I Cannot Conceive Any Work Of Art

These Terrifying Forms Which Advance On Me, I Feel That The Despair They Bring Is Alive. It Slips Into This Nucleus Of Life Beyond Which The Paths Of Eternity Extend. It Is Truly An Eternal Separation. They Slip Their Knives Into This Center Where I Feel Myself A Man, They Sever Those Vital Ties Which Bind Me To The Dream Of My Lucid Reality.

The Fixation Of The Theater In One Language--written Words, Music, Lights, Noises--betokens Its Imminent Ruin.

Squander Your Riches Far From This Unfeeling Body To Which No Season, Either Spiritual Or Sensual, Makes Any Difference.

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

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