Poetry is a dissociating and anarchic force which through analogy, associations and imagery, thrives on the destruction of known relationships.
ANTONIN ARTAUDActors are athletes of the heart.
More Antonin Artaud Quotes
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So long as we have failed to eliminate any of the causes of human despair, we do not have the right to try to eliminate those means by which man tries to cleanse himself of despair.
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Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.
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Destroy yourselves, you who are desperate, and you who are tortured in body and soul, abandon all hope. There is no more solace for you in this world. The world lives off your rotting flesh.
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I have need of angels. Enough hell has swallowed me for too many years. But finally understand this–I have burned up one hundred thousand human lives already, from the strength of my pain.
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By suicide I introduce my design in nature, I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will … now I choose the direction of my thought and the direction of my faculties, my tendencies, my reality.
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Hell is of this world and there are men who are unhappy escapees from hell, escapees destined ETERNALLY to reenact their escape.
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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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Actors are athletes of the heart.
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I am stigmatized by a living death in which real death holds no terrors for me.
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Admittedly or not, conscious or unconscious, the poetic state, a transcendent experience of life, is what the public is fundamentally seeking through love, crime, drugs, war, or insurrection.
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The fixation of the theater in one language–written words, music, lights, noises–betokens its imminent ruin.
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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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This is why true beauty never strikes us directly. The setting sun is beautiful because of all it makes us lose.
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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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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 ARTAUD