Harold pinter quotes

I think that NATO is itself a war criminal.

One's life has many compartments.

A writer's life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don't have to weep about that. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection - unless you lie - in which case of course you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.

As a writer you're holding a dog. You let the dog run about. But you finally can pull him back. Finally, I'm in control. But the great excitement is to see what happens if you let the whole thing go. And the dog or the character really runs about, bites everyone in sight, jumps up trees, falls into lakes, gets wet, and you let that happen. That's the excitement of writing plays-to allow the thing to be free but still hold the final leash.

Occasionally it does hit me, the words on a page. And I still love doing that, as I have for the last 60 years.

Rationality went down the drain donkey's years ago and hasn't been seen since.

I would never use obscene language in the office. Certainly not. I kept my obscene language for the home, where it belongs.

I found the offer of a knighthood something that I couldn't possibly accept. I found it to be somehow squalid, a knighthood. There's a relationship to government about knights.

Don't forget the earth's about five thousand million years old, at least. Who can afford to live in the past?

Referees are the law. They have a whistle. They blow it. And that whistle is the articulation of God's justice.

When the storm is over and night falls and the moon is out in all its glory and all you're left with is the rhythm of the sea, of the waves, you know what God intended for the human race, you know what paradise is.

Apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?

I ought not to speak about the dead because the dead are all over the place.

The theater's much the most difficult kind of writing for me, the most naked kind, you're so entirely restricted.... I find myself stuck with these characters who are either sitting or standing, and they've either got to walk out of a door, or come in through a door, and that's about all they can do.

Clinton's hands remain incredibly clean, don't they, and Tony Blair's smile remains as wide as ever. I view these guises with profound contempt.

Do the structures of language and the structures of reality (by which I mean what actually happens) move along parallel lines? Does reality essentially remain outside language, separate, obdurate, alien, not susceptible to description? Is an accurate and vital correspondence between what is and our perception of it impossible? Or is it that we are obliged to use language only in order to obscure and distort reality -- to distort what happens -- because we fear it?

I don't write with any audience in mind. I just write. I take a chance on the audience. That's what I did originally, and I think it's worked--in the sense that I find there is an audience.

I suggest that US foreign policy can still be defined as "kiss my ass or I'll kick your head in." But of course it doesn't put it like that. It talks of "low intensity conflict..." What all this adds up to is a disease at the very centre of language, so that language becomes a permanent masquerade, a tapestry of lies.

Most of the press is in league with government, or with the status quo.

The more acute the experience, the less articulate its expression.

There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.

I know the place. It is true. Everything we do Corrects the space Between death and me And you.

Beckett had an unerring light on things, which I much appreciated.

No matter how you look at it, all the emotions connected with love are not really immortal; like all other passions in life, they are bound to fade at some point. The trick is to convert love into some lasting friendship that overcomes the fading passion.

Language in art remains a highly ambiguous transaction, a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool which might give way under you ... at any time.

Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

I sometimes wish desperately that I could write like someone else, be someone else. No one particularly. Just if I could put the pen down on paper and suddenly come out in a totally different way.

Good writing excites me, and makes life worth living.

I don't give a damn what other people think. It's entirely their own business. I'm not writing for other people.

The speech we hear is an indication of that which we don't hear. It is a necessary avoidance, a violent, sly, and anguished or mocking smoke screen which keeps the other in its true place. When true silence falls we are left with echo but are nearer nakedness. One way of looking at speech is to say that it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness.

There's a tradition in British intellectual life of mocking any non-political force that gets involved in politics, especially within the sphere of the arts and the theatre.

I think we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else's life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us is too fearsome a possibility.

All that happens is that the destruction of human beings - unless they're Americans - is called collateral damage.

There are some good rules and there are some lousy rules.

There is a movement to get an international criminal court in the world, voted for by hundreds of states-but with the noticeable absence of the United States of America.

The crimes of the U.S. throughout the world have been systematic, constant, clinical, remorseless, and fully documented but nobody talks about them.

I believe the US is a truly monstrous force in the world, now off the leash for obvious reasons.

I've had my fill of these city guttersnipes--all that scavenging scum! They're the sort of people, who, if the gates of heaven opened to them, all they'd feel would be a draught.

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law.

I no longer feel banished from myself.

It’s very difficult to feel contempt for others when you see yourself in the mirror.

There never is any such thing as one truth to be found in dramatic art. There are many. These truths challenge each other, recoil from each other, reflect each other, ignore each other, tease each other, are blind to each other. Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

There are places in my heart...where no living soul...has...or can ever...trespass.

If Milosevic is to be tried, he has to be tried by a proper court, an impartial, properly constituted court which has international respect.

I can't really articulate what I feel.

Be careful how you talk about God. He's the only God we have. If you let him go he won't come back. He won't even look back over his shoulder. And then what will you do?

Watching first nights, though I've seen quite a few by now, is never any better. It's a nerve-racking experience. It's not a question of whether the play goes well or badly. It's not the audience reaction, it's my reaction. I'm rather hostile toward audiences—I don't much care for large bodies of people collected together. Everyone knows that audiences vary enormously; it's a mistake to care too much about them. The thing one should be concerned with is whether the performance has expressed what one set out to express in writing the play. It sometimes does.

I'm not committed as a writer, in the usual sense of the term, either religiously or politically. And I'm not conscious of any particular social function. I write because I want to write. I don't see any placards on myself, and I don't carry any banners.

There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.

In Cuba I have always understood harsh treatment of dissenting voices as stemming from a "siege situation" imposed upon it from outside. And I believe that to a certain extent that is true.

When you lead a life of scholarship you can't be bothered with the humorous realities, you know, tits, that kind of thing.

It was difficult being a conscientious objector in the 1940's, but I felt I had to stick to my guns.

Isn't it true that every aristocrat wants to die?

One is and is not in the centre of the maelstrom of it all.

I know little of women. But I've heard dread tales.

It's so easy for propaganda to work, and dissent to be mocked.

The Room I wrote in 1957, and I was really gratified to find that it stood up. I didn't have to change a word.

The Companion of Honour I regarded as an award from the country for 50 years of work - which I thought was okay.

Iraq is just a symbol of the attitude of western democracies to the rest of the world.

I never think of myself as wise. I think of myself as possessing a critical intelligence which I intend to allow to operate.

I don't intend to simply go away and write my plays and be a good boy. I intend to remain an independent and political intelligence in my own right.

I was brought up in the War. I was an adolescent in the Second World War. And I did witness in London a great deal of the Blitz.

I think it is the responsibility of a citizen of any country to say what he thinks.

I'll tell you what I really think about politicians. The other night I watched some politicians on television talking about Vietnam. I wanted very much to burst through the screen with a flame thrower and burn their eyes out and their balls off and then inquire from them how they would assess the action from a political point of view.

How can the unknown merit reverence?

The past is what you remember, imagine you remember, convince yourself you remember, or pretend you remember.

A short piece of work means as much to me as a long piece of work.

I don't think there's been any writer like Samuel Beckett. He's unique. He was a most charming man and I used to send him my plays.

This particular nurse said, Cancer cells are those which have forgotten how to die. I was so struck by this statement.

While The United States is the most powerful nation the world has ever seen, it is also the most detested nation that the world has ever known.

Nothing is more sterile or lamentable than the man content to live within himself.

I hate brandy...it stinks of modern literature.

I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth - certainly greater than sex, although sex isn't too bad either.

How can the unknown merit reverence? In other words how can you revere that of which you are ignorant? At the same time, it would be ridiculous to propose that what we know merits reverence. What we know merits any one of a number of things, but it stands to reason reverence isn't one of them. In other words, apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?

I thought the plays would speak for themselves. But they didn't.

The weasel under the cocktail cabinet.

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.

I saw Len Hutton in his prime, Another time, another time.

One way of looking at speech is to say it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness.

I mean, if a thing works, if a thing is right, respect that, acknowledge it, respect it and hold to it.

I believe an international criminal court is very much to be desired.

I also found being called Sir rather silly.

I could be a bit of a pain in the arse. Since I've come out of my cancer, I must say I intend to be even more of a pain in the arse.