Without Sarcasm I Sink Into Chaos.

Life Consists Of Burning Up Questions.

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.

Artaud Sought To Remove Aesthetic Distance, Bringing The Audience Into Direct Contact With The Dangers Of Life. By Turning Theatre Into A Place Where The Spectator Is Exposed Rather Than Protected, Artaud Was Committing An Act Of Cruelty Upon Them.

I Am Adding Another Language To The Spoken Language, And I Am Trying To Restore To The Language Of Speech Its Old Magic, Its Essential Spellbinding Power, For Its Mysterious Possibilities Have Been Forgotten.

I Destroy Because For Me Everything That Proceeds From Reason Is Untrustworthy. I Believe Only In The Evidence Of What Stirs My Marrow, Not In The Evidence Of What Addresses Itself To My Reason. I Have Found Levels In The Realm Of The Nerve. I Now Feel Capable Of Evaluating The Evidence. There Is For Me An Evidence In The Realm Of Pure Flesh Which Has Nothing To Do With The Evidence Of Reason. The Eternal Conflict Between Reason And The Heart Is Decided In My Very Flesh, But In My Flesh Irrigated By Nerves.