Kinski uncut: the autobiography of Klaus Kinski. byKinski, Klaus. Publication date Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. Kinski Uncut by Klaus Kinski, August 1, , Penguin (Non-Classics) edition. [ruthenpress.info20] MiataDrivers - Kinski Uncut: The Autobiography of Klaus Kinski Rating: ( Votes) Kinski Uncut: The Autobiography Klaus Kinski epub.
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This autobiography recounts the life of the German actor Klaus Kinski. It tells of his tortured childhood in the poverty of pre-war Berlin - starving. Author Topic: KLAUS KINSKI "UNCUT" AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Read times) I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE A PDF FILE TRADING IS AN. And Kinski Uncut: The Autobiography Of Klaus Kinski PDF Online giving a positive effect on the reader so that the reader will feel happy and.
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Books for People with Print Disabilities. Monkeys ePub Collection. Download Kinski Uncut: Download and Read A Kinski Uncut: Read Kinski Uncut: The unbelievable true story of a young girl who is abandoned in the Editorial Reviews.
From Booklist. Torn from her family at the tender age of four and abandoned Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets.
It's coming back and back and back and back to me for years. I am not ashamed to tell myself what I am doing wrong, but there must always be a way to understand that's all I can do. What I want to say is I tried, okay, I tried, and I'm not breaking my head that it's not happened. It's like a growing plant. This tiny things is coming out, you can feel it coming out, it's breaking through, so it may be one day that she will understand many more things than she understands today.
Nobody can come to me and say, 'Why haven't you seen this and why and why. Werner , nobody will read this book if I don't write bad stuff about you. If I wrote that we get along well together, nobody would download it.
The scum only wants to hear about the dirt, all the time. Why should I receive a prize? I know that I'm a genius! Nor am I a guarantee for success, savings accounts and possessions. I am the homeless one without a permanent home who stirs up trouble wherever he goes. 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. I am not the official Church Jesus who is accepted by policemen, bankers, judges, executioners, officers, church bosses, politicians and similar representatives of power.
I am not your Superstar who keeps playing his part for you on the cross, and whom you hit in the face when he steps out of his role, and who therefore cannot call out to you, "I am fed up with all your pomp and all your rituals! Your incense is disgusting. It stinks of burnt human flesh. I can't bear your holy celebrations and holidays any longer. You can pray as much as you like, I'm not listening. Keep all your idiotic honours and laudations.
I won't have anything to do with them. I do not want them. I am no pillar of peace and security. Security that you achieve with tear gas and with billy clubs. I am no guarantee for obedience and order either. Order and obedience at reform schools, prisons, penal institutions, insane asylums.
I am the disobedient one, the restless one who does not live in any house. I am the agitator, the invoker, I am the scream.
I am the hippie, bum, Black Power, Jesus people. I want to free the prisoners. I want to make the blind see. I want to redeem the tortured. I want to cast love into your hearts, the love that reaches out beyond everything that exists. I want to turn you into living human beings, immortals. Kinski Uncut : The Autobiography of Klaus Kinski [ edit ] What they teach in these acting schools is incredible, hair-raising crap How can you "teach" someone to be an actor?
How can you teach someone how and what to feel and how to express it? Herzog is a miserable, hateful, malevolent, avaricious, money-hungry, nasty, sadistic, treacherous, cowardly creep.
His so-called "talent" consists of nothing but tormenting helpless creatures and, if necessary, torturing them to death or simply murdering them. There's so much gossip about my getting yet another prize.
It's like the cattle market, where the bulls get prizes for their dicks and the cows for their udders. No outsider can imagine the stupidity, blustering hysteria, authoritarianism, and paralyzing boredom of shooting a flick for Billy Wilder. My son is my life. I believe in the magic of this love.
He is the embodiment of life to me. The embodiment of beauty. Through him I'll find redemption and salvation. Yeah, I've got violence in me, but no negative violence. My violence is the violence of the free man who refuses to knuckle under.
Creation is violent. Life is violent. Birth is a violent process. Tempests and earthquakes are violent movements of nature. My violence is the violence of life. It is not violence against nature, like the violence of the state, which sends your kids to the slaughterhouse, deadens your minds, and drives out your souls! Why can I never sleep at night? Because bombs keep dropping! Why does my mother have to torture herself like that? Why didn't anyone give my dad a break?
Why is there a war? On his childhood. 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 killed. The Actors Studio in America is supposed to be the worst. There the students learn how to be natural - that is, they flop around, pick their noses, scratch their balls.
This bullshit is known as " method acting. How can someone teach me how to laugh or cry? How to be glad and how to be sad? What pain is, or despair or happiness? What poverty and hunger are? What hate and love are? What desire is, and fulfillment? No, I don't want to waste my time with these arrogant morons. I've solved the mystery: You have to submit silently.
Open up, let go. Let anything penetrate you, even the most painful things. Bear up. That's the magic key! The text comes by itself, and its meaning shakes the soul.
Everything else is taken care of by the life one has to live without sparing oneself. You mustn't let scar tissue form on your wounds; you have to keep ripping them open in order to turn your insides into a marvelous instrument that is capable of anything. All this has its price. I become so sensitive that I can't live under normal conditions. That's why the hours between performances are worst. Telegraph sent to Federico Fellini.
Real flamenco is like sex. Lots of diamonds.
Big ones. The biggest are the size of pigeon eggs, and she's already wearing them for breakfast. I feel sorry for her. She'd give it all up just to be a couple of years younger. On Martine Carol. One after another. They get shittier and shittier, and the so-called directors get lousier and lousier.
And the more incompetent they are, the more hostile they act. 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.
On Werner Herzog , p. An anaconda should strangle him slowly! A poisonous spider should sting him and paralyze his lungs! The most venomous serpent should bite him and make his brain explode!
No — panther claws should rip open his throat — that would be much too good for him! Huge red ants should piss into his lying eyes and gobble up his balls and his guts!
He should catch the plague! Yellow fever! It's no use; the more I wish him the most gruesome deaths, the more he haunts me.
He doesn't care about anyone or anything except his career as a so-called filmmaker. Driven by a pathological addiction to sensationalism, he creates the most sensless difficulties and dangers, risking other people's safety and even their lives — just so he can eventually say that he, Herzog, has beaten seemingly unbeatable odds. For his movies he hires retards and amateurs whom he can push around and alledgedly hypnotize!
He also uses freaks and cripples of every conceivable size and shape, merely to look interesting. He doesn't have the foggiest inkling of how to make movies. He doesn't even try to direct the actors anymore.
Long ago, when I ordered him to keep his trap shut, he gave up asking me whether I'm willing to carry out his stupid and boring ideas. That I've never loved her like this. I try to tell her that she's distorting everything in her pain and not seeing the truth. That I've painfully missed her since our separation and that I've never stopped loving her.
But even though she gradually calms down, I have a feeling she doesn't believe me. On his daughter, Nastassja. What gall! Who gave those 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! What does this prize mean, anyway? Is it a reward? For what? For my pains, sufferings, despair, tears?