Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

Nothing is more sterile or lamentable than the man content to live within himself.

The more acute the experience, the less articulate its expression.

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.

There never is any such thing as one truth to be found in dramatic art. There are many. These truths challenge each other, recoil from each other, reflect each other, ignore each other, tease each other, are blind to each other. Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.

It’s very difficult to feel contempt for others when you see yourself in the mirror.