Why we are here is an impenetrable question.

When people don't like the way a play ends, they're likely to blame the play.

Within a year after I write a play I forget the experience of having written it. And I couldn't revise or rewrite it if I wanted to. Up until that point, I'm so involved with the experience of having written the play, and the nature of it, that I can't see what faults it might have. The only moment of clear objectivity that I can find is at the moment of critical heat - of self-critical heat when I'm actually writing.

I suppose, writing a play is finding out what the play is.

You're alive only once, as far as we know, and what could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived it?

American critics are like American universities. They both have dull and half-dead faculties.

You gotta have swine to show you where the truffles are.