Artaud's life and writings, his biography, it might be said, evince a perpetual, agonized confrontation with the absolute outside, the madness or death which render this biography at the same time a thanatography. His struggle with the silence of the origin, its ineffacable absence which demands effacement, opens us to the collapse of interiority and exteriority in the transformational or transfigurational figure of the body - an-other body, altered, divested of organs and the ordered illness that society and God, in their structured maintenance of the borders between these domains, command. Said otherwise, a scream, a cry, from out of the most terrifyingly ancient of pasts, and the coming apocalypse (from the contemporary standpoint) of a future which shall never arrive for us.
The hatred of representation that Artaud manifests serves only to bear forth the inescapable bind of originary mimesis which entwines us at every turn; the theatre of cruelty offers to us the cruelty of life of which it is the double, and of which life is its double. This paradoxical redoubling renders explicit the absence of any originary state to which either of the relata might be the representation. The maddening spiral into the void elicits, by the play of this mise en abyme, an unspeakable rupture which marks thw gestures of our bodies and actions, ever enacting a dramatization without source text or original referent. A cruel fate, enough to cast one into madness - madness being the only expression available to the preswnt order of understanding by which to classify such an attempt at expression, to transgress the limits of what is currently sayable and transform our linguistically ordered form of life.
We cannot have done with the judgement of god, for in the wake of the absence of god the judgement remains - only it comes not from on high, but from the outside (which, as noted, has collapsed into what was the inside), the heartless heart of alterity which demands of us a response, an interminable translation of our existence, in pursuit of of the origin ever in withdrawal. Artaud's writng and his life remain a testament to such a response, an agonizing transformation of existence. But who testifies for such a testament? Are we not already bound to a sort of perverse responsibility, not as the society which suicided Artaud, but as others in ourselves, witness and victim of the cruelty which strikes us all, demanding a response, a justification, a judgement?
Amidst the madness of these questions and responses, these affections and acts, the interminable play of cruelty upon the stage of life and language, a silent demand resonates, through the sustained delay of our perpetual alteration. Let us figure it here in the words of Rilke, elicited by the acephalic torso of the statuesque figure of the god devoided of its primary organ, of the order disordered in its infinite transformation:
"You must change your life."