The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

Commissions Suit Me. They Set Limits. Jean Marais Dared Me To Write Play In Which He Would Not Speak In The First Act, Would Weep For Joy In The Second And In The Last Would Fall Backward Down A Flight Of Stairs.

There Are Too Many Souls Of Wood Not To Love Those Wooden Characters Who Do Indeed Have A Soul.

Inspiration Arrived As A Result Of Profound Indolence... I Awoke With A Start And Witnessed As From A Seat In A Theatre, Three Acts Of A Potentially Awesome Play.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.