The race of prophets is extinct. Europe is becoming set in its ways, slowly embalming itself beneath the wrappings of its borders, its factories, its law-courts and its universities. The frozen Mind cracks between the mineral staves which close upon it.

The theater, which is in no thing, but makes use of everything --gestures, sounds, words, screams, light, darkness --rediscovers itself at precisely the point where the mind requires a language to express its manifestations. . .

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

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.

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