They eat the dainty food of famous chefs with the same pleasure with which they devour gross peasant dishes mostly composed of garlic and tomatoes or fisherman's octopus and shrimps fried in heavily scented olive oil on a little deserted beach.
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.
