I cannot conceive any work of art as having a separate existence from life itself

Hell is of this world and there are men who are unhappy escapees from hell, escapees destined ETERNALLY to reenact their escape.

The true theater, because it moves and makes use of living instruments, continues to stir up shadows where life has never ceased to grope its way.

Don't tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones.

No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.

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.

I would like to write a Book which would drive men mad, which would be like an open door leading them where they would never have consented to go, in short, a door that opens onto reality.