He Lies Like A Book. And He

Every Day, A Piece Of Music, A Short Story, Or A Poem Dies Because Its Existence Is No Longer Justified In Our Time. And Things That Were Once Considered Immortal Have Become Mortal Again, No One Knows Them Anymore. Even Though They Deserve To Survive.

After All, When You Take A Walk You're After Solitude, And If The Solitude Won't Come To You, You Must Go To It.

Characters On Stage Should Be Flat, Like Clothes In A Fashion Show: What You Get Should Be No More Than What You See. Psychological Realism Is Repulsive, Because It Allows Us To Escape Unpalatable Reality By Taking Shelter In The “luxuriousness” Of Personality, Losing Ourselves In The Depth Of Individual Character. The Writer's Task Is To Block This Manoeuvre, To Chase Us Off To A Point From Which We Can View The Horror With A Dispassionate Eye.

Love Points The Way. Desire Is Its Ignorant Advisor.

Vice Is Basically The Love Of Failure.