Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

A Nation That Does Not Support And Encourage Its Theater Is - If Not Dead - Dying; Just As A Theater That Does Not Capture With Laughter And Tears The Social And Historical Pulse, The Drama Of Its People, The Genuine Color Of The Spiritual And Natural Landscape, Has No Right To Call Itself Theater; But Only A Place For Amusement.

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

The Poem, The Song, The Picture, Is Only Water Drawn From The Well Of The People, And It Should Be Given Back To Them In A Cup Of Beauty So That They May Drink - And In Drinking Understand Themselves.

All One's Personality Is Embedded In Gloves And Hats After They've Been Good And Used. Show Me A Glove And I'll Tell You The Character Of Its Owner.

In The Garden I Will Die. In The Rosebush They Will Kill Me.