Tragedy, for me, is not a conflict between right and wrong, but between two different kinds of right.
Peter ShafferRead
I discover what I mean as I write. That can be both terrifically exciting and very dangerous, because when you look at your words later, you wonder, 'Did I really mean that, or am I just making verbal patterns?'
Interpretation
Writing is a process of self-discovery that can lead to profound insights or unexpected confusion.
Peter Shaffer's quote reflects the dual nature of the writing process, where the act of expressing oneself can unveil deeper meanings and emotions, yet also raise doubts about the authenticity of those expressions. It emphasizes that writing is not just a mechanical act of putting words together, but a journey of exploration that may lead to clarity or bewilderment.
In practice
This quote can be used in a writing workshop to encourage participants to embrace the unpredictability of their work.
Tragedy, for me, is not a conflict between right and wrong, but between two different kinds of right.
Things rust, you know, like the heart. My cardiologist said, 'It's a pump; use it - that's the sole advice I've got to give you.' It's the same in playwriting. Don't theorise about it. Do it.
Rehearsing a play is making the word flesh. Publishing a play is reversing the process.
The Normal is the good smile in a child’s eyes - all right. It is also the dead stare in a million adults.
I wanted to use what I was, to be what I was born to be - not to have a 'career', but to be that straightforward obvious unmistakable animal, a writer.
When you write for a living and you can't do anything else, you know that sooner or later that the deadline is going to come screaming down on you like a goddamn banshee. There's no avoiding it...So one day you just don't appear at the El Adobe bar anymore; you shut the door, paint the windows black, rent an electric typewriter and become the monster you always were - the writer.
I do believe that movies are subject to a million interpretations.
A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.
It's not that he lacked poetry. But his poetry was of the body, not the mind. He spoke it in the way he moved, the way he held a hammer, rowed a boat, built a fire. I, on the other hand, was like a brain in a box, a beating heart in a coal scuttle.
Literature is inexhaustible, with every book a homage to infinity
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