Antonin Artaud

Me, Antonin Artaud, I am my son, my father, my mother, and me; leveler of the imbecilic periplus where begetting impaled itself, the daddy-mommy periplus and the child, soot from grandma's ass, much more than father-mother's. Which means that before mommy and daddy who had neither father nor mother, it is said, and where indeed would they have got them, they, when they became this unique conjunct neither husband nor wife, could have seen sit or stand, before this improbable hole the spirit feels out for us, to fill us with a little more self-disgust, was this unemployable body, made of meat and mad sperm, this body hanged, from before lice, sweating on the impossible table of heaven, its callous odor of abject detritus ejected from the snooze of the finger-mutilated Inca who for an idea had an arm but had as a hand only a dead palm, having lost his fingers by dint of killing kings.