The Atlantic Ocean Was Something Then.

What We're Dealt With Hopefully Is Two Arms, Two Eyes, Two Legs, A Head, A Heart. The Variations, The Extensions, The Possibilities Of The Human Body, What That Can Do

Sometimes You Have To Protect The Life Of The Play. It Seems Like Spelling Out Mysterious, Musical Details Can Destroy A Play By Making The Motivations Too Clear, Too Simplex.

Like A Dog, A Playwright Lives In An Eternal Present And A Play Is Never Closed.

You Can Read Ten Books And Finally Come Across One Detail, And It's Like, "now Everything Else Makes Sense. Now I Know Where I Am."

You Cannot Write To Resonate Twenty Or Thirty Or Forty Years From Now. You Only Can Write For That Very Day, But Whatever Happens Is All Gravy.