As a writer, I've always believed that while my work and I myself are embedded in whatever period I am writing about, clearly I am sensitive to the winds that are blowing in the culture. At the same time, I have always felt that the issue was not to deal with the problem in the abstract, but to deal with the people who are in that problem. The emphasis is on the people. The general problem begins to resolve itself even before the play is finished.

It may be that even if half consciously, we choose our personalities to maintain a certain saving balance in the family's little universe.

I'm the end of the line; absurd and appalling as it may seem, serious New York theater has died in my lifetime.

I cannot sleep for dreaming; I cannot dream but I wake and walk about the house as though I'd find you coming through some door.

Sometimes...it's better for a man just to walk away. But if you can't walk away? I guess that's when it's tough.

And yet one can't forever stand on the shore; at some point, even if filled with indecision, skepticism, reservation and doubt, you either jump in or concede that life is forever elsewhere.

I am bewildered by the death of love. And my responsibility for it.