God Is Dead. Marx Is Dead. And

Drama Lies In Extreme Exaggeration Of The Feelings, An Exaggeration That Dislocates Flat Everyday Reality.

The Universe Seems To Me Infinitely Strange And Foreign. At Such A Moment I Gaze Upon It With A Mixture Of Anguish And Euphoria; Separate From The Universe, As Though Placed At A Certain Distance Outside It; I Look And I See Pictures, Creatures That Move In A Kind Of Timeless Time And Spaceless Space, Emitting Sounds That Are A Kind Of Language I No Longer Understand Or Ever Register.

Language Should Almost Break Up Or Explode In Its Fruitless Effort To Contain So Many Meanings.

Realism Falls Short Of Reality. It Shrinks It, Attenuates It, Falsifies It; It Does Not Take Into Account Our Basic Truths And Our Fundamental Obsessions: Love, Death, Astonishment. It Presents Man In A Reduced And Estranged Perspective. Truth Is In Our Dreams, In The Imagination.

Why Do People Always Expect Authors To Answer Questions? I Am An Author Because I Want To Ask Questions. If I Had Answers, I'd Be A Politician.