I believe in my mask– The man I made up is meI believe in my dance– And my destiny
This isn’t champagne anymore. We went through the champagne a long time ago. This is serious stuff. The days of champagne are long gone.
I don’t understand my feelings. I really don’t. I don’t understand how I could hate you so much after so much time. How, no matter how much I’d like to not hate you, I hate you even more. It grows.
You can’t keep messing me around like this. It’s been going on too long. I can’t take it anymore. I get sick every time you come around. Then I get sick when you leave. You’re like a disease to me.
You don’t have to take it out on my typewrite ya’ know. It’s not the machine’s fault that you can’t write. It’s a sin to do that to a good machine.
For me, playwriting is and has always been like making a chair. Your concerns are balance, form, timing, lights, space, music. If you don’t have these essentials, you might as well be writing a theoretical essay, not a play.
When you write a play, you work out like a musician on a piece of music. You find all the rhythms and the melody and the harmonies and take them as they come.
Sides are being divided now. It’s very obvious. So if you’re on the other side of the fence, you’re suddenly anti-American. It’s breeding fear of being on the wrong side.
On stage, you’re not limited at all because you’re free in language: language is the source of the imagination. You can travel farther in language than you can in any film.
The funny thing about having all this so-called success is that behind it is a certain horrible emptiness.
It’s funny, in a way the actor is a writer. It’s not like the two things are so separate as to be like apples and oranges. The writer and the actor are one.
I feel like I’ve never had a home, you know? I feel related to the country, to this country, and yet I don’t know exactly where I fit in… There’s always this kind of nostalgia for a place, a place where you can reckon with yourself.
My dad had a lot of bad luck. You could see his suffering, his terrible suffering, living a life that was disappointing and looking for another one.
My old man tried to force on me a notion of what it was to be a ‘man.’ And it destroyed my dad.