Drama read to oneself is never drama at its best, and is not even drama as it should be.

Rare is the human being, immature or mature, who has never felt an impulse to pretend he is some one or something else.

We do not kill the drama, we do not really limit its appeal by failing to encourage the best in it; but we do thereby foster the weakest and poorest elements.

In the best farce today we start with some absurd premise as to character or situation, but if the premises be once granted we move logically enough to the ending.

What then is tragedy? In the Elizabethan period it was assumed that a play ending in death was a tragedy, but in recent years we have come to understand that to live on is sometimes far more tragic than death.

But what is drama? Broadly speaking, it is whatever by imitative action rouses interest or gives pleasure.

There is no essential difference between the material of comedy and tragedy. All depends on the point of view of the dramatist, which, by clever emphasis, he tries to make the point of view of his audience.