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'The naming of autobiographies is a minor art. A great title can be nobly direct (Nabokov's Speak, Memory; Jack Paar's I Kid You Not), bitterly cryptic (Josef von Sternberg's Fun in a Chinese Laundry; Adolf Loos' Nevertheless), or too clever by half (Roman by Polanski). In this obscure pantheon, a place must be reserved for Klaus Kinski, the erratically gifted Polish-German actor and noted mal vivant, who tried to publish the English version of his autobiography in 1988 under the massively ironic title All I Need is Love. The book was caught in a copyright dispute between Random House and a West German publisher, with huge libel problems looming; it was withdrawn shortly after publication, and became one of the books most often stolen from public libraries. ... This ghastly and hypnotic memoir lives up to its long-festering legend. The whole witless genre of the celebrity confessional undergoes a horrifying self-disembowelment.
'On and on it goes, sickening and tedious by turns. But this book is weirdly enjoyable for what is not in it: conventional film gossip, name-dropping, show-biz folly of any kind. Here is a man who reports working on For a Few Dollars More, but fails to mention Clint Eastwood. For good long stretches, you'll be wondering, "What year are we in?" or even, "What decade?" There are no dates, and few hard facts; movies are referred to as "some piece of crap," directors, as "some idiot." (The "New York actress slut" referred to on page 309 is Susan Sarandon.) He doesn't even give the full names of his various wives. You also wonder whether certain things actually happened. Some of the sexual escapades sound curiously like unfulfilled fantasies. Phrases recur in them like literary motifs.' -- Alex Ross, The Rest is Noise
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Herzog is a miserable, spiteful, envious, stingy, stinking, money-hungry, malicious, sadistic, incidious, backstabbing, blackmailing, cowardly person, and a liar through and through. His so-called talent is nothing more than torturing helpless creatures and, if necessary, putting them to death or simply murdering them. No one and nothing interests him but his lousy career as a so-called filmmaker. Driven by a pathological addiction to cause a sensation, he himself provokes the most senseless difficulties and dangers and puts the safety and even the lives of others on the line only so he can later say that he, Herzog, has mastered the seemingly impossible.
Each time I touch her, she tears herself away from me. After two hours of this, I rip her blouse off with one swipe. Her tits force themselves into my mouth. We tug at each other's clothes, stumble, stumble, fall onto the floor, pant, gasp, scream as if our lives depended on shredding our clothes. Naked, we crouch in front of each other, bite each other. Hit each other. Our bodies. Our faces. Our genitals. Attack each other dangerously. Painfully. She throws herself onto her belly, her ass juts up, her cheeks gape wide, as I shove my twitching cock into her hot, wet cunt.
I hold on to a street light and think that this is the end. I pull out the kitchen knife and stick it down my throat like a sword swallower. And then it happens. The boil breaks! And I puke half a liter of pus into the gutter. Now I'm rid of everything and my pains are gone.
Those assholes! Do you ask a car crash for another take? Do you ask a volcano for another take? Do you ask the storm for another take?
Once again our lives are constantly put at risk because of Herzog's total ignorance, narrowmindedness, arrogance and inconsideration... He's the same decaying garbage heap that he was ten years ago, only more moronic, more mindless, more murderous... Over and over again I refuse to stick to Herzog's hair-raisingly crappy script or take his amateurish 'direction.'
Why am I a whore? I need love! Love! Always! And I want to give love, because I have so much of it to give. No one understands that I want nothing from my whoring around but to love.
I`d have been better than Adolf Hitler. I could`ve delivered his speeches a lot better. That`s for certain. Where a beast would have claws, I was born with talent. The dimensions of my feelings are too violent. I knew there were, in myself, the souls of millions of people who lived centuries ago; not just people but animals, plants, the elements, things, even, matter. All of these exist in me. Sometimes my heart hurts so much, I beat it with my fists. I try to run. But you cannot run from this. It waits for you. Even when you think you have escaped it, it is there. I am your fairy tale. Your dream. Your wishes and desires, and I am your thirst and your hunger and your food and your drink. The truth is, I can never die. For I will be in everything and see you in everything and watch over you. I am your reaction in the water of a mountain lake.
She pulls off her panties and stands before me with open legs, protruding pelvis, and slightly bent knees. Her rough, swollen tongue fills my mouth. Her belly pushed against my dick as if she were knocked up. The stiff little wads of her vaginal lips keep springing together like two halves of a rubber ball. She moans. Her abdomen works like a machine. She shpritzes and shpritzes. Our knees buckle. I shove my dick into her from behind, right up to my nuts, and I writhe as if I were touching a high-voltage line -- while she, impaled, and with her tongue hanging out, rattles like a slaughtered calf.
Once when I was asleep I pissed on my sister because I dreamed she was a tree. I believe there is no stench that I haven't stunk of.
As soon as I fuck a girl or she's sucked me off, I want to leave her immediately. If one sucks me over for so long that I let her sleep with me and she wants to cuddle up to me, I kick her away.
The chick with the blond curls ... yells 'Kinski!' which sounds like 'Fuck me'.
I actually get venereal disease more often than most people catch colds.
Steven Spielberg wants me to do RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, and someone brings the script from Hollywood to Paris. But as much as I think that Spielberg is the best director America has to offer, the screenplay is the same tired old shit. Fellini wants me in his next film and asks me to come to Rome. In Rome Dominique drives me to Fellini's home. He struts around for hours speaking French, because I don't speak Italian yet. He starts to get on my nerves. It's all so very important! I whisper to Dominique, 'Let's get out of here!
The German government writes me that it has awarded me the supreme distinction for an actor: the Golden Film Ribbon. What gall! Who gave these shitheads the right to award me anything? Did it never occur to them that there might be somebody who doesn't want their shit? What filthy arrogance to award me - me of all people! - a prize! What does this prize mean anyway? Is it a reward? For what? For my pains, sufferings, despair, tears? A prize for every hell, every dying, every resurrection? Prizes for death and life? Prizes for passion, for hate and love? And how did you shitheads intend to hand me the prize? As a gift? As a favour, like those tasteless hosts that the pope distributes like fast food? I'll kick you! Or do I come submissive, whimpering? I'll kick you again! And there's not even a check. It's outrageous!
They hammer, they hammer; it is unbearable. That is why you have to go away. They hammer everywhere! Everywhere they can possibly hammer! They hammer in your brain! Hell, these idiots, they come with their hammer, where people are sitting, to hammer, to hammer, to hammer!
It is true what Rimbaud said; If you think a book is strong enough, try it at the ocean, in the wind, at the waves. If the book can resist the ocean, then it exists. Otherwise, throw it away.
Now I absolutely despise the murderer Herzog. I tell him to his face that I want to see him perish like the llama he executed. He should be thrown to the crocodiles alive! An anaconda should throttle him slowly! The sting of a deadly spider should paralyze him! His brain should burst from the bite of the most poisonous of all snakes! Panthers shouldn't slit his throat open with their claws, that would be too good for him! No. Big red ants should piss in his eyes, eat his balls, penetrate his asshole, and eat his guts! He should get the plague! Syphilis! Malaria! Yellow fever! Leprosy! In vain. The more I wish the most horrible of deaths on him and treat him like the scum of the earth that he is, the less I can get rid of him!
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p.s. Hey. I hope everyone reading this is doing very well. It looks like Klaus Kinski is what you'll be doing today. What could go wrong? See you soon, if I haven't seen you already, and I guess even if I have.