All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try and put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.

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

We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary.

Cruelty in the theatre is unrelenting decisiveness, diligence, strictness.

If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again.

If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself, but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature, I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will.

A real theatrical experience shakes the calm of the senses, liberates the compressed unconscious and drives towards a kind of potential revolt . . .