In the two or three or four months that it takes me to write a play, I find that the reality of the play is a great deal more alive for me than what passes for reality. I'm infinitely more involved in the reality of the characters and their situation than I am in everyday life. The involvement is terribly intense.

There is chaos behind the civility, of course.

Musical beds is the faculty sport around here.

I suspect that the theme, the nature of the characters, and the method of getting from the beginning of the play to the end is already established in the unconscious.

The final evaluation of a play has nothing to do with immediate audience or critical response.

Good writers define reality; bad ones merely restate it.

I am not interested in living in a city where there isn't a production by Samuel Beckett running.