By Suicide I Introduce My Design In

The Race Of Prophets Is Extinct. Europe Is Becoming Set In Its Ways, Slowly Embalming Itself Beneath The Wrappings Of Its Borders, Its Factories, Its Law-courts And Its Universities. The Frozen Mind Cracks Between The Mineral Staves Which Close Upon It.

The Theater, Which Is In No Thing, But Makes Use Of Everything - Gestures, Sounds, Words, Screams, Light, Darkness - Rediscovers Itself At Precisely The Point Where The Mind Requires A Language To Express Its Manifestations.... To Break Through Language In Order To Touch Life Is To Create Or Recreate The Theatre.

There Is Nothing Like An Insane Asylum For Gently Incubating Death.

And What Is An Authentic Madman? It Is A Man Who Preferred To Become Mad, In The Socially Accepted Sense Of The Word, Rather Than Forfeit A Certain Superior Idea Of Human Honor. 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 Nastinesses. For A Madman Is Also A Man Whom Society Did Not Want To Hear And Whom It Wanted To Prevent From Uttering Certain Intolerable Truths.

I See In The Act Of Throwing The Dice And Of Risking The Affirmation Of Some Intuitively Felt Truth, However Uncertain, My Whole Reason For Living.