Life in a box is better than no life at all... I expect.

Of all forms of fiction, autobiography is the most gratuitous.

ROS: Why don't you go and have a look? GUIL: Pragmatism?! - is that all you have to offer?

I consider myself to be a very fortunate person and to have led a very fortunate life.

My life feels, week to week, incomplete to the level of being pointless if I am not in preparation for the next play or, ideally, into it.

Autumnal -- nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day ... Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it ... Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses... deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth -- reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

Give us this day our daily mask.