“Going into seclusion has become a fixed ritual for me.

It helps me to work in the most monomaniacal way on the script and the language, so that I can completely engross myself in the subject matter of the monologue.

Under the best circumstances, the ritual of seclusion puts me into a kind of trance, a state of utmost concentration.

Consequently, I prefer to seclude myself in spaces where there are no distractions: no Internet or TV or music or any other kind of possible diversion.

A space where all you can do is work, and when you get a bit groggy, where you can sleep at any moment of the day or night, and once you’re awake again, get back to work at any moment of the day or night without disturbing the rest of a sleeping loved one.

In other words, it also means a space without other loved ones around, so that I don’t have to feel guilty if I’m again sitting still for hours and dreamily staring into space, so to speak, when the script suddenly and unexpectedly has me in its grip.

Then I feel a little like an artist in his studio, the difference being that when such an unexpected moment comes for the artist, he can immediately express himself on his waiting empty canvas, whereas I have to wait until I go on stage at night, hoping there will still be something left of the inspiration of that unexpected moment in seclusion.

And so I often dream of an isolated space where, when that sudden moment occurs in which everything comes together, I calmly walk to the only door in that space, it quietly swings open, and immediately on the other side of the door I end up on stage, in a theatre where the audience lights fade at the exact same moment that I open the door, and the stage lights slowly rise.

That’s another difference with the artist: his empty canvas quietly waits for that unexpected moment. My audience doesn’t wait; the door must swing open at precisely 8 PM, that’s the agreement.”