PROCTOR, his mind wild, breathless: I say--I say--God is dead!

In a dream, we are simply confronted with various loaded symbols, and where one is exhausted, it gives way to another.

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.

The famous are balloons far up in the sky, to be envied for their quiet freedom or shot down as enemies.

Controlled hysteria is what's required. To exist constantly in a state of controlled hysteria. It's agony. But everyone has agony. The difference is that I try to take my agony home and teach it to sing.

The very impulse to write springs from an inner chaos crying for order - for meaning.

I'm a fatalist.... I consider I am rejected in principle. My work is and, through my work, I am. If it's accepted, it's miraculous or the result of a misunderstanding.