There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.

Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.

There is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. Perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood.

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

Interest in the lives of others, the high evaluation of these lives, what are they but the overflow of the interest a man finds in himself, the value he attributes to his own being?.

You can make a killing as a playwright in America, but you can't make a living.