The Body Is The Garden Of The

I Think That When You're Writing Plays, And I Think It's Also True With Novels, It Helps To Have An Ear For The Music Of Language, For What We Call Poetry, For The Sound Effects And The Way That The Sound Can Produce Sensual Feeling At Odds With Or Consonant With The Content Of The Work. Your Work Is Also Gorgeous Writing. It's Very Unfortunate When You Open A Novel That Everybody's Loving And It's Just, You Know, An Excruciatingly Bad Sentence.

I'm Not A Poet. I Wish I Was A Poet But I'm Not. I'm A Playwright. And So I Have A Different Set Of Antecedents.

I Could Give You Absolutely Sterling Advice On How To Avoid Writing, How When You Run Out Of Things To Do Other Than Going To Your Desk And Writing, When Every Closet Is Reorganized And You've Called Your Oldest Living Relative Twice In One Day To See What She's Up To And There Isn't An Unanswered E-mail Left On Your Computer Or You Simply Can't Bear To Answer Another One And There Is No Dignity, Not A Drop Left, In Any Further Evasion Of The Task At Hand, Namely Writing, Well, You Can Always Ask Your Dentist For A Root Canal Or Have An Accident In The Bathtub Instead.

What Makes The Voice Pathetic Is That It Doesn't Know What Kind Of People It's Reaching. Us. No One Hears It, Except Us. This Age Wanted Heroes. It Got Us Instead: Carefully Constructed, But Immobile. Subtle But, Unfit To Take Up The Burden Of The Times. It Happens. A Whole Generation Of Washouts. History Says Stand Up, And We Totter And Collapse, Weeping, Moved, But Not Sufficient.

Before The Boiling Of Blood And The Searing Of Skin Comes The Secret Catastrophe: Before Life On Earth Becomes Finally Merely Impossible, It Will For A Long Time Before Have Become Completely Unbearable.