In January 1962, when I was the author of one and a half unperformed plays, I attended a student production of 'The Birthday Party' at the Victoria Rooms in Bristol. Just before it began, I realised that Harold Pinter was sitting in front of me.

Rosencrantz: I don't believe in it anyway. Guildenstern: What? Rosencrantz: England. Guildenstern: Just a conspiracy of cartographers, then?

For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.

It takes character to withstand the rigours of indolence.

Suicide is no more than a trick played on the calendar.

Any revival in which I am involved is liable to change.

The colours red, blue and green are real. The colour yellow is a mystical experience shared by everybody.