Dashed Hopes And Good Intentions. Good, Better,

I Don't Set Out To Write A Play A Year. Sometimes I've Written Two Plays A Year. There Was A Period Of A Year And Half When I Only Wrote Half A Play. If It Depresses Some Critics That I Seem Prolific, Well, That's Their Problem As Much As Mine.

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.

It Always Seems To Me Better To Slough Off The Answer To A Question That I Consider To Be A Terrible Invasion Of Privacy - The Kind Of Privacy That A Writer Must Keep For Himself.

There Are Two Things That A Playwright Can Have. Success Or Failure. I Imagine There Are Dangers In Both. Certainly The Danger Of Being Faced With Indifference Or Hostility Is Discouraging, And It May Be That Success - Acceptance If It's Too Quick, Too Lightning-quick - Can Turn The Heads Of Some People.

The Playwright, Along With Any Writer, Composer, Painter In This Society, Has Got To Have A Terribly Private View Of His Own Value, Of His Own Work. He's Got To Listen To His Own Voice Primarily. He's Got To Watch Out For Fads, For What Might Be Called The Critical Aesthetics.