Throughout the play everything possible was done to show the virtue, innocence and helplessness of the poor, and the abandoned cruelty, the heartless self-indulgence of the rich.

Something you have to make...It's all work, work.

When a woman gets the idea of justice, there's no teaching her any sense.

Reality is a narrow little house which becomes a prison to those who can't get out of it.

The will is never free - it is always attached to an object, a purpose. It is simply the engine in the car - it can't steer

Sara could commit adultery at one end and weep for her sins at the other, and enjoy both operations at once.

The concept, the label, is perpetually hiding from us all the nature of the real.