At sixteen I get drafted. When I read the draft notice, I cry. Not because I'm a coward - I'm not afraid of anyone. But I don't want to kill or be ki… - Klaus Kinski

I've come here to tell the most exciting story in the history of mankind: the life of Jesus Christ. I'm not talking about the Jesus in those horribly gaudy pictures. Not the Jesus with the jaundice-yellow skin - whom crazy human society has turned into the biggest whore of all time. Whose corpse they perversely drag around on disgraceful crosses. I don't mean the jabbering about God or the blubbering hymns. I don't mean the Jesus whose moldy kiss frightens little girls out of horny dreams before their First Communion and then make them die of shame and disgust when they foam in the latrines. I'm talking about the man: the restless man who says we have to turn over a new leaf all the time, now! I'm talking about the adventurer, the freest, most fearless, most modern of all men, the one who preferred being massacred to rotting with others. I'm talking about the man who is like what all of us want to be. You and I.

How can anyone believe that you can "learn" how to feel and learn how to express it? How can anyone teach another person how to laugh and how to cry? How to be cheerful and how to be sad? Teach them what pain is, and despair, and desire, and passion? Hate and love? How can anyone waste their own and somebody else's time with that idiocy? But far worse than the morons who think they can learn these things are the people who claim they can teach them. In the end, they teach bad manners. If one of their trained poodles sits down in public, he doesn't sit, he slouches - which is supposed to mean that his behavior is "natural." He or she scratches his or her head then picks his or her nose, which is supposed to mean that he or she has no complexes and acts very spontaneously. So this is what New York talk shows look like.

His speech is clumsy, with a toadlike indolence, long winded, pedantic, choppy. The words tumble from his mouth in sentence fragments, which he holds back as much as possible, as if they were earning interest. It takes forever and a day for him to push out a clump of hardened brain snot. Then he writhes in painful ecstasy, as if he had sugar on his rotten teeth. A very slow blab machine. An obsolete model with a non-working switch — it can't be turned off unless you cut off the electric power altogether. So I'd have to smash him in the kisser. No, I'd have to knock him unconscious. But even if he were unconscious he'd keep talking. Even if his vocal cords were sliced through, he'd keep talking like a ventriloquist. Even if his throat were cut and his head were chopped off, speech balloons would still dangle from his mouth like gases emitted by internal decay.