I'm tired and it's taking an increasing amount out of me, more than I have to give physically. And that's why I want to move to Sicily and buy that little farm and raise a flock of goats and geese. I find it peaceful ... and it would be a nice way to end life.

Just another four-letter word.

I believe the way to write a good play is to convince yourself it is easy to do, then go ahead and do it with ease.

Young, gifted, and destitute.

To begin with, I turn back time. I reverse it to that quaint period, the thirties, when the huge middle class of America was matriculating in a school for the blind. Their eyes had failed them, or they had failed their eyes, and so they were having their fingers pressed forcibly down on the fiery Braille alphabet of a dissolving economy.

If you can't be yourself, what's the point of being anyone else?

Why is it so damn hard for people to talk?