Apart From The Known And

The Past Is What You Remember, Imagine You Remember, Convince Yourself You Remember, Or Pretend You Remember.

I Ought Not To Speak About The Dead Because The Dead Are All Over The Place.

Do The Structures Of Language And The Structures Of Reality (by Which I Mean What Actually Happens) Move Along Parallel Lines? Does Reality Essentially Remain Outside Language, Separate, Obdurate, Alien, Not Susceptible To Description? Is An Accurate And Vital Correspondence Between What Is And Our Perception Of It Impossible? Or Is It That We Are Obliged To Use Language Only In Order To Obscure And Distort Reality -- To Distort What Happens -- Because We Fear It?

My Second Play, The Birthday Party, I Wrote In 1958 - Or 1957. It Was Totally Destroyed By The Critics Of The Day, Who Called It An Absolute Load Of Rubbish.

I Don't Give A Damn What Other People Think. It's Entirely Their Own Business. I'm Not Writing For Other People.