Traveling Is Seeing; It Is The Implicit

I Was So Mad At My Agent. I Had Polished And Polished And Polished [the Play], And He Referred To It As A Draft. I Wrote Him A Bitter Letter: How Can You Call This A Draft? I Don't Do Drafts! By Now I've Done 18, And Its Turning, In The Rehearsal Room, Into A 19th.

In 1952, I Had Gone To England On A Literary Pilgrimage, But What I Also Saw, Even At That Distance From The Blitz, Were Bombed-out Ruins And An Enervated Society, While The Continent Was Still, Psychologically, In The Grip Of Its Recent Atrocities.

Every Writer Aspires To Recognition , And It Comes Entirely Privately, Without Public Fanfare, Each Time A Piece Of Work Is Judged Worthy Of Publication.

The Imagination Has Resources And Intimations We Don't Even Know About.

Real Apprenticeship Is Ultimately Always To The Self.