Acting is such a desperately futile profession anyway. Playing out the lives
of other men. Knowing of their failures and successes long before they ever
do. Living, suffering, murdering, dying … all in the space of three hours.
Sometimes only two. And in such a confined little area. And over and over
again every night. Can you imagine anything more perfectly stupid?
Squeezing a whole existence into a measly evening’s entertainment on the
stage? And not only that – in the middle of it all – pausing for an
intermission. It makes one’s own life seem unbearably preposterous,
doesn’t it?

Autore: Morris Panych