In fact, I stand before this world as an opaque block and I have the impression that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I understand, and that there is nothing to understand.
We are both prisoners of our cultures as of our organization, and it is now a matter to find out whether, if at all, there is a deeper truth beyond.
Plays are not written by playwrights, but by future generations. I cannot predict whether my sensibility and that of future generations will match. The later generations always write a play that is based on that of the playwright, but in many ways differs from the original work.
Not to think like the others brings you in an unpleasant situation. Not to think like the others, simply means that you think.
I beg 'I do not know who' - I hope: Jesus Christ.
What is aging good for?
Imagination is no excuse. Imagining something, that is to build a world, to create a world.
As a great critique asked me why I was not serious, I replied that the literature itself was not serious and that I was too serious for taking it too seriously.
Everyday life is a gray blanket, hidden beneath is the virginity of the world.
I hope for the final victory of the forces of good.
If life ist absurd for Eugène Ionesco, it is also alluring. His capacity for delight in the details of human existence struggles with his conviction of its futility: it lends depth and verve to his despair.
Startling and often brilliant. The lack of spiritual content in our civilization has been the major outcry of European Drama since Ibsen. Ionesco has carried this idea to the climatic point of savage caricature.
There is a terrifying, almost suffocating logic about the work of Ionesco. Life, he says, is a grotesque practical joke constantly pulling away chairs from under (human) dignity and reason. Nothing is sane, reality is a hall of distorting mirrors reflecting the grimness of our own pretensions.