Everybody Worships Me, It's Nauseating.

I Write At High Speed Because Boredom Is Bad For My Health.

I Have A Memory Like An Elephant. In Fact, Elephants Often Consult Me.

I See Her As One Great Stampede Of Lips Directed At The Nearest Derriere.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

I Will Accept Anything In The Theatre . . . Provided It Amuses Or Moves Me. But If It Does Neither, I Want To Go Home.