Antonin Artaud

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We must wash ourselves
in the dead; we must cleanse our
hearts of life’s despair

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True poetry is
strangulation—the throat in
hanged delirium

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A beggar is a
misunderstood genius in
search of asylum

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I will be laughing
at God through my teeth when I
commit suicide

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Those who paint Hell are
destined to burn on the stake
of unhinged culture

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I abandon my
incomprehensible words
to insane angels

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The actor must shape
nature with the violent
will of a madman

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I will restore the
magic of language with the
fever of my bones

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Opium is a
fragile obsession with the
pain of existence

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To be human, I
know I must eliminate
my psychiatrist

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I must escape from
the filth and chatter of this
tired conversation

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