The Theatre Is A Tragic Place, Full

Art Is Brief. (not In A Temporal Sense.) [...] Words Are For Concealment. Art Is Concealment.

The Human Soul Is Not Framed For Continued Proximity, And The Result Of This Enforced Neighbourhood Is Often An Appalling Loneliness For Which The Rules Of The Game Forbid Assuagement.

To Be Understood Is Not A Human Right. Even To Understand Oneself Is Not A Human Right.

There Is Nothing Like The Bootless Solitude Of Those Who Are Caged Together.

In Almost Every Marriage There Is A Selfish And An Unselfish Partner. A Pattern Is Set Up And Soon Becomes Inflexible, Of One Person Always Making The Demands And One Person Always Giving Way.