Some things that make sense to me don't make the same degree of sense to other people.

Why we are here is an impenetrable question.

Martha: Oh, I like your anger. I think that's what I like about you most. Your anger.

I am a Doctor. A.B... M.A... PH.D... ABMAPHID! Abmaphid has been variously described as a wasting disease of the frontal lobes, and as a wonder drug. It is actually both.

I said I was impressed, Martha. I'm beside myself with jealousy. What do you want me to do, throw up?

I think it's for the critics to decide whether or not their loathing of the play is based on something other than the play's merits or demerits. They must search their own souls, or whatever.

Writing has got to be an act of discovery. Finding out things about what one is writing about.