I despise Walter, who appears slightly drunk at half-past ten in the morning and spews out his private complications. I am disgusted by Teresa, who rushes up and embraces me in a cloud of sweat and perfume. I would like to hit Paul, the maddening gay who turns up in high-heeled shoes when he knows he has to run up and down stage stairs all day. I detest Vanja, who tumbles in exactly a minute late with her hair on end, puffing and blowing and untidy, laden with bags and carriers. I am irritated by Sara, who has forgotten her copy of the play and always has two important telephone calls to make. I want calm, order and friendliness. Only in that way can we approach a limitless world. Only in that way can we solve the mysteries and learn the mechanisms of repetition. Repetition, living throbbing repetition. The same performance every night, the same performance and yet reborn. For that matter, how do we grasp the lightning-swift rubato so necessary for a performance not to become deadly routine or insufferable wilfulness? All good actors know the secret, the mediocre have to learn it, and the bad never learn.