I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.

All true language is incomprehensible, like the chatter of a beggar's teeth.

It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must from time to time be present.

The actor is merely a crude empiricist, a practitioner guided by vague instinct.

I prefer the people who eat off the bare earth the delirium from which they were born.

I have need of angels. Enough hell has swallowed me for too many years. But finally understand this--I have burned up one hundred thousand human lives already, from the strength of my pain.

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.