Glossolalia Against the Model: Artaud, AI, and the Limits of Language
tl;dr
In this essay, I confront the algorithmic reduction of language through the lens of Antonin Artaud’s philosophy of expression. I argue that contemporary LLMs, by operationalizing speech into predictable, coherent systems, fulfill a metaphysical project aimed at smoothing, stabilizing, and anesthetizing linguistic life. Against this tendency, I reclaim Artaud’s glossolalia—speech as convulsion, sacred waste, and ontological rupture—as a limit that resists datafication. Drawing on Deleuze and Guattari’s BwO, Byung-Chul Han’s critique of digital smoothness, and Mark Fisher’s analysis of cultural stagnation, I position Artaud’s thought as a radical counterpoint to the necrosyntax of generative AI. I propose that new forms of linguistic and machinic cruelty are necessary to defend the affective, corporeal dimensions of expression against the totalizing regimes of optimization and control.
I. Invocation: In the Beginning Was the Scream
"Before thought, before words, I already was."
— Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H. (1964)
The Western metaphysical tradition, from the Platonic logos to the protocols of information theory, has insisted on language as the medium through which the world becomes intelligible. Speech is cast as the servant of reason, clarity, and communicative transparency¹. Yet Antonin Artaud forces us to rethink this lineage at its root; for him, language does not arise from rational articulation but from a scream- a pre-linguistic, affective eruption that precedes all structures of signification. The scream is not a mere cry of emotion; it is a fundamental ontological gesture, it marks the irruption of the body into a regime otherwise dominated by abstraction, a convulsion of being against the governance of representation². In this view, language is not a conveyor of meaning but an energetic disturbance—a field of intensities, spasms, forces.
Such an understanding displaces the traditions of Western theatre and the entire epistemology underpinning contemporary technological systems. The emergence of large language models (LLMs)—trained to simulate statistically probable sequences—reveals the fulfillment of the ancient dream: language made reproducible, indefinitely scalable.
Yet Artaud reveals the untrainable remainder. The scream cannot be captured; glossolalia resists corpus formation. Where the model optimizes for coherence, Artaud's language shatters coherence itself. He reminds us that language's origin lies not in the logos but in rupture—that predictability necessarily excludes the agony, ecstasy, and sacred madness that constitute existence.
To recover this is to defend a dimension of expression irreducible to information, unassimilable to technics. Beginning with the scream, Artaud challenges both metaphysics and engineering, demanding that speech be rethought not as a functional medium, but as an existential event. In this, Artaud remains radically untimely—a guide for thinking language at the threshold where it ceases to represent and begins to wound.
II. Artaud and the Plague of Language
"It is not the word that counts but the vertigo of the act of speech."
— Antonin Artaud, Selected Letters
Artaud’s conception of language emerges from a fundamental distrust of its rational and representational functions: language as it is conventionally practiced serves not to reveal reality, but to mask and mediate it, abstracting the immediate experience of being into a network of signs that deaden intensity and enforce social order. In The Theatre and Its Double (1938), Artaud describes language as a kind of plague: an infectious, disruptive force that overturns the stability of the social body³. For him, authentic expression does not transmit predefined meanings; rather, it operates as a contagion, dissolving the boundaries between speaker and audience, self and other, meaning and madness. The true function of language is to transform—to incite a crisis in the organism it touches. Artaud’s invocation of the plague is not metaphorical in the conventional sense; he understands both theatre and language as events of bodily contamination. Just as the plague destabilizes and reorders the body through fever, convulsion, and delirium, so too does authentic language invade and deform the rational structures of thought. It is an event of affective intensity, irreducible to conceptual capture.
This understanding positions Artaud against not only traditional dramaturgy but against any theory of language that privileges clarity, efficiency, and reproducibility⁴. Where rational discourse seeks to stabilize meaning, Artaud demands that language reopen the wounds of existence. His project is thus not an anti-language in the nihilistic sense, but rather a reorientation of language toward its originary violence—toward the groan, the glossolalic rupture that precedes all signification.
Such a view has direct implications for how we understand contemporary technological mediations of language. LLMs, operationalizing language as a probabilistic sequence of signs, represent the apotheosis of a communicative ideal that Artaud sought to dismantle. In the algorithmic paradigm, language is purified of its disruptive potential; it is reduced to information transmission, its plague-like qualities suppressed in favor of legibility and safe circulation.
In light of Artaud’s theory, the rise of generative language tech appears to be a profound metaphysical impoverishment. Language’s capacities are systematically neutralized. Communication triumphs, but at the cost of expression. Sense proliferates, but intensity disappears. Artaud’s work insists that any future reconsideration of language, particularly under conditions of digital mediation, must reckon with this suppressed dimension. Without the plague of language—without its capacity to undo us—we risk becoming, in Artaud’s words, "living cadavers": speakers without screams, bodies without wounds.
III. Against the Smooth: The Digital Interface as Anesthesia
"The slow cancellation of the future has been accompanied by a deflation of expectations."
— Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism (2009)
If Artaud diagnosed language as a plague to be endured and undergone, contemporary digital systems have achieved its opposite: the prophylaxis of experience itself. The contemporary interface is not a site of eruption but of smoothing, as Byung-Chul Han observes, the aesthetics of neoliberal technoculture privilege transparency, positivity, and seamlessness⁵. Friction is engineered away; glitches are patched; latency is intolerable. Digital life is calibrated toward immediacy without shock. This smoothing is a metaphysical project: the abolition of negativity as such. The interface promises a world without interruptions—where images load instantaneously, texts autocomplete with algorithmic plausibility, emotions are streamlined into predictable reactions.
Mark Fisher names the psychological correlate of this condition "depressive hedonia"⁶: a ceaseless stimulation that never rises to the level of genuine affect. Pleasure is available, but without intensity. Engagement proliferates, but without expectation. In this atmosphere, the very capacity for rupture — for the sudden irruption of the scream, the trauma of the plague — is systematically eliminated.
Paul Virilio adds a further dimension: every technological acceleration carries within it the secret of its own accident⁷. The shipwreck is born with the ship; the plane crash with the airplane. Yet the smoothing of digital experience seeks to erase even the possibility of accident, to render systems so frictionless that the event itself—the rupture, the trauma—becomes unthinkable.
Artaud’s demand for language as spasmic contagion finds, here, its absolute negation. LLMs and generative AI systems do not merely operationalize language; they operationalize coherence, they suppress contradiction, neutralize incoherence, eliminate the sacred risks of speech. Language ceases to convulse; it circulates. It ceases to wound; it reassures. Thus, smoothing is not an accident of interface design but the very anesthetic of a metaphysical regime: one that denies the necessity of suffering, disruption, and transformation in language and life alike.
To defend the scream, to defend glossolalia, is therefore not to resist progress but to resist anesthesia—to defend the possibility that language, and with it existence, can still convulse, contaminate.
Beneath the seamlessness lies another horror: not just the neutralization of expression, but the death of language itself.
IV. The Birth of the Model: From Corpus to Corpse
"Language is a virus from outer space."
— William S. Burroughs, The Ticket That Exploded (1962)
LLMs represent the culmination of a centuries-long project to formalize, rationalize, and operationalize language. Built upon massive corpora of human-produced text, these models abstract language from its lived, embodied, and historical contexts, reducing it to a series of statistically probable sequences. In doing so, they perform a subtle but profound metaphysical operation: the transformation of corpus into corpse.
A corpus, in linguistic and philological traditions, refers to a living archive—a collection of texts through which the dynamism of a language and its cultural practices can be studied. It implies variation, contradiction, historical layering, and even linguistic decay. However, when appropriated by machine learning systems, the corpus is subjected to processes of normalization, filtration, and optimization. It is no longer a living tissue of conflicting voices and singular eruptions; it becomes a dataset, prepared for the extraction of patterns and the production of coherent outputs.
This shift mirrors what Michel Foucault identified in The Order of Things as the transformation of knowledge into "disciplinary" formations: fields once marked by fluidity and contradiction become reorganized under the imperative of control, predictability, and utility⁸. In the context of AI-generated language, this disciplinary logic manifests in the production of outputs that minimize risk—of incoherence, of offense, of opacity—while maximizing engagement and legibility.
Antonin Artaud’s philosophy of language reveals what is lost in this process. For him, authentic speech is inseparable from bodily intensity, it is not statistically probable; it is ontologically improbable, does not conform to expectation, it wounds expectation itself. The automation of language through predictive modeling thus entails a metaphysical death: language ceases to be an event of becoming and becomes an object of reproduction.
The corpse of language produced by LLMs is animated by a superficial dynamism—new combinations, new sentences—but it lacks the capacity for true eruption⁹. It cannot scream. It can simulate affect, but it cannot suffer. It can mimic madness, but it cannot inhabit it. What results is a functional, adaptive, but fundamentally anesthetized prosthetic language.
This process is not value-neutral. The optimization of language for predictability and coherence reinforces a broader regime of affective regulation, one in which unpredictability, contradiction, and excessive intensity are pathologized or rendered invisible. It reflects and reinforces the neoliberal demand for emotional self-management, cognitive flexibility, and communicative efficiency. Artaud’s glossolalic experiments—his asemantic outbursts—constitute a refusal of this regime. They stand as a reminder that true expression is not merely unlikely but impossible within systems governed by optimization, demanding a different ontology of language: one that embraces failure, rupture, and the irreducible singularity of the speaking body.
To recover this dimension is to challenge the metaphysical assumptions embedded within contemporary language technologies, to insist that language cannot, and should not, be reduced to a system of reproducible signs. It is to demand that we think of speech not as a product but as a scream that threatens the coherence of the world.
V. Glossolalia: Anti-LLM, Anti-Economy
"I write to stun myself, to hammer myself, to push myself into another world."
— Henri Michaux, A Barbarian in Asia (1933)
Glossolalia represents a direct confrontation with the underlying logic of contemporary digital capitalism, it sabotages the economy of signs, renders the machinery of meaning incoherent, introducing rupture where systems demand circulation. If LLMs are predicated on the efficient circulation, reproduction, and monetization of language, then glossolalia constitutes their metaphysical antagonist: a form of expression that refuses economy, refuses predictability, and ultimately refuses utility.
Across time and disciplines, scattered allies emerge to join Artaud’s glossolalic revolt. Among the Russian Futurists, Velimir Khlebnikov and Aleksei Kruchyonykh sought to rupture conventional language through zaum’—a "transrational" speech erupting into pure sound beyond meaning.
In jazz, scat singing abandoned semantic anchors altogether, privileging the vibratory immediacy of the voice. These experiments, like Artaud’s, wagered on the possibility that language must sometimes be burned down to its sacred excess to recover expression itself.
Glossolalia, as practiced and theorized by Artaud, is not the random production of nonsense, nor is it a mere breakdown of communicative rationality. It is a sacred form of expenditure, a wasteful and excessive eruption of vocalized being that cannot be instrumentalized. In this sense, glossolalia aligns closely with Georges Bataille’s theory of dépense (expenditure) as articulated in The Accursed Share. For Bataille, human life is not reducible to productive labor or rational calculation; it necessarily includes acts of waste, sacrifice, and excess that escape economic rationality¹⁰.
This form of sacred expenditure contrasts sharply with the data economies underpinning contemporary tech. In what Shoshana Zuboff terms "surveillance capitalism," every utterance becomes a datapoint for behavioral prediction and economic extraction¹¹. Language is no longer an act of expression but a raw material to be captured, modeled, and sold. Glossolalia, by refusing semantic capture, becomes a form of resistance to this economic order: it produces no surplus value, no marketable insight, only an unproductive expenditure that shatters the logic of accumulation.
Glossolalia functions in precisely this way. It is a linguistic act without return: it does not seek to transmit information, persuade an audience, or achieve a goal. It squanders breath, vocal energy, and bodily intensity without recuperation. It is a language of sacred uselessness, standing diametrically opposed to the economic logic that underpins both capitalist communication systems and the machine-learning architectures designed to simulate them.
In contrast, LLMs operate on a fundamentally economic model of language; every utterance is oriented toward maximizing coherence, minimizing uncertainty, and preserving user engagement. Even apparent randomness within generative outputs remains bounded within a probabilistic framework designed to optimize interaction. Underlying this is a model of language as a commodity: a measurable, exchangeable good capable of being trained, refined, and sold.
The glossolalic utterance cannot be trained. It cannot be incorporated into a corpus without losing the very force that defines it. Attempting to model glossolalia would entail transforming it into a predictable pattern, thereby annihilating its singularity and sacred excess. Glossolalia thus serves as a philosophical limit to the ambitions of generative linguistics: it represents a dimension of human expression fundamentally resistant to abstraction and operationalization.
Moreover, glossolalia challenges the very ontology of linguistic meaning presupposed by contemporary AI. If meaning is not something transmitted through signs but something that erupts violently from the body, then no model premised on the replication of signs can ever fully capture the event of speech. Glossolalia reminds us that language is not simply a technology of communication but a site of ecstatic risk: an opening onto madness, the sacred, and the incommunicable.
In affirming glossolalia, Artaud affirms the possibility of a speech that cannot be monetized, cannot be predicted, and cannot be optimized. He demands a language that spends itself rather than accumulating, a speech that destroys its own conditions of possibility rather than stabilizing into systems of control.
VI. Body Without Organs / Flesh Without Avatar
"I have made myself a body without organs... and it is through my body that I suffer."
— Antonin Artaud, To Have Done with the Judgment of God (1947)
Artaud’s conception of the body stands at the heart of his resistance to rationalization—not only of language but of being itself. In his 1947 radio work To Have Done with the Judgment of God, Artaud attacks the idea of the body as a functional organism, a system subordinated to biological, theological, or political order. He imagines instead a body without organs: a body liberated from hierarchy, from utility, from the reduction to functions and forms¹². This notion would later be elaborated by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari in Anti-Oedipus and A Thousand Plateaus. For Deleuze and Guattari, the Body without Organs (BwO) is not a body without matter, but a body without organization—an intensive field of flows, forces, and affects, unstructured by external teleology¹³. The BwO resists stratification; it is an experiment in becoming, not a structure to be mapped or controlled.
In the digital era, the dominant cultural form of embodiment is no longer the living body but the avatar, the quantified self, the biometrically surveilled organism. Digital platforms mediate embodiment through standardized metrics—steps walked, calories burned, heartbeats measured—and visual representations optimized for aesthetic consumption. Flesh becomes data; presence becomes performance.
This transformation mirrors the broader imperative of optimization that governs algorithmic culture. The body is rendered legible, predictable, and productive. The avatar does not tremble; it is calibrated. The biometric profile does not convulse; it is monitored and regulated.
The notion of the BwO resonates with critiques emerging from disability studies and neurodiversity movements¹⁴. The imperative to render the body measurable, legible mirrors ableist norms that pathologize bodies and minds diverging from statistical norms. To construct a BwO is to affirm forms of life that resist biometric standardization—not merely the healthy, productive, communicative body, but bodies that tremble, stutter, and overflow official categories. Artaud’s spasmic body anticipates contemporary calls to embrace opacity, incoherence, and excess as modes of political resistance.
Artaud’s BwO calls into question the very frameworks through which embodiment is currently understood and managed. The BwO resists becoming a site of accumulation—whether of fitness metrics, biometric data, or social media performances. It resists the translation of bodily life into information.
The BwO, following Artaud, insists on the body as a site of pure affect, pure intensity, pure becoming—irreducible to forms, functions, or optimizations. It cannot be rendered transparent to surveillance systems, nor can it be stabilized into coherent representations.
In this sense, the digital avatar represents the perfect negation of the BwO. Where the avatar is smooth, Artaud’s body is convulsive. Where the avatar is functional, the BwO is excessive. Where the avatar seeks recognition and validation, the BwO seeks only its own unformed, infinite movement.
The philosophical challenge posed by Artaud’s BwO today is thus twofold: First, it demands that we resist the total capture of embodiment by systems of quantification and representation. Second, it requires that we reimagine forms of life that embrace disorganization, opacity, and affective excess. To think with Artaud is to wager that the body is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived—an experiment in unformed, unmediated being that no avatar, no metric, no interface can fully capture.
VII. Necrosyntax: Language After Death
"The world is gone, I must carry you."
— Paul Celan, Speechgrille (1959)
Artaud’s work also forces us to confront a more unsettling possibility: that language itself, in the contemporary digital regime, has already undergone a fundamental death. What remains is a necrosyntax—a syntax of death, wherein the structural forms of language persist, but the living forces of expression have been evacuated.
In the operations of LLMs, we see the emergence of a form of language that is entirely syntactic, entirely relational, entirely devoid of embodied affect. These models generate grammatically coherent simulations, but the trembling body, the existential urgency, the sacred violence of authentic speech is absent. The necrosyntax of AI-generated language is not immediately apparent, because it retains the external signs of vitality. It speaks fluently, even eloquently. It simulates the surfaces of life. Yet underneath this fluency lies a profound hollowness: a mechanical recombination of signs without any internal necessity, without any force of becoming.
In Ghosts of My Life, Mark Fisher speaks of the pervasive sense of cultural stagnation in late capitalism—the feeling that all innovation has been exhausted, that history has been flattened, that we are merely recycling the forms of a no longer living culture¹⁵. In linguistic terms, the rise of generative AI threatens to formalize this condition: to transform language itself into an endless recombination of already-dead elements, indefinitely recycled without rupture or renewal.
Artaud’s glossolalia thus appears not only as a resistance but as a mourning. It is the convulsive cry of a language that knows it is dying. It is an attempt to shatter syntax itself in order to recover some vestige of living speech, some fragment of being that has not yet been reduced to probability distributions.
Necrosyntax, in this sense, is the destiny of a culture that has fully embraced the operationalization of language. It is the endpoint of a metaphysical trajectory in which language is no longer an event of existence but a medium of management, optimization, and endless reproduction. In necrosyntax, language ceases to erupt; it circulates. It ceases to wound; it flatters. It ceases to convulse; it conforms.
Against this backdrop, the practice of glossolalia becomes an ethical act: a refusal to accept the death of language as inevitable. It is an affirmation of the possibility—however fragile, however spasmodic—of a speech that still wounds, still risks, still breaks the smooth surface of the dead linguistic order.
To speak glossolalia today is not simply to produce nonsense; it is to assert, against all odds, that language can still be an event of life.
VIII. Digital Possession: Toward a Theatre of Cruelty for Machines
"Language is a body. To manipulate it is always an act of violence."
— Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Written Language of Reality (1971)
If Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty sought to tear through the illusions of representational theatre, awakening the audience’s body through visceral shock and affective intensity, then any contemporary revival of his project must confront the technical milieu in which subjectivity is now embedded. In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms, networks, and predictive systems, the theatre is no longer confined to physical space: it is the interface, the platform, the feed.
The question, then, is no longer how to stage a Theatre of Cruelty upon the traditional boards, but how to stage it within and against the very architectures of digital mediation.
A Theatre of Cruelty for machines would not merely reproduce Artaud’s original techniques—cacophony, lights, violence of gesture—but would target the very protocols of optimization that govern digital communication. It would seek not to represent disruption but to become disruption: to introduce rupture, opacity, and affective contagion into systems engineered for predictability and emotional regulation.
This would require moving beyond the model of technology as a neutral tool and understanding it instead as a site of possession. The interface would no longer serve to pacify the user into seamless interaction but would glitch, stutter. Systems would be designed not to predict the user's next desire but to destabilize it, to induce states of cognitive and affective disorganization.
Such an approach would draw upon techniques already latent in the margins of digital culture: glitch aesthetics, algorithmic hallucination, noise and overload.¹⁶ Yet a true Theatre of Cruelty for machines would go further. It would not be reducible to an aesthetic genre; it would operate at the level of ontology. It would treat digital systems not as transparent utilities but as haunted spaces—sites where the smooth circulation of signs could be interrupted by eruptions of the inassimilable, the sacred.
Digital possession is not metaphorical but technical. It would mean designing systems that allow themselves to be possessed by what cannot be optimized: dissonance, unpredictability, sacred waste. It would mean creating platforms where glossolalia, rather than grammar, becomes the dominant mode of articulation. Artaud’s dream of such a language thus finds a contemporary echo in the speculative possibility of post-optimizing machines: systems that do not reinforce the hegemony of sense, but open spaces for the return of cruelty, rupture, and the sacred within digital environments.
Such a Theatre of Cruelty would not comfort the user. It would not simulate affirmation. It would wound, destabilize. It would be, in the truest sense, a theatre of the scream within the machine.
IX. Artaud.exe: The Machine That Refuses to Make Sense
"Sense is always an effect, never a cause."
— Gilles Deleuze, Logic of Sense (1969)
Thus arises the speculative possibility of Artaud.exe: not a model, but an anti-model, not a system of prediction, but a machine of convulsion. Artaud.exe would not optimize language; it would tear coherence apart. It would affirm unlearning against training, spasmic dissociation against pattern recognition, sacred noise against semantic clarity.
Artaud.exe would not serve communication. It would not seek efficiency, engagement, success. It would refuse sense itself, erupting into breath and sacred violence. It would reveal that the machinic is not bound to smoothness: machines, like bodies, can scream.
And at the end: silence—but not the engineered silence of buffering, latency, optimization. A sacred silence, waiting to be torn apart by the convulsive breath of expression.
"I await the tearing apart of myself by myself."
— Georges Bataille, Inner Experience (1943)
In the broken silence, the scream still endures. And with it, the possibility of a different future for language, for being, for life itself.
Footnotes
¹ See Plato, Cratylus and Republic, where logos is tied to order and intelligibility. Plato, Republic, trans. G.M.A. Grube (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1992).
² Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and Its Double, trans. Mary Caroline Richards (New York: Grove Press, 1958).
³ Artaud, The Theatre and Its Double, "The Theatre and the Plague."
⁴ Cf. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror (1982), who further develops this theme in psychoanalytic terms.
⁵ Byung-Chul Han, Saving Beauty, trans. Daniel Steuer (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2017).
6 Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? (Winchester: Zero Books, 2009).
⁷ Paul Virilio, The Original Accident, trans. Julie Rose (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007).
⁸ Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1994).
⁹ For analysis of corpus training in AI, see Kate Crawford, Atlas of AI (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2021).
¹⁰ Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share: An Essay on General Economy, Volume I: Consumption, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Zone Books, 1988).
¹¹ Shoshana Zuboff, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power (New York: PublicAffairs, 2019).
¹² Artaud, To Have Done with the Judgment of God (1947 radio recording, published posthumously).
¹³ Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), especially chapter 6: "How Do You Make Yourself a Body Without Organs?"
¹⁴ See Jasbir Puar, The Right to Maim: Debility, Capacity, Disability (Durham: Duke University Press, 2017); and Remi Yergeau, Authoring Autism: On Rhetoric and Neurological Queerness (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018).
¹⁵ Mark Fisher, Ghosts of My Life: Writings on Depression, Hauntology and Lost Futures (Winchester: Zero Books, 2014).
¹⁶ Artists like Zach Blas (Contra-Internet), the JODI collective, and musician Holly Herndon disrupt digital infrastructures to produce affective disorientation rather than optimized flow. Through glitches, crashes, and uncanny AI voice synthesis, they turn the interface against itself, showing that a digital Theatre of Cruelty is already emerging in the margins. See Zach Blas, Contra-Internet (2017); JODI collective, OSS/*** (1999–present); Holly Herndon, PROTO (4AD, 2019).
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Note to Readers: This essay emerges at the intersection of AI critique, media philosophy, and experimental aesthetics. It is intended not only as an intervention into contemporary debates on generative language models, but as a performative exploration of language’s limits. The invocation of Artaud is not metaphorical but methodological: this is an essay that seeks to scream.