Actors are cave dwellers in a rich darkness which they love and hate.

Reading and writing and the preservation of language and its forms and the kind of eloquence and the kind of beauty which the language is capable of is terribly important to the human beings because this is connected to thought.

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.

People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.

Real misery cuts off all paths to itself.

Love can't always do work. Sometimes it just has to look into the darkness.

The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement.