Martha: Truth or illusion, George; you don’t know the difference.George: No, but we must carry on as though we did.Martha: Amen.
What could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn’t lived it
Martha: Oh, I like your anger. I think that’s what I like about you most. Your anger.
In my mind, Martha, you are buried in cement right up to your neck. No… right up to your nose… that’s much quieter.
Good writers define reality; bad ones merely restate it. A good writer turns fact into truth; a bad writer will, more often than not, accomplish the opposite.
To all of you who have made my being alive so wonderful, so exciting and so full, my thanks and all my love.
I am not interested in living in a city where there isn’t a production by Samuel Beckett running.
Knowing it–knowing it’s true is one thing, but believing what you know… well, there’s the tough part.
I said I was impressed, Martha. I’m beside myself with jealousy. What do you want me to do, throw up?
I have a fine sense of the ridiculous, but no sense of humor.
A play is fiction – and fiction is fact distilled into truth.