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.

All the New York City Ballet does is hit beautiful home runs.

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.

I believe that the imagination is the passport we create to take us into the real world. I believe the imagination is another phrase for what is most uniquely us.

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

You don't push the button that says "Now I will write something that resonates in time." You don't know. It's what happens after a play is finished.

We live in a world where amnesia is the most wished-for state. When did history become a bad word?