The idea of a detached art, of poetry as a charm which exists only to distract our leisure, is a decadent idea and an unmistakable symptom of our power to castrate. — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
With society and its public, there is no longer any other language than that of bombs, barricades, and all that follows. — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
I cannot conceive any work of art as having a separate existence from life itself — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
“This is why a tainted society has invented psychiatry to defend itself against the investigations of certain superior intellects whose faculties of divination would… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
“I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
“Insane asylums are deliberate and premeditated receptacles of black magic, and it is not only that doctors encourage magic with their untimely and hybrid… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
How hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
This is why true beauty never strikes us directly. The setting sun is beautiful because of all it makes us lose. — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
And what is an authentic madman? It is a man who preferred to become mad, in the socially accepted sense of the word, rather… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
The truth of life lies in the impulsiveness of matter. The mind of man has been poisoned by concepts. Do not ask him to… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try and put into words any part of what goes on in their… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
Squander your riches far from this unfeeling body to which no season, either spiritual or sensual, makes any difference. — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
The race of prophets is extinct. Europe is becoming set in its ways, slowly embalming itself beneath the wrappings of its borders, its factories,… — Antonin Artaud Copy Share Image
