I never had a dog that showed a human fear of death. Death, to a dog, is the final unavoidable compulsion, the least ineluctable scent on a fearsome trail, but they like to face it alone, going out into the woods, among the leaves, if there are any leaves when their time comes, enduring without sentimental human distraction the Last Loneliness, which they are wise enough to know cannot be shared by anyone.

If a playwright tried to see eye to eye with everybody, he would get the worst case of strabismus since Hannibal lost an eye trying to count his nineteen elephants during a snowstorm while crossing the Alps.

Humor and pathos, tears and laughter are, in the highest expression of human character and achievement, inseparable.

Some American writers who have known each other for years have never met in the daytime or when both were sober.

I think that maybe if women and children were in charge we would get somewhere.

We all know that the theater and every play that comes to Broadway have within themselves, like the human being, the seed of self-destruction and the certainty of death. The thing is to see how long the theater, the play, and the human being can last in spite of themselves.

The laughter of man is more terrible than his tears, and takes more forms -hollow, heartless, mirthless, maniacal.