans pretensions.

He wants to live on through something - and in his case, his masterpiece is his son. All of us want that, and it gets more poignant as we get more anonymous in this world.

Above all else, tragedy requires the finest appreciation by the writer of cause and effect.