There Are Some Good Rules And There

I Know Little Of Women. But I've Heard Dread Tales.

A Writer's Life Is A Highly Vulnerable, Almost Naked Activity. We Don't Have To Weep About That. The Writer Makes His Choice And Is Stuck With It. But It Is True To Say That You Are Open To All The Winds, Some Of Them Icy Indeed. You Are Out On Your Own, Out On A Limb. You Find No Shelter, No Protection - Unless You Lie - In Which Case Of Course You Have Constructed Your Own Protection And, It Could Be Argued, Become A Politician.

I Thought The Plays Would Speak For Themselves. But They Didn't.

Watching First Nights, Though I've Seen Quite A Few By Now, Is Never Any Better. It's A Nerve-racking Experience. It's Not A Question Of Whether The Play Goes Well Or Badly. It's Not The Audience Reaction, It's My Reaction. I'm Rather Hostile Toward Audiences—i Don't Much Care For Large Bodies Of People Collected Together. Everyone Knows That Audiences Vary Enormously; It's A Mistake To Care Too Much About Them. The Thing One Should Be Concerned With Is Whether The Performance Has Expressed What One Set Out To Express In Writing The Play. It Sometimes Does.

As A Writer You're Holding A Dog. You Let The Dog Run About. But You Finally Can Pull Him Back. Finally, I'm In Control. But The Great Excitement Is To See What Happens If You Let The Whole Thing Go. And The Dog Or The Character Really Runs About, Bites Everyone In Sight, Jumps Up Trees, Falls Into Lakes, Gets Wet, And You Let That Happen. That's The Excitement Of Writing Plays-to Allow The Thing To Be Free But Still Hold The Final Leash.