I call for actors burning at the stakes, laughing at the flames.

We must wash literature off ourselves. We want to be men above all, to be human.

We have the right to lie, but not about the heart of the matter.

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.

Destroy yourselves, you who are desperate, and you who are tortured in body and soul, abandon all hope. There is no more solace for you in this world. The world lives off your rotting flesh.

I know each conversation with a psychiatrist in the morning made me want to hang myself because I knew I could not strangle him.

And war is wonderful, isn't it? For it's war, isn't it, that the Americans have been preparing for and are preparing for this way step by step. In order to defend this senseless manufacture from all competition that could not fail to arise on all sides.