For me, writing plays is far more an act of the mind than of the emotions. It's a very different kind of impulse than fiction writing.

Night is falling. The gods have left us for those who please them better. Our time in the world is passed, and we are as wasted as the wind against the mountains. Shadows are falling, the gods have left us.

The artist had captured a moment that went on suggesting other moments in the mind of the beholder. This, Timmon told me, was what every painter, every singer, every craftsman sought to create.

Words created the future, exacerbated problems, raised barriers between them. But in the silence of Ford's sleep, Ford could love Dan easily; in the stillness of Ford's rest, Dan could adore him without question or fear.

For me, writing plays is far more an act of the mind than of the emotions. It's a very different kind of impulse than fiction writing.