Old Saws Have No Teeth.

I Was So Mad At My Agent. I Had Polished And Polished And Polished [the Play], And He Referred To It As A Draft. I Wrote Him A Bitter Letter: How Can You Call This A Draft? I Don't Do Drafts! By Now I've Done 18, And Its Turning, In The Rehearsal Room, Into A 19th.

What I Felt Then I Feel Now: The Inexorable, Unchanging Interior Hum Of Doubt And Hope.

It Is True That Money Attracts; But Much Money Repels.

If Ideas Are What Feed Serious Literature And Arresting Language, Who Today Is Writing A Novel Of Ideas (which Can Often Mean Comedy)? I Think Of Joshua Cohen. Who Else?

The Usefulness Of Madmen Is Famous: They Demonstrate Society's Logic Flagrantly Carried Out Down To Its Last Scrimshaw Scrap.