Manifiesto de Manifiestos
Después of recent manifestos released about poetry, I just read mine and more than ever, I am stating in my old theories. I have here manifests
Dadaist Tristan Tzara, three surrealist manifestos and my own articles and manifestos. The first thing I check is that we all agree on certain points, in a logic overestimation of poetry and a disdain for realism also logical.
Realism in the usual sense of the word, ie as more or less skillful description of the existing truths, we are not interested and do not even discussed, because the artistic truth begins where truth ends of life. Realism no citizenship status in our country.
Tzara Dada manifestos were so commented on time not worth coming back on them. They are much more surreal, at least in its overt form "that the Surrealists. Appeared to make an absolutely necessary and beneficent role at any given time that it was necessary to demolish and then clear the land.
For its part, the surrealist manifestos proclaim the dream and the automatic writing. According to Louis Aragon
surrealism would have been discovered by Crevel in 1919. And Breton gives the following definition of Surrealism: "pure psychic automatism by which one proposes to express the real work thinking. Dictation of thought outside any control of reason. "
But who can say this and no other is the real work of thinking? The word" thinking "implies control. The thinking is the inner life. It is, as Descartes , knowledge, feeling, passion, imagination, volition.
The thought is memory, imagination and trial. There is a simple body, but composed.
Do you think it is possible to separate, remove any of its components? Can you show a poem born This pure psychic automatism you speak?
Do you think the control of reason is not carried out? Are you sure that these things come to you no spontaneous look of pen and controlled and with the pass-free official horribly previous trial (perhaps a long time) at time of production? Perhaps
think it has simplified and solved a problem that is much more complex.
What I contend is that you can not isolate one of the faculties of thinking, you can not remove the reason to the powers of intellect, except in the case of an organic lesion, pathological condition impossible to produce voluntarily.
From the moment when the writer sits at the table, pencil in hand, there is a will to produce and (not play with words) the operator disappears for he is essentially involuntary and automatic. From the moment you prepare to write, the thought arises controlled.
pure psychic automatism, ie spontaneity completely there. For every movement, as science says, is transforming a former movement.
You are victims of an appearance of spontaneity.
aesthetes I know there are other theories that have held identical. Ignorant that I do not think this has been discussed for several centuries. The Italian Vico in his Scienza Nuova said, published in Naples in 1725, that "the weaker is the stronger reason must be the fantasy." And without going so far, Henri Bergson wrote, twenty years ago that "the dream is complete mental life", because during sleep away all tension and effort, it is the precision required to coordinate that effort requires.
Plato said of the poet: "Do not ever sing without some divine transport, without some mild furor. Far from it cold reason, since I want to obey, you run out of verses, just the oracles."
I think that's obvious. Poet away from the cold reason, but there is another reason that is not cool, that while the poet is working in unison with the warmth of his soul, and speak soon. We are facing a simple confusion of planes.
Suppose, even, that you could produce this pure psychic automatism, that you could dissociate consciousness at will, who could prove to you that your works are superior?, What they earn with it instead of losing? For what you give as much importance to this semipersonalidad (as the operator only reside in the lower cortical centers) and not give it our full and true personality.
Do you think that a sleeping man is more or less interesting man-one awake?
do not deny the existence of automatic acts, but they are just normal events, ie the most vulgar. When thinking about something important, you can automatically fix the tie, but this gesture go beyond secondary brain centers. But if you think about repeating the gesture, he already made you aware, and the trial and control intervened. When repeated several times a difficult act tends to become automatic. The same is true in the realm of spirit. And the same thing for
dreams. The sleep feature is the annulment of the will. This does not, of course, the other psychic activities persist. But from the moment that ye would express in writing, the consciousness enters the game instantly. No modo de evitar esto, y lo que escribáis no habrá nacido de un automatismo psíquico puro.
Aunque no os hayáis dado cuenta, una buena dosis de control se os habrá mezclado al discurso.
Sé que el automatismo entra en gran medida en la producción de las obras de arte; pero éste no es el automatismo del impulso que proclamáis sino el de la inspiración. Y los psicólogos hallan gran diferencia entre ambos.
Ahora bien, esta manera de escribir, consistente en dejar correr la pluma bajo el impulso de un dictado automático que brota del sueño, les quita al poeta y a la poesía toda la fuerza de su delirio natural (natural en los poetas), les arrebata el misterio racial de su origen y de su realización, el juego completo del ensamble de las palabras, juego consciente, aun en medio de la fiebre del mayor lirismo, y que es lo único que apasiona al poeta.
Si me arrebataran el instante de la producción, el momento maravilloso de la mirada abierta desmesuradamente hasta llenar el universo y absorberlo como una bomba, el instante apasionante de ese juego consistente en reunir en el papel los varios elementos, de esta partida de ajedrez contra el infinito, el único momento que me hace olvidar la realidad cotidiana, yo me suicidaría.
Mi vida está pendiente de ese momento de delirio. Encuentro que lo demás no vale la pena de sufrirlo.
El poeta no tiene en su vida ningún otro placer comparable the state of clairvoyance of production hours.
Therefore, if your surrealism wants us to write as a medium, automatically, at the speed of a pencil on the track of motorcycles and without the deep play of all our faculties put under pressure, never accept your formulas. I think your poetry
lower both its origin and on their own. Do that poetry falls into a banal trick spiritualism.
Poetry has to be created by the poet, with the full force of your senses more alert than ever. The poet has an active rather than passive role in the composition and the gear of his poem.
If we vuestras teorías caeremos en el arte de los improvisadores. Todos los improvisadores actúan conforme a vuestros principios. No son los amos sino los esclavos de su imaginaría mental. Se dejan llevar por un dictado interno y el resultado es un rosario de fuegos fatuos que sólo toca nuestra sensibilidad epidérmica, nuestros sentidos más externos.
No, por favor; es demasiado fácil, demasiado banal.
La poesía es algo mucho más serio, mucho más formidable, y surge de nuestra superconciencia.
Tal como dije en mis conferencias de Buenos Aires, de Madrid, de Berlín, de Estocolmo y de París, en el teatro de la plaza Rapp, en enero de 1922, "el poema
creacionista sólo nace de un estado de superconciencia o de delirio poético".
Voy, pues, a definir qué entiendo por superconciencia. La superconciencia se logra cuando nuestras facultades intelectuales adquieren una intensidad vibratorio superior, una longitud de onda, una calidad de onda, infinitamente más poderosa que de ordinario. En el poeta, este estado puede producirse, puede desencadenarse mediante algún hecho insignificante e invisible, a veces, para el propio poeta.
En el estado de superconciencia la razón y la imaginación traspasan la atmósfera habitual, se hallan como electrificadas, nuestro aparato cerebral está a alta presión.
La posibilidad de ponerse en ese estado sólo pertenece a los poets, and there is nothing more false than the proverb that says, "poet and all have a little crazy."
The poetic reverie usually born a severely brain: (1) in the super-exchange, poetic delirium, cerebral cortex arises from a rich and well fed.
In delirium, which is much more beautiful than the dream, still controlled the reason (this is a fact proven by science), control does not exist in natural sleep.
Such control is not that cold reason that Plato speaks, but of a high ratio to the same height, placed on the same level of imagination.
Delirium is a kind of convergence intensive of all our intellectual device to a superhuman desire, to a conqueror of infinite momentum.
Delirium is unreal, absolutely unreal in life. But it is a reality for those who produce and those who manage to reach it, soak up its atmosphere. That is, is a reality in a different plane from ordinary. It is a reality in this plane extrahabitual we call art.
Delirium is the power some people have naturally excited to transportation, possess a brain mechanism so sensitive that the facts of the outside world can put in that state of fever and high frequency mnemonic.
The reason follows. The reason it helps to organize the creation of that fact nuevo que él está produciendo. Paralelamente a la imaginación, en el delirio la razón sube hasta las grandes alturas en que la atmósfera terrestre se rarifica y se necesitan pulmones especiales para respirarla, pues si ambas no se hallan de acuerdo la razón se ahogará.
Esta razón controla, esta razón aparta los elementos impuros que querrían mezclarse a los demás para estar en buena compañía. Ella es el tamiz y la organizadora del delirio, y sin ella vuestro poema sería una obra impura, híbrida.
Y mientras que el ensueño pertenece a todo el mundo, el delirio sólo pertenece a los poetas.
Una misteriosa conjunción de hechos, tan libres en su origen como en su causa inmediata, desata en el alma del poeta todo un mecanismo de juego de campanas a percusión, y la máquina se pone en marcha, cargada de millones de calorías, de esas calorías químicas que transforman el carbón en diamante, pues la poesía es la transmutación de todas las cosas en piedras preciosas.
En suma: el estado de ensueño existe, nadie lo discute, todos los poetas lo conocen y ha sido proclamado tanto por los buenos como por los malos. He aquí como lo definía Sully Prudhomme, que no era un faro:
"Contemplación interior de una sucesión de estados de conciencia asociados espontáneamente. La atención del soñador es maquinal e inconsciente, no it costs effort, it seems to the viewer who is captivated by a dramatic scene. Only accommodation is a spontaneous spirit to its goal, such as the eye adapts to his "
But the dream state has nothing to do with automatic dictation or the dream and the unconscious dream state you what you cut This immediately detenéis the moment you want to express. The dream free, losing its spontaneity, dream becomes subdued and full of large doses of regulatory thinking.
regard to the imagination, the surreal that we are as a new definition which says that the imagination is the faculty by which man can bring two distant realities.
This definition, I gave in my book, Turning and passing, in 1913, not invented by me but as a definition commonly found in any textbook on rhetoric that is not too bad, is perhaps one of the oldest known.
find not only the texts of aesthetics, but you simply open the Philosophical Dictionary Voltaire. in the term imagination, and there you will find: She meets several distant objects. The same definition
find in the Psychology of Abel Rey, published in Paris in 1903, pages 309-311.
As you see, she is not yesterday, it's not as original as you think.
I added then, and I repeat now, that the poet is one who surprises the hidden relationship between the most distant, the hidden threads that unite them. You have to press those threads like the strings of a harp, and produce a resonance that sets in motion the two distant realities.
The image is the pin that connects them, the perfect light. And its power lies in the joy of revelation, as all revelation, all discovery generates in man a state of excitement. Man likes to show you certain aspects of things, some hidden meanings of phenomena, or certain forms, de ser más o menos habituales, pasan a ser imprevistas, a adquirir doble importancia.
Pues bien, yo digo que la imagen constituye una revelación. Y mientras más sorprendente sea esta revelación, más trascendental será su efecto.
Para el poeta creacionista será una serie de revelaciones dadas mediante imágenes puras, sin excluir las demás revelaciones de conceptos ni el elemento misterio, la que creará aquella atmósfera de maravilla que llamamos poema.
En los manifiestos surrealistas hay muchas cosas bien dichas, y si los surrealistas producen obras que denoten un momento de gran altura del cerebro humano, serán dignos de todas las alabanzas.
Debemos darles crédito, but not accept their way and do not believe in the correctness of his theory.
The manifesto by André Breton, I cited as examples of beautiful image, as examples of highly refined image:
Rentre La nuit dans un sac (2)
O:
il and Dans le ruisseau qui coule à une chanson (3).
Two images of a frightening banality and a relationship as easy as that based on the common place the night as pitch and the other in the cliche The sound of the water. No poet can be found such images.
mine I much prefer that you will find in Horizon Carré, who says:
sort of
La nuit sous les meubles, (4)
Adam and my poem, written in 1914, referring to the sea:
is not known whether it is water that produces the singing
or is the song which produces water.
However, in no way would put as an example when talking about images that do not have even the slightest degree of premeditation. The word premeditated
makes me think about the problem of the origin of the images, a problem that we outlined just a moment ago when talking about pure psychic automatism.
Whence the poet's poetic background? What time they entered the components in your brain?
Here's what we should know and what is not is possible to know.
Our five senses, like ants, leave the world in search of food each, entering through its own hole, will come to fund your particular box. The small ants deposited their loot in it.
But remember what day it went? Do we know how controlled our reason?
Even by the most subtle and introspective continuous gymnastics (I think introspection Bergson), we shall ever discover the true origin of all this waste, all those combinations in a dormant state, no date as possible, which boil in the bottom of our brain and as bacilli multiply in culture.
Pues en nuestro alambique espiritual, en constante ebullición, existen los que Loeb y Bohn llaman "fenómenos asociativos y sensibilidad diferencial" y la razón, a cada instante, mete su cuchara en este alambique de asociación y contrastes; y tal vez cuando proclamáis lo fortuito y lo arbitrario estáis como nunca lejos de ambos.
No creo que las páginas más hermosas de la literatura hayan sido producidas bajo un dictado automático. Estoy convencido, incluso, de que las que parecen más locas provienen, por el contrario, de momentos en que nuestra conciencia se halla plenamente despierta.
Cuando Ben Jonson en Volpone o el Zorro hace decir al viejo Volpone: Tus baños se harán en esencia of wallflowers in a spirit of roses and violets, milk of unicorns, in panther's breath kept in a box and mixed with wine from Crete. Gold and amber drink until the roof turn to us vertigo, "Ben Johnson has not seen this in a dream, but his lyrical fever has risen by degrees, his delirium was heated in stages to allow you to find (using all its powers) those baths panther's breath.
never forget the gesture of admiration and gasps of Apollinaire when I showed him during the war, one evening I ate at home, those wonderful pages of Ben Jonson, English dramatist Shakespeare influenced both .
also as a student, I remember underlined pages of Rabelais, amazing for its lack of sense, sought a voluntary and non-sense, they produced, however, a special disturbance in spirit, close to the shocks should produce more high poetry.
Surely you remember, dear friends, the Lord of Baiscul speech in Chapter IX of Pantagruel: Indeed
spent six targets within the tropics, to the zenith and the mesh, the more that forests Rifos that year had been a high sterility of lies because of a sedition broke out between the jokes and lov Barragüinos Accursieros to purpose of the revolt of the Swiss who had gathered in the number of three, six, nine and ten to go to the mistletoe the new year on the first day of the year, when it is dinner at the horse and the key to coal girls to give oats to the dogs. Throughout the night was not over (by hand over the pot) to send messengers on foot and horseback to hold the boats, because tailors would not make remains stolen.
A blowpipe
To cover the Ocean
that, for the moment, was carrying a cabbage Ollada, in the opinion of the hay overcrowded, but physicists say that in his urine did not recognize no obvious sign.
Over the adventurous,
Eating axes with mustard,
Give also a look at the speech delivered by M. de Humevesne to Pantagruel:
If a poor devil goes to the bathroom to get parts make up the snout with dung cow or to buy boots, the sergeants who moved to the soldiers of the round are the stock in some enema or feces of a punch in the head chair. Should we, however, cut the breasts and fry the wooden bowls? Sometimes we think of the one, but God does that, and when the sun has set all the animals are in the shade. I do not want me to believe the latter if I prove it is not people in a violent manner and in broad daylight. 36
year I had bought a horse bucking Germany, tall and short, fairly fine wool, and color of seed, as the goldsmiths assured me, however, so the notary put her in it. By no means am learned enough to catch the moon with my teeth, but the pot of butter which sealed the volcanic instruments rumor that was found salted beef wine at midnight and no fire, but was hidden at the bottom of a sack of charcoal, saddle shoes and the purses required headpiece and fry in good shape a button head. And how true is what the proverb that is good to see black cows in burnt wood when one is enjoying their love.
that the learned gentlemen I consider the matter and, as a solution, they concluded that there is nothing like mowing the summer in a cave well stocked with paper and ink, and pens and penknife Lyon along the Rhone, Tarabin Tarabas, (5 ) for as soon as a harness touches the water, the worms gnaw it to the liver and then does nothing when sublevársele torticollis is asleep after dinner, and here which adds much salt.
And Pantagruel response: Consider
horripilation courageously decline of bat solsticio estival para echar un requiebro a los cuentos de vieja que tuvieron el alfil del peón debido a las malvadas vejaciones de los lucífugos nicticoraces que se hallan bajo o el clima romano de un crucifijo a caballo que engafaba una ballesta con los riñones, el pedigüeño tuvo razón de calafatear el galeón que la buena mujer hinchaba, con un pie calzado y el otro desnudo, reembolsándole, bajo y tieso en su conciencia, tantas tonterías como pelos hay en dieciocho vacas y otras tantas para el bordador. Igualmente es declarado inocente del caso especial de las metrequeferías en que todos pensaban que había incurrido, de lo que no podía alegremente defecar, sobre la decisión de un par de guantes perfumados, de pedorrera the candle nut, in the manner of their country of Mirebalais, loosening the bowline with the brazen cannon balls which amassed scullions answer your vegetables gnawed by dormice all hawk bells made in Hungary about his brother memorably wore in a basket with embroidered border with three goats hips broken noses of canabaserías, the angular kennel where they get the parrot vermiform with the duster. In quotations
you have just read, is the unusual, unexpected, what moves us and dislocated.
A poem is such only when there is in him unusual. From the moment a poem becomes usual, no thrills, no wonder, does not worry more, and leaves, therefore, be a poem, then worry, wonder, touch our roots is proper to poetry.
The life of a poem depends on the duration of its electric charge. I wonder if there will be eternal.
is clear that nothing of what we are accustomed excites us. A poem should be somewhat unusual, but made from things we deal with constantly, things that are close to our chest, as if the poem is also unusual built with unusual items, will amaze us more than excited. What amazes
not transport, not uplifting to the heights of vertigo conscious.
It takes a true poet to give things that we are close enough to charge us marvel, you have to be a poet to thread everyday words Osram incandescent filament, and this warms the inner light soul in the latitudes that we precipitates.
The poet is a high frequency motor spirit, who gives life to what does not; every word, every sentence in your throat takes a life. and new, and will nest throbbing heat in the soul of the reader.
be a poet is to have such a direct dose humanity, which may attach to everything that passes through the body some deep nuclear power, some heat ever given by others to those same words, some heat does change dimension and color to the words.
I quote again from Plato, who sometimes says things beautiful about the poets, the poets with whom he behaved very badly in its moments of silliness:
This stone which Euripides called the magnet, heracleana people, not only the power to attract iron rings, but also to communicate its strength to the rings themselves, they can, like her, to attract others, and can often be a long chain composed of suspended rings, which pays only lover virtue that sustains them. Similarly, the poets transports Musa to the enthusiasm of poets, in turn, make it down to us, thus forming a chain of inspiration.
He adds that the great poets are "the beautiful creations of his genius to a blue flame, a god," and few lines after poetic truth defends saying
lyric poets not enshrine us when we talk about everything your imagination makes them look.
At the time I pointed my meditations on poetry, poet knew the theories of Saint-Pol-Roux, but I secretly had a fluid to it. Thus he spoke often, and often quoted his poems, read in anthologies, and I particularly indignant against Gourmont Reny, who, with a lack of respect only, translating his vulgar language and images dared to establish a table of these same images with an equal to an intolerable impertinence and ingenuity.
We must proclaim aloud: Saint-PolRoux was one of the few artists who wanted to give the poet all the prestige associated with this magical word.
I applaud with all my heart to the young poets who has re-launched the Great, with all its natural splendor, almost forgot a horribly unfair.
I myself am ashamed to declare, but I, in my ten years in Paris, I did not to buy their works, and only in January this year I went to the Mercure de France to ask them. Unfortunately they are exhausted and do not think reprint.
(Is not there some way to reissue them?)
By 1913, this remarkable man said things that I transcribe here with the greatest joy:
Geometer is absolute, the art is now to form districts, districts that take part only traditional world for its unique core memory, counties somehow registered under a rubric of copyright, and these original regions where the time is given by the poet's heart beat, where steam is usually their breath, where and spring storms are your joys and sorrows, where the atmosphere is the result of fluid, where the waves will express their emotions, where the forces are the muscles of his energy and subdued energy, these regions, say, the poet in a pathetic lambing, furnished with spontaneous population, with their personal rates.
science itself will have nothing to expect of those miracles, suddenly declared poetry to science itself, science of science, capable of reliance and held capricious rules, which differ from one poet to another, despite sharing a a primary law, the law of gods.
NOTES (1) In its manifesto, André Breton wrote: "Knut Hamsun placed under the jurisdiction of hunger that sort of revelation that I was subjected." (The fact is that then I did not eat every day.) Alienists All agree that it is produced in times of fatigue. (Note VH)
(2) The night comes in a bag.
(3) For the stream runs tub song.
(4) The night out from under the furniture.
(5) Rabelais, as my friend Tristan Tzara and some other poets of today, also invented words.
0 comments:
Post a Comment