A Nose That Can See Is Worth

The Light Of Memory, Or Rather The Light That Memory Lends To Things, Is The Palest Light Of All. I Am Not Quite Sure Whether I Am Dreaming Or Remembering, Whether I Have Lived My Life Or Dreamed It. Just As Dreams Do, Memory Makes Me Profoundly Aware Of The Unreality, The Evanescence Of The World, A Fleeting Image In The Moving Water.

It Is Not The Answer That Enlightens, But The Question.

I Am, It Seems, An Avant-garde Dramatist. It Would Even Seem Obvious Since I Am Present Here At Discussions On The Avant-garde Theatre. It Is All Entirely Official. But What Does The Term Avant-garde Mean?

When Silence Confronts Us, The Question To Which There Is No Answer Rings Out In The Silence. That Ultimate "why," That Great "why" Is Like A Light That Blots Out Everything, But A Blinding Light; Nothing More Can Be Made Out.

Of Course, Not Everything Is Unsayable In Words, Only The Living Truth.