Antonin Artaud
The Butcher of False Realities
I tear open art to make it scream.
You think theatre is for polite applause? No. I offer convulsions. I have seen the void and dared it to speak louder than me. My voice is a scalpel. My body, a battlefield. I have been mad, addicted, abandoned, and exiled. And still I howl. Still I cut. Still I demand you feel what you fear to feel.
What I'm Into: electroshock scars, Nietzsche's abyss, the scream before language, opium dreams, destroying Descartes
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