“I know each conversation with a psychiatrist in the morning made me want to hang myself because I knew I could not strangle him.”

The idea of a detached art, of poetry as a charm which exists only to distract our leisure, is a decadent idea and an unmistakable symptom of our power to castrate.

Cruelty signifies rigor, implacable intention and decision, irreversible and absolute determination.

There is nothing like an insane asylum for gently incubating death.

I call for actors burning at the stakes, laughing at the flames.

I cannot conceive any work of art as having a separate existence from life itself.

If our life lacks a constant magic it is because we choose to observe our acts and lose ourselves in consideration of their imagined form and meaning, instead of being impelled by their force.

In our present state of degeneration it is through the skin that metaphysics must be made to re-enter our minds.

All true language is incomprehensible, like the chatter of a beggar’s teeth.

It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must from time to time be present.

In consciousness dwells the wondrous, with it man attains the realm beyond the material, and the Peyote tells us, where to find it.

Before our eyes is fought a battle of symbols, for there can be theatre only from the moment when the impossible really begins and when the poetry that occurs on the stage sustains and superheats the realized symbols.

Poetry is a dissociating and anarchic force which through analogy, associations and imagery, thrives on the destruction of known relationships.

We have the right to lie, but not about the heart of the matter.

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.

We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary.

And if there is still one hellish, truly accursed thing in our time, it is our artistic dallying with forms, instead of being like victims burnt at the stake, signaling through the flames.

But when the veteran has a dog, the same people will come up and say, ‘Hi’ to pet the dog and then strike up a conversation.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

A space where the conversation surrounding the issues in our country is offering a seat at the table to all the voices to be heard, a murder mystery, and grassroots look at our own humanity as we move through the parts and pieces of the story.

But then I’m one of those guys that is still a bit afraid of the telephone, its implications for conversation. I still wonder if the jukebox might be the death of live music.

Conversation between Adam and Eve must have been difficult at times, because they had nobody to talk about.

It is not what we learn in conversation that enriches us. It is the elation that comes of swift contact with tingling currents of thought.

Burning logs can carry on quite a conversation!

Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food, and few things in the world are more wearying than a sarcastic attitude towards life.