I Write The Big Scenes First, That

Throughout The Play Everything Possible Was Done To Show The Virtue, Innocence And Helplessness Of The Poor, And The Abandoned Cruelty, The Heartless Self-indulgence Of The Rich.

An Old Mans Memories, Like His Bones, Grow Sharp With Age And Show Their True Shapes.

The Concept, The Label, Is Perpetually Hiding From Us All The Nature Of The Real.

Life Would Die Without Poets, And Democracy Must Have Its Spellbinders.

A Foul-mouthed Oaf, A Drunken Laborer Lying In A Drain, A Beaten Wife With Blackened Eyes And Torn Clothes, Cannot Be Made Romantic To A Child Who Sees How Other Children Suffer From Bad-tempered Parents, From Drunken Fathers To Termagant Mothers.