How hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.
ANTONIN ARTAUDHow hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.
More Antonin Artaud Quotes
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Actors are athletes of the heart.
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All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try and put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.
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When I think about myself, my thought seeks itself in the ether of a new space. I am on the moon as others are on their balconies. I participate in planetary gravitation in the fissures of my mind.
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I do not like detached creation. Neither can I conceive of the mind as detached from itself. Each of my works, each diagram of myself, each glacial flowering of my inmost soul dribbles over me.
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The true theater, because it moves and makes use of living instruments, continues to stir up shadows where life has never ceased to grope its way.
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Cruelty signifies rigor, implacable intention and decision, irreversible and absolute determination.
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Like all magic cultures expressed by appropriate hieroglyphs, the true theater has its shadows too, and, of all languages and all arts, the theater is the only one left whose shadows have shattered their limitations.
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Poetry is a dissociating and anarchic force which through analogy, associations and imagery, thrives on the destruction of known relationships.
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There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him.
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Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others.
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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.
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Don’t tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones.
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Tragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.
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I prefer the people who eat off the bare earth the delirium from which they were born.
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I call for actors burning at the stakes, laughing at the flames.
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Squander your riches far from this unfeeling body to which no season, either spiritual or sensual, makes any difference.
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I myself am an absolute abyss.
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I do not work within the confines of any realm. I work in the unique moment of duration.
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We must wash literature off ourselves. We want to be men above all, to be human.
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I see in the act of throwing the dice and of risking the affirmation of some intuitively felt truth, however uncertain, my whole reason for living.
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Excuse my absolute freedom. I refuse to make a distinction between any of the moments of myself.
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The actor is an athlete of the heart.
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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.
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No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.
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Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.
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I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.
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