When A Job Is To

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

You Can Make A Killing As A Playwright In America, But You Can't Make A Living.

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.