A Play Is Made By

Life Is An Endless, Truly Endless Struggle. There's No Time When We're Going To Arrive At A Plateau Where The Whole Thing Gets Sorted. It's A Struggle In The Way Every Plant Has To Find It's Own Way To Stand Up Straight. A Lot Of The Time It's A Failure. And Yet It's Not A Failure If Some Enlightenment Comes From It.

I Am A Good Woman. I Know It.

Great Stones They Lay Upon His Chest Until He Plead Aye Or Nay. They Say He Give Them But Two Words. "more Weight," He Says. And Died.

Most Of The Time We Settle For Half And I Like It Better, Even As I Know How Wrong He Was And His Death Useless, I Tremble For I Confess That Something Peversley Pure Calls To Me From His Memory

Whoever Is Writing In The United States Is Using The American Dream As An Ironical Pole Of His Story. People Elsewhere Tend To Accept, To A Far Greater Degree Anyway, That The Conditions Of Life Are Hostile To Mans Pretensions.