A Play Is Fiction And Fiction Is

I Discover That I Am Thinking About A Play, Which Is The First Awareness I Have That A New Play Is Forming. When I'm Aware Of The Play Forming In My Head, It's Already At A Certain Degree In Development.

The Notion That Women Are Less Aesthetically Profound And Innovative Than Men--just Not Very Important, If You Know What I Mean--doubtless Spreads Back To Our Beginnings As Upright Animals: The Males Hunted And Killed For The Family While The Females Stayed Home In The Cave And Tended The Strange Little Creatures They Were Giving Birth To.

One Has Always Got To Be Terribly Careful, Since The Theater Is Made Up Of A Whole Bunch Of Prima Donnas, Not To Let The Distortions Occur.

George, Who Is Out Somewhere There In The Dark, Who Is Good To Me - Whom I Revile, Who Can Keep Learning The Games We Play As Quickly As I Can Change Them. Who Can Make Me Happy And I Do Not Wish To Be Happy. And Yes, I Do Wish To Be Happy. George And Martha: Sad, Sad, Sad. Whom I Will Not Forgive For Having Come To Rest; For Having Seen Me And Having Said: “yes, This Will Do”. Who Has Made The Hideous, The Hurting, The Insulting Mistake Of Loving… Me, And Must Be Punished For It. George And Martha… Sad, Sad, Sad.

People Often Ask Me How Long It Takes Me To Write A Play, And I Tell Them 'all Of My Life.'