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A playwright … is … the litmus paper of the arts. He's got to be, because if he isn't working on the same wave length as the audience, no one would know what in hell he was talking about. He is a kind of psychic journalist, even when he's great.
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They don't need me in New York. I'm the New England man. I'm vital in New England.
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I think now that the great thing is not so much the formulation of an answer for myself, for the theater, or the play - but rather the most accurate possible statement of the problem.
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When irrational terror takes to itself the fiat of moral goodness somebody has to die. … No man lives who has not got a panic button, and when it is pressed by the clean white hand of moral duty, a certain murderous train is set in motion.
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That is a very good question. I don't know the answer. But can you tell me the name of a classical Greek shoemaker?
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He wants to live on through something - and in his case, his masterpiece is his son… all of us want that, and it gets more poignant as we get more anonymous in this world.
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Sit down, Willy.
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The job is to ask questions - it always was - and to ask them as inexorably as I can. And to face the absence of precise answers with a certain humility.
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I'm the end of the line; absurd and appalling as it may seem, serious New York theater has died in my lifetime.
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The best of our theater is standing on tiptoe, striving to see over the shoulders of father and mother. The worst is exploiting and wallowing in the self-pity of adolescence and obsessive keyhole sexuality. The way out, as the poet says, is always through.