Somebody said once or wrote$$$ once: 'We're all of us children in a vast kindergarten trying to spell God's name with the wrong alphabet blocks!'

Nobody knew my rose of the world but me... I had too much glory. They don't want glory like that in nobody's heart.

The theatre is a place where one has time for the problems of people to whom one would show the door if they came to one's office for a job.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness$$$ youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

And so tonight we're going to make the lie true$$$ and when that's done$$$ I'll bring the liquor back here and we'll get drunk together$$$ here$$$ tonight$$$ in this place that death has come into...

Blanche: No$$$ I have the misfortune of being an English instructor. I attempt to instill a bunch of bobby-soxers and drugstore Romeos with a reverence for Hawthorne and Whitman and Poe!

He would die early$$$ since nothing so fair could decline by common degrees in a faded season.

I don't ask for your pity$$$ but just for your understanding -- not even that -- no. Just for some recognition of me in you$$$ and the enemy$$$ time$$$ in us all.

How long does it have to go on? This punishment? Haven't I done time enough$$$ haven't I served my term? Can't I apply for a-pardon?

Humans turn the places they live into great crowded piles of mud and stone$$$ like the nests termites build--but what happens when in all the world there are only termite hills left but no bush?