A short piece of work means as much to me as a long piece of work.
Nothing is more sterile or lamentable than the man content to live within himself.
It’s very difficult to feel contempt for others when you see yourself in the mirror.
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.
Apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?
This particular nurse said, Cancer cells are those which have forgotten how to die. I was so struck by this statement.