šovakar bija jauks vakars ar cibas dāmām, man jau patīk satikt cilvēkus arī ārpus url'a. un vakar es briesmīgi iesprūdu tramvajā, bet, par laimi, man bija līdzi Tenesija Viljamsa lugu izlase. lugas vispār ir interesanta lasāmviela, bet vēl interesantāks par lugām bija priekšvārds. tagad, protams, tēma ir nenormāli nodrāzta, bet laikam 50. gados tik ļoti par cilvēku vientulību mākslinieki vēl nerunāja, un Viljamsam ir izdevies tik perfekti izteikties, ka liekas - jebko citu par šo tēmu teikt ir vienkārši lieki.

Of course it is a pity that so much of all creative work is so closely related to the personality of the one who does it.

It is sad and embarrassing and unattractive that those emotions that stir him deeply enough to demand expression, and to charge their expression with some measure of light and power, are nearly all rooted, however changed in their surface, in the particular and sometimes peculiar concerns of the artist himself, that special world, the passions and images of it that each of us weaves about him from birth to death, a web of monstrous complexity, spun forth at a speed that is incalculable to a length beyond measure, from the spider-mouth of his own singular perceptions.

It is a lonely idea, a lonely condition, so terrifying to think of that we usually don't. And so we talk to each other, write and wire each other, call each other short and long distance across land and sea, clasp hands with each other at meeting and at parting, fight each other and even destroy each other because of this always somewhat thwarted effort to break through walls to each other. As a character in a play once said, "We're all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins."

Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life (..)