“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.

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

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.

Life consists of burning up questions.

There are those who go to the theatre as they would go to a brothel.

When we speak the word ‘life,’ it must be understood we are not referring to life as we know it from its surface of fact, but to that fragile, fluctuating center which forms never reach.

The fixation of the theater in one language–written words, music, lights, noises–betokens its imminent ruin.