Excuse my absolute freedom. I refuse to make a distinction between any of the moments of myself.
I do not work within the confines of any realm. I work in the unique moment of duration.
With society and its public, there is no longer any other language than that of bombs, barricades, and all that follows.
Squander your riches far from this unfeeling body to which no season, either spiritual or sensual, makes any difference.
A tainted society has invented psychiatry to defend itself against the investigations of certain superior intellects whose faculties of divination would be troublesome.
I do not like detached creation. Neither can I conceive of the mind as detached from itself. Each of my works, each diagram of myself, each glacial flowering of my inmost soul dribbles over me.
In consciousness dwells the wondrous, with it man attains the realm beyond the material, and the Peyote tells us, where to find it.
Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.
I am a man by virtue of my hands and my feet, my belly, my heart of meat, my stomach whose knots reunite me to the putrefaction of life.
All true feeling is in reality untranslatable. To express it is to betray it. But to translate it is to dissimulate it.
The cinema implies a total inversion of values, a complete upheaval of optics, of perspective and logic. It is more exciting than phosphorus, more captivating than love.
There are souls that are incurable and lost to the rest of society. Deprive them of one means of folly, they will invent ten thousand others. They will create subtler, wilder methods, methods that are absolutely desperate. Nature herself is fundamentally antisocial, it is only by a usurpation of powers that the organized body of society opposes the natural inclination of humanity.
In the manifested world, metaphysically speaking, evil is the permanent law, and what is good is an effort and already one more cruelty added to the other.
The theater is the only place in the world where a gesture, once made, can never be made the same way twice.
The extreme point of mysticism, I hold it now in the real and in my body, like a toilet broom.
It is almost impossible to be a doctor and an honest man, but it is obscenely impossible to be a psychiatrist without at the same time bearing the stamp of the most incontestable madness: that of being unable to resist that old atavistic reflex of the mass of humanity, which makes any man of science who is absorbed by this mass a kind of natural and inborn enemy of all genius.
I know that I believe in ETERNAL LIFE, and that I believe here in its entire meaning. I regret to live in a world where witches and wizards hide, and moreover, where there are so few true wizards.
I have never written except to fix and perpetuate the memory of these cuts, these scissions, these ruptures, these abrupt and bottomless falls.
There is nothing more useless than a organ. When you have given him a body without organs, then you will have delivered him from all his automatisms and restored him to his true liberty.
To confront the metaphysics I have created for myself, in accordance with the void I carry within me.
And when we tell ourselves we have reached the paroxysm of horror, blood and flouted laws of poetry that consecrates revolt, we obliged to advance still further into an endless vertigo.