I tend to foster drama via bleakness. If I want the reader to feel sympathy for a character I cleave the character in half on his birthday. And then it starts raining. And he's made of sugar.
It is ironic that the one thing that all religions recognize as separating us from our creator our very self-consciousness is also the one thing that divides us from our fellow creatures. It was a bitter birthday present from evolution.
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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.
