Any Definition Which Limits Us Is Deplorable.

The Notion That Women Are Less Aesthetically Profound And Innovative Than Men--just Not Very Important, If You Know What I Mean--doubtless Spreads Back To Our Beginnings As Upright Animals: The Males Hunted And Killed For The Family While The Females Stayed Home In The Cave And Tended The Strange Little Creatures They Were Giving Birth To.

Naturally, No Writer Who's Any Good At All Would Sit Down And Put A Sheet Of Paper In A Typewriter And Start Typing A Play Unless He Knew What He Was Writing About.

That's The Happiest Moment. When It's All Done. When We Stop. When We Can Stop.

Every Monster Was A Man First.

George, Who Is Out Somewhere There In The Dark, Who Is Good To Me - Whom I Revile, Who Can Keep Learning The Games We Play As Quickly As I Can Change Them. Who Can Make Me Happy And I Do Not Wish To Be Happy. And Yes, I Do Wish To Be Happy. George And Martha: Sad, Sad, Sad. Whom I Will Not Forgive For Having Come To Rest; For Having Seen Me And Having Said: “yes, This Will Do”. Who Has Made The Hideous, The Hurting, The Insulting Mistake Of Loving… Me, And Must Be Punished For It. George And Martha… Sad, Sad, Sad.