I think that every year that the New York City Ballet is alive is worthy of celebration. Because otherwise the terrible thing is just that we take it for granted.

The great risk is always saying, "how will I communicate what I'm trying to get across to a room full of strangers sitting in the dark watching a stage?"

1975 is as much a historical document as 1803.

Like a dog, a playwright lives in an eternal present and a play is never closed.

You can't kind of take away, you either do or you don't. If you kind of take away something you're a failure.

The rich live hand-to-mouth too-just on a higher level.

Oh god, I'd just hate it if a certain dramaturg got a hold of a Pinter play, for example, which are all mystery and all music. That's how the life get's sucked out of plays.