I myself am an absolute abyss.
You are quite unnecessary, young man!
When I think about myself, my thought seeks itself in the ether of a new space. I am on the moon as others are on their balconies. I participate in planetary gravitation in the fissures of my mind.
The fixation of the theater in one language – written words, music, lights, noises – betokens its imminent ruin.
And war is wonderful, isn’t it? For it’s war, isn’t it, that the Americans have been preparing for and are preparing for this way step by step. In order to defend this senseless manufacture from all competition that could not fail to arise on all sides.
The truth of life lies in the impulsiveness of matter. The mind of man has been poisoned by concepts. Do not ask him to be content, ask him only to be calm, to believe that he has found his place. But only the madman is really calm.
The actor is merely a crude empiricist, a practitioner guided by vague instinct.
Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others.
So society has strangled in its asylums all those it wanted to get rid of or protect itself from, because they refused to become its accomplices in certain great nastiness.
I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.
There are those who go to the theatre as they would go to a brothel.
The idea of a detached art, of poetry as a charm which exists only to distract our leisure, is a decadent idea and an unmistakable symptom of our power to castrate.
Life consists of burning up questions.
It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must from time to time be present.
We must wash literature off ourselves. We want to be men above all, to be human.
How hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.
There is nothing like an insane asylum for gently incubating death.
All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try and put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.
I prefer the people who eat off the bare earth the delirium from which they were born.
If our life lacks a constant magic it is because we choose to observe our acts and lose ourselves in consideration of their imagined form and meaning, instead of being impelled by their force.