To Me The World Seems Grotesque, Absurd,

God Is Dead. Marx Is Dead. And I Don't Feel So Well Myself.

The Poet Cannot Invent New Words Every Time, Of Course. He Uses The Words Of The Tribe. But The Handling Of The Word, The Accent, A New Articulation, Renew Them.

All Cats Die. Socrates Is Dead. Therefore Socrates Is A Cat.

Dreams Are Reality At Its Most Profound, And What You Invent Is Truth Because Invention, By Its Nature, Can't Be A Lie.

If I Write A New Play, My Point Of View May Be Profoundly Modified. I May Be Obliged To Contradict Myself And I May No Longer Know Whether I Still Think What I Think.