Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

I cannot explain my plays. Each must find out for himself what is meant

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.

Words fail, there are times when even they fail.