I Have Need Of Angels. Enough Hell

All True Language Is Incomprehensible, Like The Chatter Of A Beggar's Teeth.

But How Is One To Make A Scientist Understand That There Is Something Unalterably Deranged About Differential Calculus, Quantum Theory, Or The Obscene And So Inanely Liturgical Ordeals Of The Precession Of The Equinoxes.

I Cannot Conceive Any Work Of Art As Having A Separate Existence From Life Itself

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.

It Is Almost Impossible To Be A Doctor And An Honest Man, But It Is Obscenely Impossible To Be A Psychiatrist Without At The Same Time Bearing The Stamp Of The Most Incontestable Madness: That Of Being Unable To Resist That Old Atavistic Reflex Of The Mass Of Humanity, Which Makes Any Man Of Science Who Is Absorbed By This Mass A Kind Of Natural And Inborn Enemy Of All Genius.