The Arts Are The Only Things That

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.

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.

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.

I Do Not Invent Characters. There They Are. That's Who They Are. That's Their Nature. They Talk And They Behave The Way They Want To Behave. I Don't Have A Character Behaving One Way, Then A Point Comes In The Play Where The Person Has To Either Stay Or Leave. If I Had It Plotted That The Person Leaves, Then The Person Leaves. If That's What The Person Wants To Do. I Let The Person Do What The Person Wants Or Has To Do At The Time Of The Event.

I Said I Was Impressed, Martha. I'm Beside Myself With Jealousy. What Do You Want Me To Do, Throw Up?