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Sto caricando le informazioni... Artaud Anthologydi Antonin Artaud
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 Iscriviti per consentire a LibraryThing di scoprire se ti piacerà questo libro. Attualmente non vi sono conversazioni su questo libro.  goosecap | Jun 29, 2022 |    )1  tENTATIVELY | Apr 3, 2022 | voncookie | Jun 30, 2016 | anna_hiller | Jun 22, 2016 |
 The last time Jack Hirschman and I met, it did not work out too well. It was my fault. No, it was HIS: he was not as drunk as I. Nonetheless, the bastard has done a beautiful job of assembly, and with the exception of one or two of his translators, Artaud comes upon us —straight shot, no chaser. The only way to take him... “All Writing is Pigshit,” page 38, defines for me (at least) something that I have always thought—that (along with the world) the artists, the writers are also intolerable... Dr. Gachet, under whom Van Gogh was treated, is given much of the responsibility for Van Gogh’s suicide. Artaud has it in for the good Doctors and Medicine, as would any intelligent man who has spent any time in hospitals and institutions. It becomes more and more clear that Medicine’s first impulse is to make money. Its second? To torture the patient, kill him if at all possible... Artaud speaks strongly because he is one of those rare Artists who did not bother to fool himself or anybody else. His clarity, his hard brittle lines, his disgust with the Lie, are nothing but the results of a man squeezed to pieces by Life, by the massive horror of the realization that his fellow men, his fellow Artists were, in a sense, only “pigshit.”
"I am the man," wrote Artaud, "who has best charted his inmost self." Antonin Artaud was a great poet who, like Poe, Holderlin, and Nerval, wanted to live in the infinite and asked that the human spirit burn in absolute freedom. To society, he was a madman. Artaud, however, was not insane but in luciferian pursuit of what society keeps hidden. The man who wrote Van Gogh the Man Suicided by Society raged against the insanity of social institutions with insight that proves more prescient with every passing year. Today, as Artaud's vatic thunder still crashes above the "larval confusion" he despised, what is most striking in his writings is an extravagant lucidity. This collection gives us quintessential Artaud on the occult, magic, the theater, mind and body, the cosmos, rebellion, and revolution in its deepest sense. "[I]n France his position extends beyond the theater, and indeed beyond any literary genre. Although he seems to have written incessantly in a sort of violent poetic prose which he scattered in all directions, his actual compositions have always been less well known than his personality. His prestige in literary circles depends in the first place on the fact that he was an abnormal individual, totally committed to the expression or exploration of his abnormality and quite oblivious of any of the requirements of ordinary living." --John Weightman, New York Review of Books Antonin Artaud (1896-1948) was a French dramatist, poet, essayist, actor, and theater director. He is known as a significant figure in the history of theater, avant-garde art, literature, and other disciplines. Jack Hirschman is a San Francisco poet, translator, and editor. His powerfully eloquent voice set the tone for political poetry in this country many years ago. Since leaving a teaching career in the '60s, Hirschman has taken the free exchange of poetry and politics into the streets where he is, in the words of poet Luke Breit, "America's most important living poet." He is the author of numerous books of poetry, plus some 45 translations from a half a dozen languages, as well as the editor of anthologies and journals. Among his many volumes of poetry are Endless Threshold, The Xibalba Arcane, and Lyripol (City Lights, 1976). Non sono state trovate descrizioni di biblioteche |
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Mental illness can be enduring—cure your mind with perhaps 3,428 uncertain steps!—but recovery is possible, and talking about it is a lot funnier after your mind has stopped being so ugly, right. I don’t think old Antonin ever got there. “Blah blah blah I’m crazy blah blah Blah I’m crazy blah blah I AM VERY IMPORTANT.” [Or, you know. I AM A LEPRECHAUN. SO LET’S HAVE SEX.] Which is also what my schizophrenic writings sounded like. And that’s only funny because, you know, I edited it that way….
I did come across old Antonin in the littlest encyclopedia, the dictionary, but I don’t think that the activity of his mind is explained by the fact that he liked to parle en Paris, you know—his nationality. His correspondence partner was very classical and reserved, and he was just as French….
The Ant had an ugly mind. What are you gonna do.
…. It’s one thing to try to remove the stigma of mental illness—although I suppose I’ll have to punish myself now, or eat something, to clear the stain-y taste of bureaucracy out of my mouth—but it’s another thing to be pro-insanity, pro-schizophrenia. —Suicide is the future! It’s bold! It’s French! It’s good!
Who wants to read Coventry Patmore, lol, or some fucking rhyming poet with some bloody village mind. Right?
We’ll be safe. :)
…. The Ant: Read the Bible? Or commit suicide? I choose suicide!
Religious Jew: A-ha. Goy.
The Ant: I choose suicide!
—No comment.
…. —I am not an atheist, but I believe in only those Gods of whom I know nothing; I hope, in fact, that nothing Can be known of them.
On the floor of the temple of the chastity god, I have sex with his nuns, said the (Giant) Ant.
…. I’m the only one who can save you from the darkness, said the Giant Ant.
—Whoever walks with me will not—
—No, Jesus, I want to save you.
—You want to cleanse my appearance before men. That they may know I am not a tyrant.
—Oh, are you not a tyrant? Well, I AM a tyrant, and I shall—
—Peter!
—Oh, sorry master. I thought the ant was bothering you.
…. “I didn’t begin well, and thereafter passed through a bad middle to a bad end.”
—Welcome to the Palace of Nowhere, the heart of pre-civilization. It’s just like the Natives of Quebec. The Eskimos, you know, said The Ant.
—Angry Liberal: That right?
—What are you thinking?
—Angry Liberal: You tell me what I’m thinking.
—Surely it can’t be that I’m wrong to exoticize these people. After all, I’m French!
—Angry Liberal: It doesn’t matter.
—To the angry man, everything is offensive.
—Angry Liberal: And everything is freaky, seen through the eyes of a Giant Ant.
…. Words without thought, without aim.
Example 1: Mommy I love the leprechauns. Blah blah blah the leprechauns etc.
Example 2: (The Giant Ant) I am the Master of the Sacred Rites, need EYE, explain MYSELF, to YOU? Blah blah blah I’m a nut.
…. Incidentally, although I will allow that only SOME television is from the devil, I think a middling bad TV show can be a lot worse than the Ant’s extravagantly bad book. (Incidentally, what Genre is this supposed to be? Poetry?) In some random shitty TV show, they’ll have some random graphic violence happen—the trifecta, violence, belief in the randomness of life, and idiotic show-y-ness—even though they could have distanced the viewer from some of it so you could understand instead of gawk, introduce the killer as an actual character instead of just cheap furniture, everything that separates real horror stuff from pornography without sex, you know—spirituality, as often as not. So TV is Often from the devil. But The Ant in this book isn’t really frightening. He just rants and raves Downfall style, but it’s boring. —He’s upset again! Quelle surprise! But there’s nothing hell-like to gawk at. I guess that’s the ultimate put-down to the ultimate Ant, that’s it’s just, Blah blah blah—I’m a nut.
…. (at the end of his HBO comedy special) ‘To cure a sickness is a crime’—in other words, I’m a nut! Good night, Paris! I love you!!!…. Testicles, everybody—don’t forget to have testicles!
…. The Giant Ant
Branch of Philosophy: French
Influenced by: The Voices
Notable ideas: Testicle remembrance
Influenced: American television
…. (the last paragraph and the paragraph after that)
Confederate Baptist Preacher: And then the Giant Ant said, “do evil/and/commit many sins/but do no evil to me”!!!
First Psychiatrist: Is that what happened. *scribble scribble*
Second Psychiatrist: No—there was this guy, and, well. We might have to change his meds.
First Psychiatrist: *considers this* Such a small dose we’ll have to use, if he’s an ant.
…. And, you know, the editor, a Mr Hirschman—a ‘Very Cool’ Jack—is what I would prefer to call a Leninist-Stalinist, although Marx might prefer to simply call him part of the lumpenproletariat. Lumpenprole! Basically just a disgusting, Trashy little white boy who’s big time French; like a left-wing Trump—no mean feat.
….
—I am the Leprechaun of Truth. Welcome to my office. *opens door*
—*haranguing the Devil* This shit is very poor quality, Very Poor Quality, I should rip you another asshole to see if I can get better quality shit out of the new one! I refuse to eat any shit except that of the very finest quality! MY NAME IS ANTONIN ARTAUD!!! A MEINER PERSON! A MEINER PERSON!!!!
—*closes door* That’s not my office.
…. Afterword: (walking down the hall towards my office) Of course, he was a big deal among mentally ill & unrecovered & anti-recovery poets, and therefore he wasn’t like anybody else—when his head exploded, the blood splattered in a very unique way, like in a ink blot test, right—so I’m mildly amused/pleased that I read this. Of course, he could probably really fuck up your life if you thought this was Good Poetry…. But it’s nice to meet different kinds of people, and— (muffled shout) (my name is antonin artaud)— (speeds up) Okay, walk a little faster….