Anarchy, without order or law, the laws and commandments do not exist without the mess of Actually, time is the only law. I will continue to disjoint everything in the life of the universe, because time is me.
The revolt of the beings was a dream I looked like a tree in my corner, with the skin of my hands, and I was not dead, nor destroyed, but in the body somewhere. I am a machine that works fine or on the first shot and are the creatures that, with the dialectic, give rise to false problems to understand clearly what I say that my mind works.
I follow my path honesty, restraint, honor, strength, brutality, cruelty, love, bitterness, anger, greed, misery, death, rape, infamy, shit, sweat, blood, urine, pain.
are no intelligence or consciousness that has given birth to the mystery of things, but the pain in my uterus, my anus, my enterocolitis, which is not a sense, my dear Freud, but obtained only a maximum suffering without accepting pain, without claim, without imporselo without looking starselo
doubt, inconsistency, ignorance, inconsistency does not constitute an altered state, but the only possible, there is no natural that he would be infused with light, the light becomes a living, but its real nature is gloomy, never fills the spirit of awareness, but the need to stack his being, to pick it up at the heart of darkness, statement consisting of a being, a shape that its measure will establish itself and its appetites, being, no god, no innate principle.
I am never going to say to intellectuals: what do you want? Nor will I blame, I've just offended with the language and strokes. The idea I have of me is that I do not know anything and I always hear something different on an idea of \u200b\u200bthe pain and love that can not get out.
I never loved the atmosphere of the houses of correction and do not accept that applies to me.
I repeat, is not to guide the literary pride of the writer who wants to see published and put on his product. These are the facts that no one story that I want to ignore, i gridi di dolore che lancio e che voglio siano sentiti.
No io, Antonin Artaud, no e poi ancora no, io, Antonin Artaud, non voglio scrivere se non quando non ho più niente da pensare. Come che divori il proprio ventre, da dentro.
Sotto la grammatica si nasconde il pensiero che è un obbrobrio più difficile da battere, una vergine molto più renitente, molto più difficile da superare quando lo si prende per un atto innato.
Perché il pensiero è una matrona che non è sempre esistita.
E che le parole gonfie della mia vita si gonfino nel vivere dei bla-bla dello scritto.
Io scrivo per gli analfabeti.
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