I Know Little Of Women. But I've

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

The Weasel Under The Cocktail Cabinet.

I Don't Think There's Been Any Writer Like Samuel Beckett. He's Unique. He Was A Most Charming Man And I Used To Send Him My Plays.

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.

How Can The Unknown Merit Reverence? In Other Words How Can You Revere That Of Which You Are Ignorant? At The Same Time, It Would Be Ridiculous To Propose That What We Know Merits Reverence. What We Know Merits Any One Of A Number Of Things, But It Stands To Reason Reverence Isn't One Of Them. In Other Words, Apart From The Known And The Unknown, What Else Is There?