My second play, The Birthday Party, I wrote in 1958 - or 1957. It was totally destroyed by the critics of the day, who called it an absolute load of rubbish.
A few friends and me used to go and watch Bunuel, Carne, Cocteau... Cocteau and Bunuel were surrealism. And I was very excited by that. 'Un Chien Andalou', especially.
One way of looking at speech is to say it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness.
Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.
I find the whole Blairish idea more and more repugnant every day. 'New Labour': the term itself is so trashy. Kind of ersatz.
Quite simply, my writing life has been one of relish, challenge, excitement.