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.

I've seldom minded other people's opinions, but the other side of that coin is that I've seldom been interested by them, um their opinions about me I mean.

And for the last three minutes on the wind of a windless day I have heard the sound of drums and flute.

Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You'd have a chance at least. You could lie there thinking: Well, at least I'm not dead.

Words, words. They're all we have to go on.

It would have been nice to have had unicorns.

If an idea's worth having once, it's worth having twice.