The Room I wrote in 1957, and I was really gratified to find that it stood up. I didn't have to change a word.

How can the unknown merit reverence? In other words how can you revere that of which you are ignorant? At the same time, it would be ridiculous to propose that what we know merits reverence. What we know merits any one of a number of things, but it stands to reason reverence isn't one of them. In other words, apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?

I don't give a damn what other people think. It's entirely their own business. I'm not writing for other people.

My second play, The Birthday Party, I wrote in 1958 - or 1957. It was totally destroyed by the critics of the day, who called it an absolute load of rubbish.

I'll tell you what I really think about politicians. The other night I watched some politicians on television talking about Vietnam. I wanted very much to burst through the screen with a flame thrower and burn their eyes out and their balls off and then inquire from them how they would assess the action from a political point of view.

I mean, if a thing works, if a thing is right, respect that, acknowledge it, respect it and hold to it.

It's so easy for propaganda to work, and dissent to be mocked.