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 ARTAUDCruelty in the theatre is unrelenting decisiveness, diligence, strictness.
More Antonin Artaud Quotes
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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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In consciousness dwells the wondrous, with it man attains the realm beyond the material, and the Peyote tells us, where to find it.
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A tainted society has invented psychiatry to defend itself against the investigations of certain superior intellects whose faculties of divination would be troublesome.
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Those who live, live off the dead.
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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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Tragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.
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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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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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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.
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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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I am stigmatized by a living death in which real death holds no terrors for me.
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I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.
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So society has strangled in its asylums all those it wanted to get rid of or protect itself from, because they refused to become its accomplices in certain great nastinesses.
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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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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.
ANTONIN ARTAUD