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Now hell and heaven grapple on our backs and all our old pretense is ripped away. Aye, and God's icy wind will blow.

Arthur Miller

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Arthur Miller
Age: 89 †
Born: 1915
Born: October 17
Died: 2005
Died: February 10
Author
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Writer
New York City
New York
Arthur Asher Miller
Grapple
Heaven
Icy
Away
Backs
Pretense
Ripped
Blow
Wind
Hell

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Peace. It is a providence, and no great change we are only what we always were, but naked now.
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A lot of my work goes to the center of where we belong--if there is any root to life -because nowadays the family is broken up, and people don't live in the same place for very long.
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How to live had started out as an analytical problem of how to place himself so as to intercept the flow of money in the society.
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The American Dream is the largely unacknowledged screen in front of which all American writing plays itself out.
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Cleave to no faith when faith brings blood.
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Can anyone remember love? It's like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.
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Work a lifetime to pay off a house You finally own it and there's nobody to live in it.
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That is a very good question. I don't know the answer. But can you tell me the name of a classical Greek shoemaker?
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A play is made by sensing how the forces in life simulate ignorance-you set free the concealed irony, the deadly joke.
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After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.
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The car, the furniture, the wife, the children - everything has to be disposable. Because you see the main thing today is - shopping.
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The best of our theater is standing on tiptoe, striving to see over the shoulders of father and mother. The worst is exploiting and wallowing in the self-pity of adolescence and obsessive keyhole sexuality. The way out, as the poet says, is always through.
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Poor brain! How helplessly it dissolves when willing eyes meet and the nose warms to those old jungle scents.
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If you analyse anything, you destroy it.
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The camera has its own kind of consciousness in the lens the Garden of Eden itself would become ever so slightly too perfect.
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He have his goodness now. God forbid I take it from him!
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The very impulse to write springs from an inner chaos crying for order - for meaning.
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...an everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
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You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man is not a piece of fruit.
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