All Writing Is Garbage. People Who Come

Theater Of Cruelty Means A Theater Difficult And Cruel For Myself First Of All. And, On The Level Of Performance, It Is Not The Cruelty We Can Exercise Upon Each Other By Hacking At Each Other’s Bodies, Carving Up Our Personal Anatomies, Or, Like Assyrian Emperors, Sending Parcels Of Human Ears, Noses, Or Neatly Detached Nostrils Through The Mail, But The Much More Terrible And Necessary Cruelty Which Things Can Exercise Against Us. We Are Not Free. And The Sky Can Still Fall On Our Heads. And The Theater Has Been Created To Teach Us That First Of All.

Enough, I Shall Be Understood In Ten Years By People Who Will Be Doing What You Do Today. Then My Geysers Will Be Known, My Ice Floes Will Be Seen, The Secret Of Adulterating My Poisons Will Have Been Learned, The Games Of My Soul Will Be Revealed.

We Must Wash Literature Off Ourselves. We Want To Be Men Above All, To Be Human.

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.

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.