I write out of my intellectual experience.

When people discuss his plays, he says that he feels like he's standing at customs watching an official ransack his luggage. He cheerfully declares responsibility for a play about two people, and suddenly the officer is finding all manner of exotic contraband like the nature of God and identity, and while he can't deny that they're there, he can't for the life of him remember putting them there. In the end, a play is not the product of an idea; an idea is the product of a play.

Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn't death! You scream and choke and sink to your knees but it doesn't bring death home to anyone- it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says- 'One day you are going to die.

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

Better a fallen rocket than never a burst of light.

War is capitalism with the gloves off.

Beauty is desired in order that it may be befouled; not for its own sake, but for the joy brought by the certainty of profaning it.