You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

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

I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.

The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

The lives of people are like young trees in a forest. They are being choked by climbing vines. The vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men.

I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.