You know, a playwright lives in an occupied country. He’s the enemy. And if you can’t live that way you don’t stay.
Where choice begins. Paradise ends. Innocence ends, for what is Paradise but the absence of any need to choose this action?
When the government goes into the business of destroying trust, it goes into the business of destroying itself.
When irrational terror takes to itself the fiat of moral goodness, somebody has to die. I thought then that in terms of this process the witch hunts had something to say to the anti-Communist hysteria. No man lives who has not got a panic button and when it is pressed by the clean white hand of moral duty, a certain murderous train is set in motion.
What is the most innocent place in any country? Is it not the insane asylum? These people drift through life truly innocent, unable to see into themselves at all.
Theater is a very changeable art. It responds to the moment in history the way the newspaper does, and there’s no predicting what to come up with next.
The very impulse to write, I think, springs from an inner chaos crying for order, for meaning, and that meaning must be discovered in the process of writing or the work lies dead as it is finished.