The truth of life lies in the impulsiveness of matter. The mind of man has been poisoned by concepts. Do not ask him to be content, ask him only to be calm, to believe that he has found his place. But only the madman is really calm.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThe truth of life lies in the impulsiveness of matter. The mind of man has been poisoned by concepts. Do not ask him to be content, ask him only to be calm, to believe that he has found his place. But only the madman is really calm.
ANTONIN ARTAUDI do not work within the confines of any realm. I work in the unique moment of duration.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThose who live, live off the dead.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThere 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.
ANTONIN ARTAUDIf I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again.
ANTONIN ARTAUDI know each conversation with a psychiatrist in the morning made me want to hang myself because I knew I could not strangle him.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThe 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.
ANTONIN ARTAUDLife consists of burning up questions.
ANTONIN ARTAUDYou are quite unnecessary, young man!
ANTONIN ARTAUDDon’t tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThere is nothing like an insane asylum for gently incubating death.
ANTONIN ARTAUDTragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThe 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.
ANTONIN ARTAUDThere are those who go to the theatre as they would go to a brothel.
ANTONIN ARTAUDI am a man by virtue of my hands and my feet, my belly, my heart of meat, my stomach whose knots reunite me to the putrefaction of life.
ANTONIN ARTAUDHell is of this world and there are men who are unhappy escapees from hell, escapees destined ETERNALLY to reenact their escape.
ANTONIN ARTAUD