All true language is incomprehensible, like the chatter of a beggar's teeth.
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But how is one to make a scientist understand that there is something unalterably deranged about differential calculus, quantum theory, or the obscene and so inanely liturgical ordeals of the precession of the equinoxes.
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Don't tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones.
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Hell is of this world and there are men who are unhappy escapees from hell, escapees destined ETERNALLY to reenact their escape.
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However fiercely opposed one may be to the present order, an old respect for the idea of order itself often prevents people from distinguishing between order and those who stand for order, and leads them in practice to respect individuals under the pretext of respecting order itself.
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I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat.
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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.
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Never tire yourself more than necessary, even if you have to found a culture on the fatigue of your bones.
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No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.
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So long as we have failed to eliminate any of the causes of human despair, we do not have the right to try to eliminate those means by which man tries to cleanse himself of despair.
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There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him.
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Those who live, live off the dead.
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Tragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.
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When we speak the word ''life,'' it must be understood we are not referring to life as we know it from its surface of fact, but to that fragile, fluctuating center which forms never reach.
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With society and its public, there is no longer any other language than that of bombs, barricades, and all that follows.
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Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others. Then we might even come to see that it is our veneration for what has already been created, however beautiful and valid it may be, that petrifies us.
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