Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?

Writing Has Got To Be An Act Of Discovery....i Write To Find Out What I'm Thinking About.

A Lot Interests Me - But Nothing Surprises Me Particularly.

If You Examine The History Of Any Playwright Of The Past Twenty - Five Or Thirty Years - I'm Not Talking About The Comedy Boys, I'm Talking About The More Serious Writers - It Seems Inevitable That Almost Every One Has Been Encouraged Until The Critics Feel That They Have Built Them Up Beyond The Point Where They Can Control Them; Then It's Time To Knock Them Down Again.

George, Who Is Out Somewhere There In The Dark, Who Is Good To Me - Whom I Revile, Who Can Keep Learning The Games We Play As Quickly As I Can Change Them. Who Can Make Me Happy And I Do Not Wish To Be Happy. And Yes, I Do Wish To Be Happy. George And Martha: Sad, Sad, Sad. Whom I Will Not Forgive For Having Come To Rest; For Having Seen Me And Having Said: “yes, This Will Do”. Who Has Made The Hideous, The Hurting, The Insulting Mistake Of Loving… Me, And Must Be Punished For It. George And Martha… Sad, Sad, Sad.

The Health Of A Nation, A Society, Can Be Determined By The Art It Demands. We Have Insisted Of Television And Our Movies That They Not Have Anything To Do With Anything, That They Be Our Never-never Land; And If We Demand This Same Function Of Our Live Theatre, What Will Be Left Of The Visual-auditory Arts - Save The Dance (in Which Nobody Talks) And Music (to Which Nobody Listens)?