Leave The Caves Of Being. Come. The

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

Excuse My Absolute Freedom. I Refuse To Make A Distinction Between Any Of The Moments Of Myself.

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.

The Idea Of A Detached Art, Of Poetry As A Charm Which Exists Only To Distract Our Leisure, Is A Decadent Idea And An Unmistakable Symptom Of Our Power To Castrate.

The Fixation Of The Theater In One Language--written Words, Music, Lights, Noises--betokens Its Imminent Ruin.