Respect The Delicate Ecology Of Your Delusions.

I Had A Dream, In 1985, I Believe, When A Friend I'd Gone To School With Was Sick - One Of The First People I Knew Who'd Gotten The Aids Virus. I Had A Dream Of Him In His Bedroom With An Angel Crashing Through The Ceiling. I Wrote A Poem Called 'angels In America.' I've Never Looked At The Poem Since The Day I Wrote It.

Constitutional Democracy Has Created Astonishing And Apparently Irreversible Social Progress. All We're Interested In Is Talking About When Government Doesn't Work.

We Can't Just Stop. We're Not Rocks-progress, Migration, Motion Is... Modernity. It's Animate, It's What Living Things Do. We Desire. Even If All We Desire Is Stillness, It's Still Desire For.

There's A Way In Which 'the Illusion' Is A Play About The Theater.

Who Knows Better Than Artists How Much Ugliness There Is On The Way To Beauty, How Many Ghastly, Mortifying Missteps, How Many Days Of Granitic Blockheadedness And Dismaying Ineptitude There Is On The Way To Accomplishment, How Partial All Accomplishment Is, How Incomplete?