When I Think About Myself, My Thought

Tragedy On The Stage Is No Longer Enough For Me, I Shall Bring It Into My Own Life.

I See In The Act Of Throwing The Dice And Of Risking The Affirmation Of Some Intuitively Felt Truth, However Uncertain, My Whole Reason For Living.

The Fixation Of The Theater In One Language--written Words, Music, Lights, Noises--betokens Its Imminent Ruin.

How Hard Is It, When Everything Encourages Us To Sleep, Though We May Look About Us With Conscious, Clinging Eyes, To Wake And Yet Look About Us As In A Dream, With Eyes That No Longer Know Their Function And Whose Gaze Is Turned Inward.

Enough, I Shall Be Understood In Ten Years By People Who Will Be Doing What You Do Today. Then My Geysers Will Be Known, My Ice Floes Will Be Seen, The Secret Of Adulterating My Poisons Will Have Been Learned, The Games Of My Soul Will Be Revealed.