But one must walk slowly along the road of dead stones, especially someone who has lost his understanding of words.
Inspiration is nothing but a foetus and the word is also nothing but a foetus. I know when I wanted to write, words failed me, that's all.
What you took to be my works were only my waste matter, those soul scrapings a normal man does not welcome.
When I am trying to discover myself, my thoughts seek one another in the regions of new space. I am up in the moon, dreaming, while others sit at home. I partake in planetary gravitation within the fissures of my mind.
There is only one thing which makes art, and that is the tangibility of man's intentions.
My dreams are mostly liquid. I am immersed in sorts of nauseous waters where blood-red films toss and turn. I never rise up to the level of certain impressions, whether in my dreams or in real life. I am never settled in the continuity of my life. My dreams are offered no escape, no refuge or guide. Truly the rankness of severed limbs.
I feel a longing not to be, never to have fallen into this sink of imbecilities, abdications, renunciations, and obtuse contacts which are Antonin Artaud's ego and much weaker than him. The light of this wandering invalid who, from time to time comes to exhibit his shadow he himself spat on long ago, this hobbling, limping self, this virtual, impossible light which none the less finds itself in real life. No one like him has ever felt his weakness which is mankind's most important, basic weakness. To destroy, not to exist.
|About the Author
Artaud is one of those pervasive figures of the 20th century, surfacing in literaturealongside such Surrealists as Breton and Aragon theatre, cinema, and within the critical writings of Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Samuel R. Delany.