Life Consists Of Burning Up Questions.

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

Artaud Sought To Remove Aesthetic Distance, Bringing The Audience Into Direct Contact With The Dangers Of Life. By Turning Theatre Into A Place Where The Spectator Is Exposed Rather Than Protected, Artaud Was Committing An Act Of Cruelty Upon Them.

And If There Is Still One Hellish, Truly Accursed Thing In Our Time, It Is Our Artistic Dallying With Forms, Instead Of Being Like Victims Burnt At The Stake, Signaling Through The Flames.

We Must Believe In A Sense Of Life Renewed By The Theater, A Sense Of Life In Which Man Fearlessly Makes Himself Master Of What Does Not Yet Exist, And Brings It Into Being. And Everything That Has Not Been Born Can Still Be Brought To Life If We Are Not Satisfied To Remain Mere Recording Organisms.

These Terrifying Forms Which Advance On Me, I Feel That The Despair They Bring Is Alive. It Slips Into This Nucleus Of Life Beyond Which The Paths Of Eternity Extend. It Is Truly An Eternal Separation. They Slip Their Knives Into This Center Where I Feel Myself A Man, They Sever Those Vital Ties Which Bind Me To The Dream Of My Lucid Reality.