The Power Of Language, It Seems To

Bohemia And All Its Works Are Vanished Out Of America; Or, More Exactly, Bohemia Has Migrated To The Middle Class, And Is Alive And Well In Condo And Suburb.

I Read In Order To Write. I Read Out Of Obsession With Writing.

The Power Of Language, It Seems To Me, Is The Only Kind Of Power A Writer Is Entitled To.

Wars, Invented And Organized By The Highest Available Consciousnesses (do The Worms Go To War? Do The Fish? Do The Paramecia?), Are The Planet's Chief Source And Cause Of Torment.

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.