Playwriting gets into your blood and you can't stop it. At least not until the producers or the public tell you to.

Shape without form, shade without color, Paralyzed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.

the ordinary man's experience is chaotic, irregular, fragmentary. [He] falls in love or reads Spinoza, and these two experiences have nothing to do with each other, or with the noise of the typewriter, or the smell of cooking; in the mind of the poet these experiences are always forming new wholes

Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question

It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.