I do not want to have the feeling of writing "for eternity," so to speak.

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

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

Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

The first thing a proprietor learns, and painfully at that, is: Trust is fine, but control is better.

Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.

It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.