Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.

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