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Banality Is A Symptom Of Non-communication. Men Hide Behind Their Cliches.

-Eugene Ionesco

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Banality Is A Symptom

Eugene Ionesco

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Banality Is A Symptom Of Non-communication. Men Hide Behind Their Cliches.

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The Supreme Trick Of Mass Insanity Is That It Persuades You That The Only Abnormal Person Is The One Who Refuses To Join In The Madness Of Others, The One Who Tries Vainly To Resist. We Will Never Understand Totalitarianism If We Do Not Understand That People Rarely Have The Strength To Be Uncommon.

I've Always Been Suspicious Of Collective Truths. I Think An Idea Is True When It Hasn't Been Put Into Words And That The Moment It's Put Into Words It Becomes Exaggerated. Because The Moment It's Put Into Words There's An Abuse, An Excess In The Expression Of The Idea That Makes It False.

People Always Try To Find Base Motives Behind Every Good Action. We Are Afraid Of Pure Goodness And Of Pure Evil.

Banality Is A Symptom Of Non-communication. Men Hide Behind Their Cliches.

We Haven't The Time To Take Out Time.

A Civil Servant Doesn't Make Jokes.

I'll Never Waste My Dreams By Falling Asleep. Never Again.

It's Not A Certain Society That Seems Ridiculous To Me, It's Mankind.

In The History Of Humanity There Are No Civilizations Or Cultures Which Fail To Manifest, In One Or A Thousand Ways, This Need For An Absolute That Is Called Heaven, Freedom, A Miracle, A Lost Paradise To Be Regained, Peace, The Going Beyond History... There Is No Religion In Which Everyday Life Is Not Considered A Prison; There Is No Philosophy Or Ideology That Does Not Think That We Live In Alienation.... Humanity Has Always Had A Nostalgia For The Freedom That Is Only Beauty, That Is Only Real; Life, Plenitude, Light.

I Am Not Capitulating.

Many People Have Delusions Of Grandeur But You're Deluded By Triviality.

Illusions Of Grandeur

Delusions Of Grandeur

A Man With A Soul Is Not Like Every Other Man.

When I Was Born, I Was Almost Fourteen Years Old. That's Why I Was Able To Understand More Easily Than Most What It Was All About.

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

Mediocrity Is More Dangerous In A Critic Than In A Writer.

There Is Nothing Truer Than Myth: History, In Its Attempt To Realize Myth, Distorts It, Stops Halfway; When History Claims To Have Succeeded, This Is Nothing But Humbug And Mystification. Everything We Dream Is Realizable. Reality Does Not Have To Be: It Is Simply What It Is.

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.

I Am Told, In A Dream You Can Only Get The Answer To All Your Questions Through A Dream. So In My Dream, I Fall Asleep, And I Dream, In My Dream, That I'm Having That Absolute, Revealing Dream.

Oh Words, What Crimes Are Committed In Your Name? ~jack Or The Submission

Why Do People Always Expect Authors To Answer Questions? I Am An Author Because I Want To Ask Questions. If I Had Answers, I'd Be A Politician.

An Avant-garde Man Is Like An Enemy Inside A City He Is Bent On Destroying, Against Which He Rebels; For Like Any System Of Government, An Established Form Of Expression Is Also A Form Of Oppression. The Avant-garde Man Is The Opponent Of An Existing System.

Nothing Makes Me More Pessimistic Than The Obligation Not To Be Pessimistic.

As Soon As One Knows One Is Going To Die, Childhood Is Over.... So One Can Be Grown Up At Seven. Then, I Believe Most Human Beings Forget What They Have Understood, Recover Another Sort Of Childhood That Can Last All Their Lives. It Is Not A True Childhood But A Kind Of Forgetting. Desires And Anxieties Are There, Preventing You From Having Access To The Essential Truth.

I Have Always Considered Imaginative Truth To Be More Profound, More Loaded With Significance, Than Every Day Reality... Everything We Dream About, And By That I Mean Everything We Desire, Is True (the Myth Of Icarus Came Before Aviation, And If Ader Or Bleriot Started Flying It Is Because All Men Have Dreamed Of Flight). There Is Nothing Truer Than Myth... Reality Does Not Have To Be: It Is Simply What Is.

There Are More Dead People Than Living. And Their Numbers Are Increasing. The Living Are Getting Rarer.

To Me The World Seems Grotesque, Absurd, Ridiculous, Painful.

People Who Don't Read Are Brutes. It Is Better To Write Than To Make War, Isn't It?

Only The Ephemeral Is Of Lasting Value.

Since The Death Instinct Exists In The Heart Of Everything That Lives, Since We Suffer From Trying To Repress It, Since Everything That Lives Longs For Rest, Let Us Unfasten The Ties That Bind Us To Life, Let Us Cultivate Our Death Wish, Let Us Develop It, Water It Like A Plant, Let It Grow Unhindered. Suffering And Fear Are Born From The Repression Of The Death Wish.

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.

Every Message Of Despair Is The Statement Of A Situation From Which Everybody Must Freely Try To Find A Way Out.

The Light Of Memory, Or Rather The Light That Memory Lends To Things, Is The Palest Light Of All. I Am Not Quite Sure Whether I Am Dreaming Or Remembering, Whether I Have Lived My Life Or Dreamed It. Just As Dreams Do, Memory Makes Me Profoundly Aware Of The Unreality, The Evanescence Of The World, A Fleeting Image In The Moving Water.

Childhood Is The World Of Miracle And Wonder; As If Creation Rose, Bathed In The Light, Out Of The Darkness, Utterly New And Fresh And Astonishing. The End Of Childhood Is When Things Cease To Astonish Us.

Like All Revolutions, The Surrealist Revolution Was A Reversion, A Restitution, An Expression Of Vital And Indispensable Spiritual Needs.

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

Childhood Is The World Of Miracle Or Of Magic: It Is As If Creation Rose Luminously Out Of The Night, All New And Fresh And Astonishing. Childhood Is Over The Moment Things Are No Longer Astonishing. When The World Gives You A Feeling Of "déjà Vu," When You Are Used To Existence, You Become An Adult.

I Am, It Seems, An Avant-garde Dramatist. It Would Even Seem Obvious Since I Am Present Here At Discussions On The Avant-garde Theatre. It Is All Entirely Official. But What Does The Term Avant-garde Mean?

The More I Try To Explain Myself, The Less I Understand Myself.

If One Does Not Understand The Usefulness Of The Useless And The Uselessness Of The Useful, One Cannot Understand Art.

To Tear Ourselves Away From The Everyday, From Habit, From Mental Laziness Which Hides From Us The Strangeness Of Reality, We Must Receive Something Like A Real Bludgeon Blow.

You've Always Made The Mistake Of Being Yourself.

Childhood Is Over The Moment Things Are No Longer Astonishing.

It's When I Am Fully Conscious That I Ask Questions.

Describe A Circle, Stroke Its Back And It Turns Vicious.

A Really Conscientious Doctor Ought To Die With His Patient. The Captain Goes Down With His Ship.

To Become Conscious Of What Is Horrifying And To Laugh At It Is To Become Master Of That Which Is Horrifying

A Nose That Can See Is Worth Two That Sniff.

That's How We Stay Young These Days: Murder And Suicide.

It Is Not The Answer That Enlightens, But The Question.

A Work Of Art Is Above All An Adventure Of The Mind.

A Writer Never Has A Vacation. For A Writer, Life Consists Of Either Writing Or Thinking About Writing.

I Believe That In The History Of Art And Of Thought There Has Always Been At Every Living Moment Of Culture A Will To Renewal. This Is Not The Prerogative Of The Last Decade Only. All History Is Nothing But A Succession Of Crises - Of Rupture, Repudiation And Resistance. When There Is No Crisis, There Is Stagnation, Petrifaction And Death. All Thought, All Art Is Aggressive.

We Are Made To Be Immortal, And Yet We Die. It's Horrible, It Can't Be Taken Seriously

I Long For Solitude And Yet I Cannot Stand It.

Everything That Has Been Will Be, Everything That Will Be Is, Everything That Will Be Has Been.

Boredom Flourishes Too, When You Feel Safe. It's A Symptom Of Security.

Realism Falls Short Of Reality. It Shrinks It, Attenuates It, Falsifies It; It Does Not Take Into Account Our Basic Truths And Our Fundamental Obsessions: Love, Death, Astonishment. It Presents Man In A Reduced And Estranged Perspective. Truth Is In Our Dreams, In The Imagination.

You Can Only Predict Things After They Have Happened.

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.

The Critic Should Describe, And Not Prescribe.

I Started Writing For The Theatre Because I Hated It.

We Are All Looking For Something Of Extraordinary Importance Whose Nature We Have Forgotten; I Am Writing The Memoirs Of A Man Who Has Lost His Memory.

Language Should Almost Break Up Or Explode In Its Fruitless Effort To Contain So Many Meanings.

All The Plays That Have Ever Been Written, From Ancient Greece To The Present Day, Have Never Really Been Anything But Thrillers... Drama's Always Been Realistic And There's Always Been A Detective About... Every Play's An Investigation Brought To A Successful Conclusion.

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

Oh Righteous Doom, That They Who Make Pleasure Their Only End, Ordering The Whole Life For Its Sake, Miss That Whereto They Tend. While They Who Bid Stern Duty Lead, Content To Follow, They, Of Duty Only Taking Heed, Find Pleasure By The Way.

Drama Lies In Extreme Exaggeration Of The Feelings, An Exaggeration That Dislocates Flat Everyday Reality.

Ideologies Separate Us. Dreams And Anguish Bring Us Together.

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

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

It Isn't What People Think That Is Important, But The Reason They Think What They Think.

Logic Is A Very Beautiful Thing. As Long As It Is Not Abused.

When Silence Confronts Us, The Question To Which There Is No Answer Rings Out In The Silence. That Ultimate "why," That Great "why" Is Like A Light That Blots Out Everything, But A Blinding Light; Nothing More Can Be Made Out.

A Person Who Has Not Completely Lost The Memory Of Paradise, Even Though It Is A Faint One, Will Suffer Endlessly. He Will Feel The Call Of The Essential World, Will Hear The Voice That Comes From So Far Away That One Cannot Find Out Where It Comes From, A Voice That Cannot Guide Him.

I've Always Been Suspicious Of Collective Truths.

In The Name Of Religion, One Tortures, Persecutes, Builds Pyres. In The Guise Of Ideologies, One Massacres, Tortures And Kills. In The Name Of Justice One Punishes...in The Name Of Love Of One's Country Or Of One's Race Hates Other Countries, Despises Them, Massacres Them. In The Name Of Equality And Brotherhood There Is Suppression And Torture. There Is Nothing In Common Between The Means And The End, The Means Go Far Beyond The End...ideologies And Religion... Are The Alibis Of The Means.

Why Was I Born, If It Wasn't Forever?

No Society Has Been Able To Abolish Human Sadness, No Political System Can Deliver Us From The Pain Of Living, From Our Fear Of Death, Our Thirst For The Absolute. It Is The Human Condition That Directs The Social Condition, Not Vice Versa.

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 Just Can't Get Used To Life.

It's Only When I Say That Everything Is Incomprehensible That I Come As Close As Possible To Understanding The Only Thing It Is Given To Us To Understand.

Of Course, Not Everything Is Unsayable In Words, Only The Living Truth.

Theatre Is Simply What Cannot Be Expressed By Any Other Means; A Complexity Of Words, Movements, Gestures That Convey A Vision Of The World Inexpressible In Any Other Way.

For Me, It Is As Though At Every Moment The Actual World Had Completely Lost Its Actuality. As Though There Was Nothing There; Asthough There Were No Foundations For Anything Or As Though It Escaped Us. Only One Thing, However, Is Vividly Present: The Constant Tearing Of The Veil Of Appearances; The Constant Destruction Of Everything In Construction. Nothing Holds Together, Everything Falls Apart.

The Human Comedy Does Not Attract Me Enough. I Am Not Entirely Of This World. I Am From Elsewhere, And It Is Worth Finding This Elsewhere Beyond The Walls...but Where Is It?

Beauty Is A Precious Trace That Eternity Causes To Appear To Us And That It Takes Away From Us. A Manifestation Of Eternity, And A Sign Of Death As Well.

The Brightest Light, The Light Of Italy, The Purest Sky Of Scandinavia In The Month Of June Is Only A Half-light When One Compares It To The Light Of Childhood. Even The Nights Were Blue.

Shakespeare Was The Great One Before Us. His Place Was Between God And Despair.

Every Work Of Art (unless It Is A Psuedo-intellectualist Work, A Work Already Comprised In Some Ideology That It Merely Illustrates, As With Brecht) Is Outside Ideology, Is Not Reducible To Ideology. Ideology Circumscribes Without Penetrating It. The Absence Of Ideology In A Work Does Not Mean An Absence Of Ideas; On The Contrary It Fertilizes Them.

Good Men Make Good Rhinoceroses, Unfortunately.

There Is No Religion In Which Everyday Life Is Not Considered A Prison; There Is No Philosophy Or Ideology That Does Not Think That We Live In Alienation.

Daisy: I Never Knew You Were Such A Realist-i Thought You Were More Poetic. Where's Your Imagination? There Are Many Sides To Reality. Choose The One That's Best For You. Escape Into The World Of Imagination.

We Have Not The Time To Take Our Time.

The Arts Are Man's Most Useless ... And Essential ... Activity.

The Universe Seems To Me Infinitely Strange And Foreign. At Such A Moment I Gaze Upon It With A Mixture Of Anguish And Euphoria; Separate From The Universe, As Though Placed At A Certain Distance Outside It; I Look And I See Pictures, Creatures That Move In A Kind Of Timeless Time And Spaceless Space, Emitting Sounds That Are A Kind Of Language I No Longer Understand Or Ever Register.

The End Of Childhood Is When Things Cease To Astonish Us. When The World Seems Familiar, When One Has Got Used To Existence, One Has Become An Adult.

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