The Immature Poet Imitates, The Mature Poet

I Will Show You Fear In A Handful Of Dust.

History May Be Servitude. History May Be Freedom. See, Now They Vanish. The Faces And Places, With The Self Which, As It Could, Loved Them, To Become Renewed, Transfigured, In Another Pattern.

Let Us Go Then, You And I, When The Evening Is Spread Out Against The Sky

Playwriting Gets Into Your Blood And You Can't Stop It. At Least Not Until The Producers Or The Public Tell You To.

If One Has To Earn A Living, Therefore, The Safest Occupation Is That Most Remote From The Arts.