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Paramythologies (French Edition) [Nanos Valaoritis] on upseabirinta.gq *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Dans l'eau verte très pure où il formait des cercles,.
Table of contents
- April 29, 2008
- THE WRITTEN SOURCES
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- artist, educator, curator
At such moments infants rejoice and play with red fishes of the slightest buoyancy. Acts of elephants. Precious revolvers of ivory.
A woman between two stacks is picking up poppies. Finally someone shoots a pistol and all the animals take flight. The trampling of their feet advances like a wave that covers everything. That which sounds bugles does not roar and neither does it wind itself up like a snake. Impulse is the cohesion of springtime gushes. Blessed are those who fall into her waters. Her breasts are so beautiful that all fabrics pale before them. If impulse exists, nothing can restrain her. When charging, her mane is a flaming forest of myrrh. Madness resembles joy or sorrow. No voice stirred the crowds so deeply.
No dusk spread a deeper sorrow.
April 29, 2008
O, hysterical daughter! The farm has been wrapped in oblivion. Inside the empty chambers stalactites drip and count in silence the years of inexplicable abandonment. Before the door a thief weeps bitterly. Amidst the fig leaves the chameleon changes colors.
THE WRITTEN SOURCES
The drama of the beach hotel has not been extinguished. Still the sob is submerged and the whaleboat keeps panting. Ah, how merciless divers beat on the cymbals! Ah, how pained are those crawling on sand! Summer camps of awakened dreams—the hours of destinations like dawn-lizards. Infant in gentle silence. Only the breeze is singing and the daydreaming wet nurse offers her teat to the happy babe. Time for pleasure and milk.
Time for the milky way. Masts stuck on sandhills, joys of children, of men and of women as the ship approaches, clouds, white and light, in the sky, a thousand objects, bright and beloved like lips bleeding or dewy, or like awakened teats, and suddenly you, warm and cool at once, and never small-minded, although your feet and hands are indeed small. Maybe that is why I love you so much. Maybe that is why, asleep, I cry your name.
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When the wind blows, stubbles are peopled by flute girls. Pulleys dominate the mountaintop. On the plain olive mills are rotating and the permanent productivity of quarries is compared to the cutting of slate rock. In the burning heat larks are flying and those who stare at the melting of steel resemble riders suddenly dismounting before a fountain. Among the plums a spark is lurking. Yet even before dawn legends have reached their zenith and the spark reveals itself in shining. From Writings or Personal Mythology ; written — 1 Amour-Amour excerpt For Vivika Once, many years ago, during an excursion to Switzerland, I stopped to marvel at a gigantic waterfall, flowing rapidly over granite rocks, amidst the thick vegetation.
At that time, which I might call a period of intensive researches, urged by an almost organic inner necessity, I was attempting by means of the poems I was then writing to discover a more direct and complete way of expression. Suddenly, the image of the waterfall gave rise to an idea.
- April 30, 2008.
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I wanted, in other words, to include in my poems all those elements which are, willingly or not, excluded, or eluded, in academic poetry. And I wanted to include them in such a way, that a poem would not consist solely of one or more, subjective or objective, topics, logically arranged and developing only within conscious limits, but of whichever elements, presenting themselves within the flow of its becoming, independently of any conventional or standardized aesthetic, moral or rational construction. In that case, I thought, we would have a dynamic and complete poem, an autonomous poem, a poem-fact, rather than a chain of static descriptions of certain facts, or of emotions expressed by means of whichever artistic style.
Ever since this idea occurred to me, I wished to put it into practice; thus I began to write new poems, striving to achieve my goal. It is true that those poems displayed a significant development, a very palpable difference to what had preceded them; yet even they, although much preferable to me than my older poems, did not satisfy my original aspirations. While being quite different from the others in form, they were not different enough in essence.
It became obvious to me that what I lacked was a means analogous to the desired end. I thought, however, that the only way to meet all these difficulties was to continue rather than abandon my pursuit; so I kept writing, in the certainty that my idea was good and that, sooner or later, I would find a way of reaping its fruit.
And, who knows, I might still be searching, if my astonishing encounter with surrealism had not opened my eyes. From that day on, I may say that, almost all at once, I discerned the right direction, and, full of enthusiasm, replete with delight, I dived straight into the current of this historical movement.
I had heard its voice, that voice which, as Breton so aptly put it in his first manifesto, continues to preach, on the eve of death and above the storms. By what I have just said, I do not mean that my personal presurrealist theories were wholly identical, or equivalent, to the content of surrealism; nor am I willing to pose here as one of its precursors.
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Those theories certainly display a contiguity to surrealist ones, yet, as a whole, surrealism far exceeds my initial aspirations; what is more, it gives us the means for a practical application of its content, opening much vaster horizons than those I could discern in my personal contemplation. And thus it is that a sentence becomes a corvette, with a friendly breeze on its sails, like a cloud blown by a north or northwest wind.
A reflection echoes, a drop overflows, and a voice blooms. A child stands at the clearing of a silent grove and suddenly grows before a woman. A dress turns into an aurora borealis. A photograph lives, with its own activity, entangled with the life of its spectator, like a florin, a crystal, a glove. Here is a newspaper that turns into a fragrant forest, or a plateau with snow-covered cordilleras.
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Poetry is transfused into life and vice versa. Our participation in any appearance or fact is no more impossible. An emotion, an urge, a word can become palpable substances, brilliant objects with their own form and living pulse. With this discovery, and with my adherence to the surrealist movement which directly followed it, I put aside, not merely my old techniques, but also all false pride, all self-importance of the kind that may be found so often in certain poets and artists, who accept nothing in the world other than themselves, and no contribution to life and poetry, other than that which derives from their selfish narrow-mindedness and unspeakable narcissism.
Here I must say that I was much aided in rapidly understanding and assimilating surrealism by, on the one hand, my psychoanalytic knowledge, and, on the other hand, the philosophy of Hegel. From that day on, I started employing automatic writing, producing at a feverish pace, and with the authentic passion of a novice, poems and other texts. Later in , I collected some of my earliest surrealist writings and published them under the title Blast Furnace. That book constitutes the first real manifestation, the first act, of surrealism in Greece, not counting a lecture on the movement and its aspirations, which I gave in the spring of that year.
Of course, they have numerous misgivings, quite typical of their cowardice, regarding precisely what constitutes the spinal column, the very essence of the theory, thus showing—most of them at least—either that they have understood nothing or that they hope to restore their injured authority, before the public and the young poets, whose interest in surrealism is daily growing. Her house is illuminated by tufts of floating light.
Body against body, like a herd of white buffaloes, the clouds traverse the space and appear to travel inside as well as outside time. Suddenly the window opens and, from the valley, comes the increasingly loud clamor of an avalanche, falling and tumbling like a waterfall.
A blast draws the curtain. Alkmene is standing erect in the room.
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The Laplanders sigh, and, as total serenity reigns once more, on the opposite mountaintop a crater is born and raised. The becoming of each myth is a child that grows. This young woman is holding a mirror in her other hand, into which she sees the man watching her with the bird in her hand.