Isn't it true that every aristocrat wants to die?
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.
One is and is not in the centre of the maelstrom of it all.
The weasel under the cocktail cabinet.
I hate brandy...it stinks of modern literature.
It was difficult being a conscientious objector in the 1940's, but I felt I had to stick to my guns.