I Was Brought Up In The War.

The Weasel Under The Cocktail Cabinet.

As A Writer You're Holding A Dog. You Let The Dog Run About. But You Finally Can Pull Him Back. Finally, I'm In Control. But The Great Excitement Is To See What Happens If You Let The Whole Thing Go. And The Dog Or The Character Really Runs About, Bites Everyone In Sight, Jumps Up Trees, Falls Into Lakes, Gets Wet, And You Let That Happen. That's The Excitement Of Writing Plays-to Allow The Thing To Be Free But Still Hold The Final Leash.

I Think We Communicate Only Too Well, In Our Silence, In What Is Unsaid, And That What Takes Place Is A Continual Evasion, Desperate Rearguard Attempts To Keep Ourselves To Ourselves. Communication Is Too Alarming. To Enter Into Someone Else's Life Is Too Frightening. To Disclose To Others The Poverty Within Us Is Too Fearsome A Possibility.

Language In Art Remains A Highly Ambiguous Transaction, A Quicksand, A Trampoline, A Frozen Pool Which Might Give Way Under You ... At Any Time.

Beckett Had An Unerring Light On Things, Which I Much Appreciated.