To Become Conscious Of What

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.

I Personally Would Like To Bring A Tortoise Onto The Stage, Turn It Into A Racehorse, Then Into A Hat, A Song, A Dragoon And A Fountain Of Water. One Can Dare Anything In The Theatre And It Is The Place Where One Dares The Least.

I've Always Been Suspicious Of Collective Truths.

I Still Forget, Sometimes, That I Am No Longer 12 Years Old.

Explanation Separates Us From Astonishment, Which Is The Only Gateway To The Incomprehensible.