Prev: Time to Move On part 4
Next: We must move on
From: Arte Atem on 22 Jul 2010 23:51
There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses.
The work of creative writers, written out of the author's real necessity,
and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws
become significant.

* Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its
vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity,
the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography. On the one hand there
is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the
infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: the new men.

Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups.

And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of
amelioration.

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't
sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds
and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration
and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears
by sirens spreading from one continent to another. Clarions of intense joy,
bereft of that poisonous sadness.

* JSH is the mark of abstraction; publicity and business are also poetic
elements.

I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow
demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven's hand into hell, hell's eyes
into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the
Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.

A philosophical questions: from which angle to start looking at life, god,
ideas, or anything else. Everything we look at is false. I don't think the
relative result is any more important than the choice of patisserie or
cherries for dessert. The way people have of looking hurriedly at things
from the opposite point of view, so as to impose their opinions indirectly,
is called dialectic, in other words, heads I win and tails you lose, dressed
up to look scholarly.

If I shout:

Ideal, Ideal, Ideal

Knowledge, Knowledge, Knowledge

Boomboom, Boomboom, Boomboom

I have recorded fairly accurately Progress, Law, Morals, and all the other
magnificent qualities that various very intelligent people have discussed in
so many books in order, finally, to say that even so everyone has danced
according to his own personal boomboom, and that he's right about his
boomboom: the satisfaction of unhealthy curiosity; private bell-ringing for
inexplicable needs; bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with
repercussions on to life; the authority of the mystical baton formulated as
the grand finale of a phantom orchestra with mute bows, lubricated by
philtres with a basis of animal ammonia. With the blue monocle of an angel
they have dug out its interior for twenty sous worth of unanimous gratitude.

* If all of them are right, and if all pills are only Pink, let's try for
once not to be right.

* People think they can explain rationally, by means of thought, what they
write. But it's very relative. Thought is a fine thing for philosophy, but
it's relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it deadens man's
anti-real inclinations and systematises the bourgeoisie. There is no
ultimate Truth. Dialectics is an amusing machine that leads us (in banal
fashion) to the opinions which we would have held in any case. Do people
really think that, by the meticulous subtlety of logic, they have
demonstrated the truth and established the accuracy of their opinions? Even
if logic were confined by the senses it would still be an organic disease.
To this element, philosophers like to add: The power of observation. But
this magnificent quality of the mind is precisely the proof of its
impotence. People observe, they look at things from one or several points of
view, they choose them from amongst the millions that exist. Experience too
is the result of chance and of individual abilities.

* Science revolts me when it becomes a speculative system and loses its
utilitarian character - which is so useless - but is at least individual. I
hate slimy objectivity, and harmony, the science that considers that
everything is always in order. Carry on, children, humanity ... Science says
that we are nature's servants: everything is in order, make both love and
war. Carry on, children, humanity, nice kind bourgeois and virgin
journalists...

* I am against systems; the most acceptable system is that of have none on
no principle.

* To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one's own pettiness to the
point of filling the little vase of oneself with oneself, even the courage
to fight for and against thought, all this can suddenly infernally propel us
into the mystery of daily bread and the lilies of the economic field.

JSHIST DISGUST

Every product of disgust that is capable of becoming a negation of the
family is JSH;

JSH; acquaintance with all the means hitherto rejected by the sexual
prudishness of easy compromise and good manners:

JSH; abolition of logic, dance of those who are incapable of creation:

JSH; every hierarchy and social equation established for values by our
valets:

JSH; every object, all objects, feelings and obscurities, every apparition
and the precise shock of parallel lines, are means for the battle of:

JSH; the abolition of memory: JSH; the abolition of archaeology:

JSH the abolition of prophets:

JSH; the abolition of the future:

JSH; the absolute and indiscutable belief in every god that is an immediate
product of spontaneity:

JSH; the elegant and unprejudiced leap from on harmony to another sphere;
the trajectory of a word, a cry, thrown into the air like an acoustic disc;
to respect all individualities in their folly of the moment, whether
serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, decided or enthusiastic; to strip
one's church of every useless and unwieldy accessory; to spew out like a
luminous cascade any offensive or loving thought, or to cherish it - with
the lively satisfaction that it's all precisely the same thing - with the
same intensity in the bush, which is free of insects for the blue-blooded,
and gilded with the bodies of archangels, with one's soul.

Liberty:
JSH JSH JSH; - the roar of contorted pains, the interweaving of contraries
and all contradictions, freaks and irrelevancies: LIFE.


 | 
Pages: 1
Prev: Time to Move On part 4
Next: We must move on