A Man Is Not A Bird, To

Pathos Truly Is The Mode For The Pessimist. But Tragedy Requires A Nicer Balance Between What Is Possible And What Is Impossible. And It Is Curious, Although Edifying, That The Plays We Revere, Century After Century, Are The Tragedies. In Them, And In Them Alone, Lies The Belief-optimistic, If You Will, In The Perfectibility Of Man.

I Don't Know A Critic Who Penetrates The Center Of Anything.

In His Play Depicting The Salem Witch Trials, The Author Illustrates Profound Psychological Bullying. The Ringleader Of Young Girls Suspected Of Unsavory Conduct, Frightens Her Friends Into Silence By Warning: Now, Look You; All Of You. We Danced. And Tituba Conjured Ruth Putnam's Dead Sisters, And That Was All. ... Let Either Of You Breathe A Word, Or The Edge Of A Word, About The Other Things, And I Will Come To You In The Black Of Some Terrible Night, And I Will Bring A Pointy Reckoning That Will Shudder You.

I’m A Writer, And Everything I Write Is Both A Confession And A Struggle To Understand Things About Myself And This World In Which I Live. This Is What Everyone’s Work Should Be-whether You Dance Or Paint Or Sing. It Is A Confession, A Baring Of Your Soul, Your Faults, Those Things You Simply Cannot Or Will Not Understand Or Accept. You Stumble Forward, Confused, And You Share. If You’re Lucky, You Learn Something.

I Think It's A Mistake To Ever Look For Hope Outside Of One's Self.