Although the theater is not life, it is composed of fragments or imitations of life, and people on both sides of the footlight have to unite to make the fragments whole and the imitations genuine.

Good plays drive bad playgoers crazy.

There is a good deal of solemn cant about the common interests of capital and labor. As matters stand, their only common interest is that of cutting each others throat.

Real art is illumination, it adds stature to life.

Life is seldom as unendurable as, to judge by the facts, it logically ought to be.

It seems not to have been written. It is the quintessence of life. It is the basic truth.

Nothing a man writes can please him as profoundly as something he does with his back, shoulders and hands. For writing is an artificial activity. It is a lonely and private substitute for conversation.