"Don't tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones"
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Artaud isn’t dispensing self-care; he’s issuing an indictment. “Don’t tire yourself more than need be” reads like a simple warning until the sentence detonates into its real target: a civilization that treats human exhaustion as an acceptable building material. The line’s power comes from the way it scales instantly from the private body to the public order. Your bones aren’t just yours; they’re the hidden infrastructure of “culture,” the thing that gets praised as refinement while it quietly runs on depletion.
The phrasing “even at the price” flips the usual moral math. Culture is supposed to be what we pay for with discipline, work, sacrifice. Artaud suspects that bargain is rigged: the prestige of making, performing, or “contributing” becomes a cover story for slow self-erasure. “Founding a culture” is grand, almost heroic; “the fatigue of your bones” is intimate, humiliating, bodily. He drags the lofty down into the skeleton, where art and labor stop being abstract virtues and become a literal cost.
Context matters: Artaud wrote out of illness, institutionalization, and a lifelong sense that modern life and conventional theater anesthetize people into passivity. His Theatre of Cruelty wanted to break that numbness, but not by romanticizing martyrdom. The subtext is a refusal of the artist-as-sacrificial-lamb myth: if your culture requires your breakdown to justify itself, then what you’re founding isn’t culture but a cult of attrition.
The phrasing “even at the price” flips the usual moral math. Culture is supposed to be what we pay for with discipline, work, sacrifice. Artaud suspects that bargain is rigged: the prestige of making, performing, or “contributing” becomes a cover story for slow self-erasure. “Founding a culture” is grand, almost heroic; “the fatigue of your bones” is intimate, humiliating, bodily. He drags the lofty down into the skeleton, where art and labor stop being abstract virtues and become a literal cost.
Context matters: Artaud wrote out of illness, institutionalization, and a lifelong sense that modern life and conventional theater anesthetize people into passivity. His Theatre of Cruelty wanted to break that numbness, but not by romanticizing martyrdom. The subtext is a refusal of the artist-as-sacrificial-lamb myth: if your culture requires your breakdown to justify itself, then what you’re founding isn’t culture but a cult of attrition.
Quote Details
| Topic | Self-Care |
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