Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.

Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.

Eroding solidarity paradoxically makes a society more susceptible to the construction of substitute collectives and fascisms of all kinds.

My plays are made up of long monologues, which is similar to prose working with the language

Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.

I cannot stand public attention, I just can't. Of course, if I may I might write something instead

Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.