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Fauve _Editor_._ARTcore_ Dada and Surrealist Manifestoes

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					ART CORE Guerrilla Mind Theatre

A Collection of Surrealist and Dada Manifestoes (K)2000 All Rights Reversed Tap here for miscellaneous publication information. ART CORE Guerrilla Mind Theatre Edited by Fauve TABLE OF CONTENTS Le Manifeste du Surréalisme by André Breton

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A (2nd) Surrealist Manifesto by Breton, etc. What is Surrealism? by André Breton Manifesto in Clear Language by Antonin Artaud Manifesto by Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes Manifeste cannibale dada by Francis Picabia Chanson Dada by Tristan Tzara 7 Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries by Tristan Tzara  I. Monsieur Antipyrine's Manifesto  II. Dada Manifesto  III. Unpretentious Proclamation  IV. Manifesto of Monsieur AA the Antiphilosopher  V. Tristan Tzara  VI. Monsieur AA the Antiphilosopher sends us this Manifesto  Manifesto on Feeble Love & Bitter Love  Appendix: How I became Charming Likeable and Delightful  Lampisteries About the Authors

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Paul Klee, Childish Again, 1939 Le Manifeste du Surréalisme André Breton 1924 We are still living under the reign of logic, but the logical processes of our time apply only to the solution of problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism which remains in fashion allows for the consideration of only those facts narrowly relevant to our experience. Logical conclusions, on the other hand, escape us. Needless to say, boundaries have been assigned even to experience. It revolves in a cage from which release is becoming increasingly difficult. It too depends upon immediate utility and is guarded by common sense. In the guise of civilization, under the pretext of progress, we have succeeded in dismissing from our minds anything that, rightly or wrongly, could be regarded as superstition or myth; and we have proscribed every way of seeking the truth which does not conform to convention. It would appear that it is by sheer chance that an aspect of intellectual life---and by far the most important in my opinion---about which no one was supposed to be concerned any longer has, recently, been brought back to light. Credit for this must go to Freud. On the evidence of his discoveries a current of opinion is at last developing which will enable the explorer of the human mind to extend his investigations, since he will be empowered to deal with more than merely summary realities. Perhaps the imagination is on the verge of recovering its rights. If the depths of our minds conceal strange forces capable of augmenting or conquering those on the surface, it is in our greatest interest to capture them; first to capture them and later to submit them, should the occasion arise, to the control of reason. The analysts themselves can only gain by this. But it is important to note that there is no method fixed a priori for the execution of this enterprise, that until the new order it can be considered the province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success does not depend upon the more or less capricious routes which will be followed. It was only fitting that Freud should appear with his critique on the dream. In fact, it is incredible that this important part of psychic activity has still attracted so little attention. (For, at least from man's birth to his death, thought presents no solution of continuity; the sum of dreaming moments - even taking into consideration pure dream alone, that of sleep - is from the point of view of time no less than the sum of

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moments of reality, which we shall confine to waking moments.) I have always been astounded by the extreme disproportion in the importance and seriousness assigned to events of the waking moments and to those of sleep by the ordinary observer. Man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all at the mercy of his memory, and the memory normally delights in feebly retracing the circumstance of the dream for him, depriving it of all actual consequence and obliterating the only determinant from the point at which he thinks he abandoned this constant hope, this anxiety, a few hours earlier. He has the illusion of continuing something worthwhile. The dream finds itself relegated to a parenthesis, like the night. And in general it gives no more counsel than the night. This singular state of affairs seems to invite a few reflections: 1. Within the limits to which its performance is restricted (or what passes for performance), the dream, according to all outward appearances, is continuous and bears traces of organization. Only memory claims the right to edit it, to suppress transitions and present us with a series of dreams rather than the dream. Similarly, at no given instant do we have more than a distinct representation of realities whose co-ordination is a matter of will. It is important to note that nothing leads to a greater dissipation of the constituent elements of the dream. I regret discussing this according to a formula which in principle excludes the dream. For how long, sleeping logicians, philosophers? I would like to sleep in order to enable myself to surrender to sleepers, as I surrender to those who read me with their eyes open, in order to stop the conscious rhythm of my thought from prevailing over this material. Perhaps my dream of last night was a continuation of the preceding night's, and will be continued tonight with an admirable precision. It could be, as they say. And as it is in no way proven that, in such a case, the 'reality' with which I am concerned even exists in the dream state, or that it does not sink into the immemorial, then why should I not concede to the dream what I sometimes refuse to reality - that weight of self-assurance which by its own terms is not exposed to my denial? Why should I not expect more of the dream sign than I do of a daily increasing degree of consciousness? Could not the dreams as well be applied to the solution of life's fundamental problems? Are these problems the same in one case as in the other, and do they already exist in the dream? Is the dream less oppressed by sanctions than the rest? I am growing old and, perhaps more than this reality to which I believe myself confined, it is the dream, and the detachment that I owe to it, which is ageing me. 2. I return to the waking state. I am obliged to retain it as a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the mind show a strange tendency to disorientation under these conditions (this is the clue to slips of the tongue and lapses of all kinds whose secret is just beginning to be surrendered to us), but when functioning normally the mind still seems to obey none other than those suggestions which rise from that deep night I am commending. Sound as it may be, its equilibrium is relative. The mind hardly dares express itself and, when it does, is limited to stating that this idea or that woman has an effect onit. What effect it cannot say; thus it gives the measure of its subjectivism and nothing more. The idea, the woman, disturbs it, disposes it to less severity. Their role is to isolate one second of its disappearance and remove it to the sky in that glorious acceleration that it can be, that it is. Then, as a last resort, the mind invokes chance - a more obscure divinity than the others to whom it attributes all its aberrations. Who says that the angle from which that idea is presented which affects the mind, as well as what the mind loves in that woman's eye, is not precisely the same thing that attracts the mind to its dream and reunites it with data lost through its own error? And if things were otherwise, of what might the mind not be capable? I should like to present it with the key to that passage. 3. The mind of the dreaming man is fully satisfied with whatever happens to it. The agonizing question of possibility does not arise. Kill, plunder more quickly, love as much as you wish. And if you die, are you not sure of being roused from the dead? Let yourself be led. Events will not tolerate deferment. You have no name. Everything Is inestimably easy. What power, I wonder, what power so much more generous than others confers this natural aspect upon the dream and makes me welcome unreservedly a throng of episodes whose strangeness would

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overwhelm me if they were happening as I write this? And yet I can believe it with my own eyes, my own ears. That great day has come, that beast has spoken. If man's awakening is harsher, if he breaks the spell too well, it is because he has been led to form a poor idea of expiation. 4. When the time comes when we can submit the dream to a methodical examination, when by methods yet to be determined we succeed in realizing the dream in its entirety (and that implies a memory discipline measurable in generations, but we can still begin by recording salient facts), when the dream's curve is developed with an unequalled breadth and regularity, then we can hope that mysteries which are not really mysteries will give way to the great Mystery. I believe in the future resolution of these two states -- outwardly so contradictory -- which are dream and reality, into a sort of absolute reality, a surreality, so to speak, I am aiming for its conquest, certain that I myself shall not attain it, but too indifferent to my death not to calculate the joys of such possession. They say that not long ago, just before he went to sleep, Saint-Pol-Roux placed a placard on the door of his manor at Camaret which read: THE POET WORKS. There is still a great deal to say, but I did want to touch lightly, in passing, upon a subject which in itself would require a very long exposition with a different precision. I shall return to it. For the time being my intention has been to see that justice was done to that hatred of the marvellous which rages in certain men, that ridicule under which they would like to crush it. Let us resolve, therefore: the Marvellous is always beautiful, everything marvellous is beautiful. Nothing but the Marvellous is beautiful. ...One night, before falling asleep, I became aware of a most bizarre sentence, clearly articulated to the point where it was impossible to change a word of it, but still separate from the sound of any voice. It came to me bearing no trace of the events with which I was involved at that time, at least to my conscious knowledge. It seemed to me a highly insistent sentence - a sentence, I might say, which knocked at the window. I quickly took note of it and was prepared to disregard it when something about its whole character held me back. The sentence truly astounded me. Unfortunately I still cannot remember the exact words to this day, but it was something like: 'A man is cut in half by the window'; but it can only suffer from ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the feeble visual representation of a walking man cut in half by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body. It was probably a simple matter of a man leaning on the window and then straightening up. But the window followed the movements of the man, and I realized that I was dealing with a very rare type of image. Immediately I had the idea of incorporating it into my poetic material, but no sooner had I invested it with poetic form than it went on to give way to a scarcely intermittent succession of sentences which surprised me no less than the first and gave me the impression of such a free gift that the control which I had had over myself up to that point seemed illusory and I no longer thought of anything but how to put an end to the interminable quarrel which was taking place within me. Totally involved as I was at the time with Freud, and familiar with his methods of examination which Ihad had some occasion to practise on the sick during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what one seeks to obtain from a patient - a spoken monologue uttered as rapidly as possible, over whichthe critical faculty of the subject has no control, unencumbered by any reticence, which is spoken thought as far as such a thing is possible. It seemed to me, and still does - the manner in which the sentence about the man cut in two came to me proves it - that the speed of thought is no greater than that of words, and that it does not necessarily defy language or the moving pen. It was with this in mind that Philippe Soupault (with whom I had shared these first conclusions) and I undertook to cover some paper with writing, with a laudable contempt for what might result in terms of literature. The ease of realization did the rest. At the end of the first day we were able to read to each other around fifty pages obtained by this method, and

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began to compare our results. Altogether, those of Soupault and my own presented a remarkable similarity, even including the same faults in construction: in both cases there was the illusion of an extraordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, a considerable assortment of images of a quality such as we would never have been capable of achieving in ordinary writing, a very vivid graphic quality, and here and there an acutely comic passage. The only difference between our texts seemed to me essentially due to our respective natures (Soupault's is less static than mine) and, if I may hazard a slight criticism, due to the fact that he had made the mistake of distributing a few words in the way of titles at the head of certain pages — no doubt in the spirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give him credit for maintaining his steadfast opposition to the slightest alteration in the course of any passage which seemed to me rather badly put. He was completely right on this point, of course. In fact, it is very difficult to appreciate the full value of the various elementswhen confronted by them. It can even be said to be impossible to appreciate them at the first reading. These elements are outwardly as strange to you who have written them as to anyone else, and you are naturally distrustful of them. Poetically speaking, they are especially endowed with a very high degree of immediate absurdity. The peculiarity of this absurdity, on closer examination, comes from their capitulation to everything — both inadmissible and legitimate - In the world, to produce a revelation of a certain number of premises and facts generally no less objective than any others. In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire - who died recently, and who appears to have consistently obeyed a similar impulse to ours without ever really sacrificing mediocre literary means - Soupault and I used the name SURREALISM to designate the new mode of pure expression which we had at our disposal and with which we were anxious to benefit our friends. Today I do not believe anything more need be said about this word. The meaning which we have given it has generally prevailed over Apollinaire's meaning. With even more justification we could have used SUPERNATURALISM, employed by Gerard de Nerval in the dedication of Filles de Feu. In fact, Nerval appears to have possessed to an admirable extent the spirit to which we refer. Apollinaire, on the other hand, possessed only the letter of surrealism (which was still imperfect) and showed himself powerless to give it the theoretical insight that engages us. Here are two passages by Nerval which appear most significant in this regard: 'I will explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of which you spoke above. As you know, there are certain story-tellers who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the characters from their imagination. You know with what conviction our old friend Nodier told how he had had the misfortune to be guillotined at the time of the Revolution; one became so convinced that one wondered how he had managed to stick his head back on.' '... And since you have had the imprudence to cite one of the sonnets composed in this state of SUPERNATURALIST reverie, as the Germans would say, you must hear all of them. You will find them at the end of the volume. They are hardly more obscure than Hegel's metaphysics or Swedenborg's MEMORABLES, and would lose their charm in explication, if such a thing were possible, so concede me at least the merit of their expression . . .' It would be dishonest to dispute our right to employ the word SURREALISM in the very particular sense in which we intend it, for it is clear that before we came along, this word amounted to nothing. Thus, I shall define it once and for all:  SURREALISM: noun, masc., Pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing, the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.

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

ENCYCL. Philos. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of association heretofore neglected, in the omnipotence of the dream, and in the disinterested play of thought. It leads to the permanent destruction of all other psychic mechanisms and to its substitution for them in the solution of the principal problems of life.

A Surrealist Manifesto The Declaration of January 27, 1925 With regard to a false interpretation of our enterprise, stupidly circulated among the public, We declare as follows to the entire braying literary, dramatic, philosophical, exegetical and even theological body of contemporary criticism: 1. We have nothing to do with literature; But we are quite capable, when necessary, of making use of it like anyone else, 2. Surrealism is not a new means or expression, or an easier one, nor even a metaphysic of poetry. It is a means of total liberation of the mind and of all that resembles it. 3. We are determined to make a Revolution. 4. We have joined the word surrealism to the word revolution solely to show the disinterested, detached, and even entirely desperate character of this revolution. 5. We make no claim to change the mores of mankind, but we intend to show the fragility of thought, and on what shifting foundations, what caverns we have built our trembling houses. 6. We hurl this formal warning to Society; Beware of your deviations and faux-pas, we shall not miss a single one. 7. At each turn of its thought, Society will find us waiting. 8. We are specialists in Revolt. There is no means of action which we are not capable, when necessary, of employing. 9. We say in particular to the Western world: surrealism exists. And what is this new ism that is fastened to us? Surrealism is not a poetic form. It is a cry of the mind turning back on itself, and it is determined to break apart its fetters, even if it must be by material hammers!

Bureaus de Recherches Surréalistes, 15, Rue de Grenelle Signed: Louis Aragon, Antonin Artaud, Jacques Baron, Joë Bousquet, J.-A. Boiffard, André Breton, Jean Carrive, René Crevel, Robert Desnos, Paul Élaurd, Max Ernst, et al. What is Surrealism? André Breton At the beginning of the war of 1870 (he was to die four months later, aged twenty-four), the author of the Chants de Maldoror and of Poésies, Isidore Ducasse, better known by the name of Comte de Lautréamont, whose thought has been of the very greatest help and encouragement to myself and my

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friends throughout the fifteen years during which we have succeeded in carrying a common activity, made the following remark, among many others which were to electrify us fifty years later: "At the hour in which I write, new tremors are running through the intellectual atmosphere; it is only a matter of having the courage to face them." 1868-75: it is impossible, looking back upon the past, to perceive an epoch so poetically rich, so victorious, so revolutionary and so charged with distant meaning as that which stretches from the separate publication of the Premier Chant de Maldoror to the insertion in a letter to Ernest Delahaye of Rimbauld's last poem, Rêve, which has not so far been included in his Complete Works. It is not an idle hope to wish to see the works of Lautréamont and Rimbaud restored to their correct historical background: the coming and the immediate results of the war of 1870. Other and analogous cataclysms could not have failed to rise out of that military and social cataclysm whose final episode was to be the atrocious crushing of the Paris Commune; the last in date caught many of us at the very age when Lautréamont and Rimbaud found themselves thrown into the preceding one, and by way of revenge has had as its consequence - and this is the new and important fact - the triumph of the Bolshevik Revolution. I should say that to people socially and politically uneducated as we then were - we who, on one hand, came for the most part from the petite-bourgeoisie, and on the other, were all by vocation possessed with the desire to intervene upon the artistic plane - the days of October, which only the passing of the years and the subsequent appearance of a large number of works within the reach of all were fully to illumine, could not there and then have appeared to turn so decisive a page in history. We were, I repeat, ill-prepared and ill-informed. Above all, we were exclusively preoccupied with a campaign of systematic refusal, exasperated by the conditions under which, in such an age, we were forced to live. But our refusal did not stop there; it was insatiable and knew no bounds. Apart from the incredible stupidity of the arguments which attempted to legitimize our participation in an enterprise such as the war, whose issue left us completely indifferent, this refusal was directed - and having been brought up in such a school, we are not capable of changing so much that is no longer so directed - against the whole series of intellectual, moral and social obligations that continually and from all sides weigh down upon man and crush him. Intellectually, it was vulgar rationalism and chop logic that more than anything else formed the causes of our horror and our destructive impulse; morally, it was all duties: religious, civic and of the family; socially, it was work (did not Rimbaud say: "Jamais je ne travaillerai, ô flots de feu!" and also: "La main à plume vaut la main à charrue. Quel siècle à mains! Je n'aurai jamais ma main!"). The more I think about it, the more certain I become that nothing was to our minds worth saving, unless it was... unless it was, at last "l'amour la poésie," to take the bright and trembling title of one of Paul Eluard's books, "l'amour la poésie," considered as inseparable in their essence and as the sole good. Between the negation of this good, a negation brought to its climax by the war, and its full and total affirmation ("Poetry should be made by all, not one"), the field was not, to our minds, open to anything but a Revolution truly extended into all domains, improbably radical, to the highest degree impractical and tragically destroying within itself the whole time the feeling that it brought with it both of desirability and of absurdity. Many of you, no doubt, would put this down to a certain youthful exaltation and to the general savagery of the time; I must, however, insist on this attitude, common to particular men and manifesting itself at periods nearly half a century distant from one another. I should affirm that in ignorance of this attitude one can form no idea of what surrealism really stands for. This attitude alone can account, and very sufficiently at that, for all the excesses that may be attributed to us but which cannot be deplored unless one gratuitously supposes that we could have started from any other point. The ill-sounding remarks, that are imputed to us, the so-called inconsiderate attacks, the insults, the quarrels, the scandals - all things that we are so much reproached with - turned up on the same road as the surrealist poems. From the very beginning, the surrealist attitude has had that in common with Lautréamont and Rimbaud which once and for all binds our lot to theirs, and that is wartime defeatism. I am not afraid to say that this defeatism seems to be more relevant than ever. "New tremors are running through the intellectual atmosphere; it is only a matter of having the courage to face them." They

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are, in fact, always running through the intellectual atmosphere: the problem of their propagation and interpretation remains the same and, as far as we are concerned, remains to be solved. But, paraphrasing Lautréamont, I cannot refrain from adding that at the hour in which I speak, old and mortal shivers are trying to substitute themselves for those which are the very shivers of knowledge and of life. They come to announce a frightful disease, a disease followed by the deprivation of all rights; it is only a matter of having the courage to face them also. This disease is called fascism. Let us be careful today not to underestimate the peril: the shadow has greatly advanced over Europe recently. Hitler, Dolfuss and Mussolini have either drowned in blood or subjected to corporal humiliation everything that formed the effort of generations straining towards a more tolerable and more worthy form of existence. In capitalist society, hypocrisy and cynicism have now lost all sense of proportion and are becoming more outrageous every day. Without making exaggerated sacrifices to humanitarianism, which always involves impossible reconciliations and truces to the advantage of the stronger, i should say that in this atmosphere, thought cannot consider the exterior world without an immediate shudder. Everything we know about fascism shows that it is precisely the homologation of this state of affairs, aggravated to its furthest point by the lasting resignation that it seeks to obtain from those who suffer. Is not the evident role of fascism to re-establish for the time being the tottering supremacy of finance-capital? Such a role is of itself sufficient to make it worthy of all our hatred; we continue to consider this feigned resignation as one of the greatest evils that can possibly be inflicted upon beings of our kind, and those who would inflict it deserve, in our opinion, to be beaten like dogs. Yet it is impossible to conceal the fact that this immense danger is there, lurking at our doors, that it has made its appearance within our walls, and that it would be pure byzantinism to dispute too long, as in Germany, over the choice of the barrier to be set up against it, when all the while, under several aspects, it is creeping nearer and nearer to us. During the course of taking various steps with a view to contributing, in so far as I am capable, to the organization in Paris of the anti-fascist struggle, I have noticed that already a certain doubt has crept into the intellectual circles of the left as to the possibility of successfully combating fascism, a doubt which has unfortunately infected even those elements whom one might have thought it possible to rely on and who had come to the fore in this struggle. Some of them have even begun to make excuses for the loss of the battle already. Such dispositions seem to me to be so dismaying that i should not care to be speaking here without first having made clear my position in relation to them, or without anticipating a whole series of remarks that are to follow, affirming that today, more than ever before, the liberation of the mind, demands as primary condition, in the opinion of the surrealists, the express aim of surrealism, the liberation of man, which implies that we must struggle with our fetters with all the energy of despair; that today more than ever before the surrealists entirely rely for the bringing about of the liberation of man upon the proletarian Revolution. I now feel free to turn to the object of this pamphlet, which is to attempt to explain what surrealism is. A certain immediate ambiguity contained in the word surrealism, is, in fact, capable of leading one to suppose that it designates I know not what transcendental attitude, while, on the contrary it expresses and always has expressed for us - a desire to deepen the foundations of the real, to bring about an even clearer and at the same time ever more passionate consciousness of the world perceived by the senses. The whole evolution of surrealism, from its origins to the present day, which i am about to retrace, shows that our unceasing wish, growing more and more urgent from day to day, has been at all costs to avoid considering a system of thought as a refuge, to pursue our investigations with eyes wide open to their outside consequences, and to assure ourselves that the results of these investigations would be capable of facing the breath of the street. At the limits, for many years past - or more exactly, since the conclusion of what one may term the purely intuitive epoch of surrealism (1919-25) - at the limits, I say, we have attempted to present interior reality and exterior reality as two elements in process of unification, or finally becoming one. This final unification is the supreme aim of surrealism: interior reality and exterior reality being, in the present form of society, in contradiction (and in this contradiction we seethe very cause of man's unhappiness, but also the source of his movement), we have assigned to ourselves the task of

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confronting these two realities with one another on every possible occasion, of refusing to allow the preeminence of the one over the other, yet not of acting on the one and on the other both at once, for that would be to suppose that they are less apart from one another than they are (and I believe that those who pretend that they are acting on both simultaneously are either deceiving us or are a prey to a disquieting illusion); of acting on these two realities not both at once, then, but one after the other, in a systematic manner, allowing us to observe their reciprocal attraction and interpenetration and to give to this interplay of forces all the extension necessary for the trend of these two adjoining realities to become one and the same thing. As I have just mentioned in passing, I consider that one can distinguish two epochs in the surrealist movement, of equal duration, from its origins (1919, year of the publication of Champs Magnétiques) until today; a purely intuitive epoch, and a reasoning epoch. The first can summarily be characterized by the belief expressed during this time in the all-powerfulness of thought, considered capable of freeing itself by means of its own resources. This belief witnesses to a prevailing view that I look upon today as being extremely mistaken, the view that thought is supreme over matter. The definition of surrealism that has passed into the dictionary, a definition taken from the Manifesto of 1924, takes account only of this entirely idealist disposition and (for voluntary reasons of simplification and amplification destined to influence in my mind the future of this definition) does so in terms that suggest that I deceived myself at the time in advocating the use of an automatic thought not only removed from all control exercised by the reason but also disengaged from "all aesthetic or moral preoccupations." It should at least have been said: conscious aesthetic or moral preoccupations. During the period under review, in the absence, of course, of all seriously discouraging exterior events, surrealist activity remained strictly confined to its first theoretical premise, continuing all the while to be the vehicle of that total "non-conformism" which, as we have seen, was the binding feature in the coming together of those who took part in it, and the cause, during the first few years after the war, of an uninterrupted series of adhesions. No coherent political or social attitude, however, made its appearance until 1925, that is to say (and it is important to stress this), until the outbreak of the Moroccan war, which, re-arousing in us our particular hostility to the way armed conflicts affect man, abruptly placed before us the necessity of making a public protest. This protest, which, under the title La Révolution d'Abord et Toujours (October 1925), joined the name of the surrealists proper to those of thirty other intellectuals, was undoubtedly rather confused ideologically; it none the less marked the breaking away from a whole way of thinking; it none the less created a precedent that was to determine the whole future direction of the movement. Surrealist activity, faced with a brutal, revolting, unthinkable fact, was forced to ask itself what were its proper resources and to determine their limits; it was forced to adopt a precise attitude, exterior to itself, in order to continue to face whatever exceeded these limits. Surrealist activity at this moment entered into its reasoning phase. It suddenly experienced the necessity of crossing over the gap that separates absolute idealism from dialectical materialism. This necessity made its appearance in so urgent a manner that we had to consider the problem in the clearest possible light, with the result that for some months we devoted our entire attention to the means of bringing about this change of front once and for all. If I do not today feel any retrospective embarrassment in explaining this change, that is because it seems to me quite natural that surrealist thought, before coming to rest in dialectical materialism and insisting, as today, on the supremacy of matter over mind, should have been condemned to pass, in a few years, through the whole historic development of modern thought. It came normally to Marx through Hegel, just as it came normally to Hegel through Berkeley and Hume. These latter influences offer a certain particularity in that, contrary to certain poetic influences undergone in the same way, and accommodated to those of the French materialists of the eighteenth century, they yielded a residuum of practical action. To try and hide these influences would be contrary to my desire to show that surrealism has not been drawn up as an abstract system, that is to say, safeguarded against all contradictions. It is also my desire to show how surrealist activity, driven, as I have said, to ask itself what were its proper resources, had in some way or another to reflect upon itself its realization, in 1925, of its relative insufficiency; how surrealist activity had to cease being content with the results (automatic texts, the recital of dreams, improvised speeches,

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spontaneous poems, drawings and actions) which it had originally planned; and how it came to consider these first results as being simply so much material, starting from which the problem of knowledge inevitably arose again under quite a new form. As a living movement, that is to say a movement undergoing a constant process of becoming and, what is more, solidly relying on concrete facts, surrealism has brought together and is still bringing together diverse temperaments individually obeying or resisting a variety of bents. The determinant of their enduring or short-lived adherence is not to be considered as a blind concession to an inert stock of ideas held in common, but as a continuous sequence of acts which, propelling the doer to more or less distant points, forces him for each fresh start to return to the same starting-line. These exercises not being without peril, one man may break a limb or - for which there is no precedent - his head, another may peaceably submerge himself in a quagmire or report himself dying of fatigue. Unable as yet to treat itself to an ambulance, surrealism simply leaves these individuals by the wayside. Those who continue in the ranks are aware of course of the casualties left behind them. But what of it? The essential is always to look ahead, to remain sure that one has not forfeited the burning desire for beauty, truth and justice, toilingly to go onwards towards the discovery, one by one, of fresh landscapes, and to continue doing so indefinitely and without coercion to the end, that others may afterwards travel the same spiritual road, unhindered and in all security. Penetration, to be sure, has not been as deep as one would have wished. Poetically speaking, a few wild, or shall we say charming, beasts whose cries fill the air and bar access to a domain as yet only surmised, are still far from being exorcized. But for all that, the piercing of the thicket would have proceeded less tortuously, and those who are doing the pioneering would have acquitted themselves with unabating tenacity in the service of the cause, if, between the beginning and the end of the spectacle which they provide for themselves and would be glad to provide for others, a change had not taken place. In 193(6), more than ever before, surrealism owes it to itself to defend the postulate of the necessity of change. It is amusing, indeed, to see how the more spiteful and silly of our adversaries affect to triumph whenever they stumble on some old statement we may have made and which now sounds more or less discordantly in the midst of others intended to render comprehensible our present conduct. This insidious manoeuvre, which is calculated to cast a doubt on our good faith, or at least on the genuineness of our principles, can easily be defeated. The development of surrealism throughout the decade of its existence is, we take it, a function of the unrolling of historical realities as these may be speeded up between the period of relief which follows the conclusion of a peace and the fresh outbreak of war. It is also a function of the process of seeking after new values in order to confirm or invalidate existing ones. The fact that certain of the first participants in surrealist activity have thrown in the sponge and have been discarded has brought about the retiring from circulation of some ways of thinking and the putting into circulation of others in which there were implicit certain general dissents on the one hand and certain general assents on the other. Hence it is that this activity has been fashioned by the events. At the present moment, contrary to current biased rumour according to which surrealism itself is supposed, in its cruelty of disposition, to have sacrificed nearly all the blood first vivifying it, it is heartening to be able to point out that it has never ceased to avail itself of the perfect teamwork of René Crevel, Paul Eluard, Max Ernst, Benjamin Péret, Man Ray, Tristan Tzara, and the present writer, all of whom can attest that from the inception of the movement - which is also the date of our enlistment in it - until now, the initial principle of their covenant has never been violated. If there have occurred differences on some points, it was essentially within the rhythmic scope of the integral whole, in itself a least disputable element of objective value. The others, they whom we no longer meet, can they say as much? They cannot, for the simple reason that since they separated from us they have been incapable of achieving a single concerted action that had any definite form of its own, and they have confined themselves, instead, to a reaction against surrealism with the greatest wastage to themselves - a fate always overtaking those who go back on their past. The history of their apostasy and denials will ultimately be read into the great limbo of human failings, without profit to any observer - ideal yesterday, but real today - who, called upon to make a

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pronouncement, will decide whether they or ourselves have brought the more appreciable efforts to bear upon a rational solution of the many problems surrealism has propounded. Although there can be no question here of going through the history of the surrealist movement - its history has been told many a time and sometimes told fairly well; moreover, I prefer to pass on as quickly as possible to the exposition of its present attitude - I think I ought briefly to recall, for the benefit of those of you who were unaware of the fact, that there is no doubt that before the surrealist movement properly so called, there existed among the promoters of the movement and others who later rallied round it, very active, not merely dissenting but also antagonistic dispositions which, between 1915 and 1920, were willing to align themselves under the signboard of Dada. Post-war disorder, a state of mind essentially anarchic that guided that cycle's many manifestations, a deliberate refusal to judge - for lack, it was said, of criteria - the actual qualifications of individuals, and, perhaps, in the last analysis, a certain spirit of negation which was making itself conspicuous, had brought about a dissolution of the group as yet inchoate, one might say, by reason of its dispersed and heterogeneous character, a group whose germinating force has nevertheless been decisive and, by the general consent of present-day critics, has greatly influenced the course of ideas. It may be proper before passing rapidly - as I must - over this period, to apportion by far the handsomest share to Marcel Duchamp (canvases and glass objects still to be seen in New York), to Francis Picabia (reviews "291" and "391"), Jacques Vaché (Lettres de Guerre) and Tristan Tzara (Twenty-five Poems, Dada Manifesto 1918). Strangely enough, it was round a discovery of language that there was seeking to organize itself in 1920 what - as yet on a basis of confidential exchange - assumed the name of surrealism, a word fallen from the lips of Apollinaire, which we had diverted from the rather general and very confusing connotation he had given it. What was at first no more than a new method of poetic writing broke away after several years from the much too general theses which had come to be expounded in the Surrealist Manifesto Soluble Fish, 1924, the Second Manifesto adding others to them, whereby the whole was raised to a vaster ideological plane; and so there had to be revision. In an article, "Enter the Mediums," published in Littérature, 1922, reprinted in Les Pas Perdus, 1924, and subsequently in the Surrealist Manifesto, I explained the circumstance that had originally put us, my friends and myself, on the track of the surrealist activity we still follow and for which we are hopeful of gaining ever more numerous new adherents in order to extend it further than we have so far succeeded in doing. It reads: "It was in 1919, in complete solitude and at the approach of sleep, that my attention was arrested by sentences more or less complete, which became perceptible to my mind without my being able to discover (even by very meticulous analysis) any possible previous volitional effort. One evening in particular, as I was about to fall asleep, I became aware of a sentence articulated clearly to a point excluding all possibility of alteration and stripped of all quality of vocal sound; a curious sort of sentence which came to me bearing - in sober truth - not a trace of any relation whatever to any incidents I may at that time have been involved in; an insistent sentence, it seemed to me, a sentence I might say, that knocked at the window. I was prepared to pay no further attention to it when the organic character of the sentence detained me. I was really bewildered. Unfortunately, I am unable to remember the exact sentence at this distance, but it ran approximately like this: "A man is cut in half by the window." What made it plainer was the fact that it was accompanied by a feeble visual representation of a man in the process of walking, but cloven, at half his height, by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body. Definitely, there was the form, re-erected against space, of a man leaning out of a window. But the window following the man's locomotion, I understood that I was dealing with an image of great rarity. Instantly the idea came to me to use it as material for poetic construction. I had no sooner invested it with that quality, than it had given place to a succession of all but intermittent sentences which left me no less astonished, but

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in a state, I would say, of extreme detachment. "Preoccupied as I still was at that time with Freud, and familiar with his methods of investigation, which I had practised occasionally upon the sick during the War, I resolved to obtain from myself what one seeks to obtain from patients, namely a monologue poured out as rapidly as possible, over which the subject's critical faculty has no control - the subject himself throwing reticence to the winds - and which as much as possible represents spoken thought. It seemed and still seems to me that the speed of thought is no greater than that of words, and hence does not exceed the flow of either tongue or pen. It was in such circumstances that, together with Philippe Soupault, whom I had told about my first ideas on the subject, I began to cover sheets of paper with writing, feeling a praiseworthy contempt for whatever the literary result might be. Ease of achievement brought about the rest. By the end of the first day of the experiment we were able to read to one another about fifty pages obtained in this manner and to compare the results we had achieved. The likeness was on the whole striking. There were similar faults of construction, the same hesitant manner, and also, in both cases, an illusion of extraordinary verve, much emotion, a considerable assortment of images of a quality such as we should never have been able to obtain in the normal way of writing, a very special sense of the picturesque, and, here and there, a few pieces of out and out buffoonery. The only differences which our two texts presented appeared to me to be due essentially to our respective temperaments, Soupault's being less static than mine, and, if he will allow me to make this slight criticism, to his having scattered about at the top of certain pages - doubtlessly in a spirit of mystification - various words under the guise of titles. I must give him credit, on the other hand, for having always forcibly opposed the least correction of any passage that did not seem to me to be quite the thing. In that he was most certainly right. "It is of course difficult in these cases to appreciate at their just value the various elements in the result obtained; one may even say that it is entirely impossible to appreciate them at a first reading. To you who may be writing them, these elements are, in appearance, as strange as to anyone else, and you are yourself naturally distrustful of them. Poetically speaking, they are distinguished chiefly by a very high degree of immediate absurdity, the peculiar quality of that absurdity being, on close examination, their yielding to whatever is most admissible and legitimate in the world: divulgation of a given number of facts and properties on the whole not less objectionable than the others." The word "surrealism" having thereupon become descriptive of the generalizable undertaking to which we had devoted ourselves, I thought it indispensable, in 1924, to define this word once and for all:  SURREALISM, n. Pure psychic automatism, by which it is intended to express, verbally, in writing, or by other means, the real process of thought. Thought's dictation, in the absence of all control exercised by the reason and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations. ENCYCL. Philos. Surrealism rests in the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of association neglected heretofore; in the omnipotence of the dream and in the disinterested play of thought. It tends definitely to do away with all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in the solution of the principal problems of life. Have professed absolute surrealism: Messrs. Aragon, Baron, Boiffard, Breton, Carrive, Crevel, Delteil, Desnos, Eluard, Gérard, Limbour, Malkine, Morise, Naville, Noll, Péret, Picon, Soupault, Vitrac. "These till now appear to be the only ones.... Were one to consider their output only superficially, a goodly number of poets might well have passed for surrealists, beginning with Dante and Shakespeare at his best. In the course of many attempts I have made towards an analysis of what, under false pretences, is called genius, I have found nothing that could in the end be attributed to any other process than this." 

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There followed an enumeration that will gain, I think, by being clearly set out thus: "...Heraclitus is surrealist in dialectic.... Swift is surrealist in malice. Sade is surrealist in sadism.... Baudelaire is surrealist in morals. Rimbaud is surrealist in life and elsewhere.... Carroll is surrealist in nonsense.... Picasso is surrealist in cubism.... Etc. "They were not always surrealists - on this I insist - in the sense that one can disentangle in each of them a number of preconceived notions to which - very naïvely! - they clung. And they clung to them so because they had not heard the surrealist voice, the voice that exhorts on the eve of death and in the roaring storm, and because they were unwilling to dedicate themselves to the task of no more than orchestrating the score replete with marvellous things. They were proud instruments; hence the sounds they produced were not always harmonious sounds. "We, on the contrary, who have not given ourselves to processes of filtering, who through the medium of our work have been content to be the silent receptacles of so many echoes, modest registering machines that are not hypnotized by the pattern that they trace, we are perhaps serving a yet much nobler cause. So we honestly give back the talent lent to us. You may talk of the "talent" of this yard of platinum, of this mirror, of this door and of this sky, if you wish. "We have no talent...." The Manifesto also contained a certain number of practical recipes, entitled: "Secrets of the Magic Surrealist Art," such as the following: "Written Surrealist Composition or First and Last Draft. Having settled down in some spot most conducive to the mind's concentration upon itself, order writing material to be brought to you. Let your state of mind be as passive and receptive as possible. Forget your genius, talents, as well as the genius and talents of others. Repeat to yourself that literature is pretty well the sorriest road that leads to everywhere. Write quickly without any previously chosen subject, quickly enough not to dwell on, and not to be tempted to read over, what you have written. The first sentence will come of itself; and this is self-evidently true, because there is never a moment but some sentence alien to our conscious thought clamours for outward expression. It is rather difficult to speak of the sentence to follow, since it doubtless comes in for a share of our conscious activity and so the other sentences, if it is conceded that the writing of the first sentence must have involved even a minimum of consciousness. But that should in the long run matter little, because therein precisely lies the greatest interest in the surrealist exercise. Punctuation of course necessarily hinders the stream of absolute continuity which preoccupies us. But you should particularly distrust the prompting whisper. If through a fault ever so trifling there is a forewarning of silence to come, a fault let us say, of inattention, break off unhesitatingly the line that has become too lucid. After the word whose origin seems suspect you should place a letter, any letter, l for example, always the letter l, and restore the arbitrary flux by making that letter the initial of the word to follow." I believe that the real interest of that book - there was no lack of people who were good enough to concede interest, for which no particular credit is due to me because I have no more than given

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expression to sentiments shared with friends, present and former - rests only subordinately on the formula above given. It is rather confirmatory of a turn of thought which, for good or ill, is peculiarly distinctive of our time. The defence originally attempted of that turn of thought still seems valid to me in what follows: "We still live under the reign of logic, but the methods of logic are applied nowadays only to the resolution of problems of secondary in terest. The absolute rationalism which is still the fashion does not permit consideration of any facts but those strictly relevant to our experience. Logical ends, on the other hand, escape us. Needless to say that even experience has had limits assigned to it. It revolves in a cage from which it becomes more and more difficult to release it. Even experience is dependent on immediate utility, and common sense is its keeper. Under colour of civilization, under pretext of progress, all that rightly or wrongly may be regarded as fantasy or superstition has been banished from the mind, all uncustomary searching after truth has been proscribed. It is only by what must seem sheer luck that there has recently been brought to light an aspect of mental life - to my belief by far the most important - with which it was supposed that we no longer had any concern. All credit for these discoveries must go to Freud. Based on these discoveries a current of opinion is forming that will enable the explorer of the human mind to continue his investigations, justified as he will be in taking into account more than mere summary realities. The imagination is perhaps on the point of reclaiming its rights. If the depths of our minds harbour strange forces capable of increasing those on the surface, or of successfully contending with them, then it is all in our interest to canalize them, to canalize them first in order to submit them later, if necessary, to the control of the reason. The analysts themselves have nothing to lose by such a proceeding. But it should be observed that there are no means designed a priori for the bringing about of such an enterprise, that until the coming of the new order it might just as well be considered the affair of poets and scientists, and that its success will not depend on the more or less capricious means that will be employed.... "Interesting in a different way from the future of surrealist technics (theatrical, philosophical, scientific, critical) appears to me the application of surrealism to action. Whatever reservations I might be inclined to make with regard to responsibility in general, I should quite particularly like to know how the first misdemeanours whose surrealist character is indubitable will be judged. When surrealist methods extend from writing to action, there will certainly arise the need of a new morality to take the place of the current one, the cause of all our woes. "The Manifesto of Surrealism has improved on the Rimbaud principle that the poet must turn seer. Man in general is going to be summoned to manifest through life those new sentiments which the gift of vision will so suddenly have placed within his reach...." Surrealism then was securing expression in all its purity and force. The freedom it possesses is a perfect freedom in the sense that it recognizes no limitations exterior to itself. As it was said on the cover of the first issue of La Révolution Surréaliste, "it will be necessary to draw up a new declaration of the Rights of Man." The concept of surreality, concerning which quarrels have been sought with us repeatedly and which it was attempted to turn into a metaphysical or mystic rope to be placed afterwards round our necks, lends itself no longer to misconstruction, nowhere does it declare itself opposed to the need of transforming the world which henceforth will more and more definitely yield to it. As I said in the Manifesto: "I believe in the future transmutation of those two seemingly contradictory states, dream and reality, into a sort of absolute reality, of surreality, so to speak. I am looking forward to its consummation, certain that I shall never share in it, but death would matter little to me could I but taste the joy it will yield

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ultimately." After years of endeavour and perplexities, when a variety of opinions had disputed amongst themselves the direction of the craft in which a number of persons of unequal ability and varying powers of resistance had originally embarked together, the surrealist idea recovered in the Second Manifesto all the brilliancy of which events had vainly conspired to despoil it. It should be emphasized that the First Manifesto of 1924 did no more than sum up the conclusions we had drawn during what one may call the heroic epoch of surrealism, which stretches from 1919 to 1923. The concerted elaboration of the first automatic texts and our excited reading of them, the first results obtained by Max Ernst in the domain of "collage" and of painting, the practice of surrealist "speaking" during the hypnotic experiments introduced among us by René Crevel and repeated every evening for over a year, uncontrovertibly mark the decisive stages of surrealist exploration during this first phase. After that, up till the taking into account of the social aspect of the problem round about 1925 (though not formally sanctioned until 1930), surrealism began to find itself a prey to characteristic wranglings. These wranglings account very clearly for the expulsion orders and tickets-of-leave which, as we went along, we had to deal out to certain of our companions of the first and second hour. Some people have quite gratuitously concluded from this that we are apt to overestimate personal questions. During the last ten years, surrealism has almost unceasingly been obliged to defend itself against deviations to the right and to the left. On the one hand we have had to struggle against the will of those who would maintain surrealism on a purely speculative level and treasonably transfer it on to an artistic and literary plane (Artaud, Desnos, Ribemont-Dessaignes, Vitrac) at the cost of all the hope for subversion we have placed in it; on the other, against the will of those who would place it on a purely practical basis, available at any moment to be sacrificed to an ill-conceived political militancy (Naville, Aragon) - at the cost, this time, of what constitutes the originality and reality of its researches, at the cost of the autonomous risk that it has to run. Agitated though it was, the epoch that separates the two Manifestos was none the less a rich one, since it saw the publication of so many works in which the vital principles of surrealism were amply accounted for.... It should be pointed out that in a number of declarations in La Révolution et les Intellectuels, Que peuvent faire les surréalistes? (1926), [Pierre Naville] demonstrated the utter vanity of intellectual bickerings in the face of the human exploitation which results from the wage-earning system. These declarations gave rise amongst us to considerable anxiety and, at tempting for the first time to justify surrealism's social implications, I desired to put an end to it in Légitime Défense. This pamphlet set out to demonstrate that there is no fundamental antinomy in the basis of surrealist thought. In reality, we are faced with two problems, one of which is the problem raised, at the beginning of the twentieth century, by the discovery of the relations between the conscious and the unconscious. That was how the problem chose to present itself to us. We were the first to apply to its resolution a particular method, which we have not ceased to consider both the most suitable and the most likely to be brought to perfection; there is no reason why we should renounce it. The other problem we are faced with is that of the social action we should pursue. We consider that this action has its own method in dialectical materialism, and we can all the less afford to ignore this action since, I repeat, we hold the liberation of man to be the sine qua non condition of the liberation of the mind, and we can expect this liberation of man to result only from the proletarian Revolution. These two problems are essentially distinct and we deplore their becoming confused by not remaining so. There is good reason, then, to take up a stand against all attempts to weld them together and, more especially, against the urge to abandon all such researches as ours in order to devote ourselves to the poetry and art of propaganda. Surrealism, which has been the object of brutal and repeated summonses in this respect, now feels the need of making some kind of counter-attack. Let me recall the fact that its very definition holds that it must escape, in its written manifestations, or any others, from all control exercised by the reason. Apart from the puerility of wishing to bring a supposedly Marxist control to bear on the immediate aspect of such manifestations, this control cannot be envisaged in principle. And how ill-boding does this distrust seem, coming as it does from men who declare themselves Marxists, that is to say possessed not only of a strict line in revolutionary matters, but also of

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a marvellously open mind and an insatiable curiosity! This brings us to the eve of the Second Manifesto. These objections had to be put an end to, and for that purpose it was indispensable that we should proceed to liquidate certain individualist elements amongst us, more or less openly hostile to one another, whose intentions did not, in the final analysis, appear as irreproachable, nor their motives as disinterested, as might have been desired. An important part of the work was devoted to a statement of the reasons which moved surrealism to dispense for the future with certain collaborators. It was attempted, on the same occasion, to complete the specific method of creation proposed six years earlier, and thoroughly to tidy up surrealist ideas.... From 1930 until today the history of surrealism is that of successful efforts to restore to it its proper becoming by gradually removing from it every trace both of political opportunism and of artistic opportunism. The review La Révolution Surréaliste, (12 issues) has been succeeded by another, Le Surréalisme au Service de la Révolution (6 issues). Owing particularly to influences brought to bear by new elements, surrealist experimenting. which had for too long been erratic, has been unreservedly resumed; its perspectives and its aims have been made perfectly clear; I may say that it has not ceased to be carried on in a continuous and enthusiastic manner. This experimenting has regained momentum under the master-impulse given to it by Salvador Dali, whose exceptional interior "boiling" has been for surrealism, during the whole of this period, an invaluable ferment. As Guy Mangeot has very rightly pointed out in his History of Surrealism...Dali has endowed surrealism with an instrument of primary importance, in particular the paranoiac-critical method, which has immediately shown itself capable of being applied with equal success to painting, poetry, the cinema, to the construction of typical surrealist objects, to fashions, to sculpture and even, if necessary, to all manner of exegesis. He first announced his convictions to us in La Femme Visible (1930): "I believe the moment is at hand when, by a paranoiac and active advance of the mind, it will be possible (simultaneously with automatism and other passive states) to systematize confusion and thus to help to discredit completely the world of reality." In order to cut short all possible misunderstandings, it should perhaps be said: "immediate" reality. "Paranoia uses the external world in order to assert its dominating idea and has the disturbing characteristic of making others accept this idea's reality. The reality of the external world is used for illustration and proof, and so comes to serve the reality of our mind." Surrealism, starting fifteen years ago with a discovery that seemed only to involve poetic language, has spread like wildfire, on pursuing its course, not only in art but in life. It has provoked new states of consciousness and overthrown the walls beyond which it was immemorially supposed to be impossible to see; it has - as is being more and more generally recognized - modified the sensibility, and taken a decisive step towards the unification of the personality, which it found threatened by an ever more profound dissociation. Without attempting to judge what direction it will ultimately take, for the lands it fertilizes as it flows are those of surprise itself, I should like to draw your attention to the fact that its most recent advance is producing a fundamental crisis of the "object." It is essentially upon the object that surrealism has thrown most light in recent years. Only the very close examination of the many recent speculations to which the object has publicly given rise (the oneiric object, the object functioning symbolically, the real and virtual object, the moving but silent object, the phantom object, the discovered object, etc.), can give one a proper grasp of the experiments that surrealism is engaged in now. In order to continue to understand the movement, it is indispensable to focus one's attention on this point. I must crave your indulgence for speaking so technically, from the inside. But there could be no question

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of concealing any aspect of the persuasions to which surrealism has been and is still exposed. I say that there exists a lyrical element that conditions for one part the psychological and moral structure of human society, that has conditioned it at all times and that will continue to condition it. This lyrical element has until now, even though in spite of them, remained the fact and the sole fact of specialists. In the state of extreme tension to which class antagonisms have led the society to which we belong and which we tend with all our strength to reject, it is natural and it is fated that this solicitation should continue, that it should assume for us a thousand faces, imploring, tempting and eager by turns. It is not within our power, it would be unworthy of our historic role to give way to this solicitation. By surrealism we intend to account for nothing less than the manner in which it is possible today to make use of the magnificent and overwhelming spiritual legacy that has been handed down to us. We have accepted this legacy from the past, and surrealism can well say that the use to which it has been put has been to turn it to the routing of capitalist society. I consider that for that purpose it was and is still necessary for us to stand where we are, to beware against breaking the thread of our researches and to continue these researches, not as literary men and artists, certainly, but rather as chemists and the various other kinds of technicians. To pass on to the poetry and art called (doubtless in anticipation) proletarian: No. The forces we have been able to bring together and which for fifteen years we have never found lacking, have arrived at a particular point of application: the question is not to know whether this point of application is the best, but simply to point out that the application of our forces at this point has given us up to an activity that has proved itself valuable and fruitful on the plane on which it was undertaken and has also been of a kind to engage us more and more on the revolutionary plane. What it is essential to realize is that no other activity could have produced such rich results, nor could any other similar activity have been so effective in combating the present form of society. On that point we have history on our side. A comrade, Claude Cahun, in a striking pamphlet published recently: Les Paris Sont Ouverts, a pamphlet that attempts to predict the future of poetry by taking account both of its own laws and of the social bases of its existence, takes Aragon to task for the lack of rigour in his present position (I do not think anyone can contest the fact that Aragon's poetry has perceptibly weakened since he abandoned surrealism and undertook to place him self directly at the service of the proletarian cause, which leads one to suppose that such an undertaking has defeated him and is proportionately more or less unfavourable to the Revolution).... It is of particular interest that the author of Les Paris Sont Ouverts has taken the opportunity of expressing himself from the "historic" point of view. His appreciation is as follows: "The most revolutionary experiment in poetry under the capitalist regime having been incontestably, for France and perhaps for Europe the Dadaist-surrealist experiment, in that it has tended to destroy all the myths about art that for centuries have permitted the ideologic as well as economic exploitation of painting, sculpture, literature, etc. (e.g. the frottages of Max Ernst, which, among other things, have been able to upset the scale of values of art-critics and experts, values based chiefly on technical perfection, personal touch and the lastingness of the materials employed), this experiment can and should serve the cause of the liberation of the proletariat. It is only when the proletariat has become aware of the myths on which capitalist culture depends, when they have become aware of what these myths and this culture mean for them and have destroyed them, that they will be able to pass on to their own proper development. The positive lesson of this negating experiment, that is to say its transfusion among the proletariat, constitutes the only valid revolutionary poetic propaganda." Surrealism could not ask for anything better. Once the cause of the movement is understood, there is perhaps some hope that, on the plane of revolutionary militantism proper, our turbulence, our small capacity for adaptation, until now, to the necessary rules of a party (which certain people have thought proper to call our "blanquism"), may be excused us. It is only too certain that an activity such as ours, owing to its particularization, cannot be pursued within the limits of any one of the existing revolutionary organizations: it would be forced to come to a halt on the very threshold of that organization. If we are

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agreed that such an activity has above all tended to detach the intellectual creator from the illusions with which bourgeois society has sought to surround him, I for my part can only see in that tendency a further reason for continuing our activity. None the less, the right that we demand and our desire to make use of it depend, as I said at the beginning, on our remaining able to continue our investigations without having to reckon, as for the last few months we have had to do, with a sudden attack from the forces of criminal imbecility. Let it be clearly understood that for us, surrealists, the interests of thought can not cease to go hand in hand with the interests of the working class, and that all attacks on liberty, all fetters on the emancipation of the working class and all armed attacks on it cannot fail to be considered by us as attacks on thought likewise. I repeat, the danger is far from having been removed. The surrealists cannot be accused of having been slow to recognize the fact, since, on the very next day after the first fascist coup in France, it was they amongst the intellectual circles who had the honour of taking the initiative in sending out an Appel à la lutte, which appeared on February 10th, 1934, furnished with twenty-four signatures. You may rest assured, comrades, that they will not confine themselves, that already they have not confined themselves, to this single act. Manifesto in Clear Language Antonin Artaud for Roger Vitrac If I believe neither in Evil nor in Good, if I feel such a strong inclination to destroy, if there is nothing in the order of principles to which I can reasonably accede, the underlying reason is in my flesh. I destroy because for me everything that proceeds from reason is untrustworthy. I believe only in the evidence of what stirs my marrow, not in the evidence of what addresses itself to my reason. I have found levels in the realm of the nerve. I now feel capable of evaluating the evidence. There is for me an evidence in the realm of pure flesh which has nothing to do with the evidence of reason. The eternal conflict between reason and the heart is decided in my very flesh, but in my flesh irrigated by nerves. In the realm of the affective imponderable, the image provided by my nerves takes the form of the highest intellectuality, which I refuse to strip of its quality of intellectuality. And so it is that I watch the formation of a concept which carries within it the actual fulguration of things, a concept which arrives upon me with a sound of creation. No image satisfies me unless it is at the same time Knowledge, unless it carries with it its substance as well as its lucidity. My mind, exausted by discursive reason, wants to be caught up in the wheels of a new, an absolute gravitation. For me it is like a supreme reorganization in which only the laws of illogic participate, and in which there triumphs the discovery of a new Meaning. This Meaning which has been lost in the disorder of drugs and which presents the appearance of a profound intelligence to the contradictory phantasms of the sleep. This Meaning is a victory of the mind over itself, and although it is irreducible by reason, it exists, but only inside the mind. It is order, it is intelligence, it is the signification of chaos. But it does not accept this chaos as such, it interprets it, and because it interprets it, it loses it. It is the logic of illogic. And this is all one can say. My lucid unreason is not afraid of chaos. I renounce nothing of that which is the Mind. I want only to transport my mind elsewhere with its laws and organs. I do not surrender myself to the sexual mechanism of the mind, but on the contrary within this mechanism I seek to isolate those discoveries which lucid reason does not provide. I surrender to the fever of dreams, but only in order to derive from them new laws. I seek multiplication, subtlety, the intellectual eye in delirium, not rash vaticination. There is a knife which I do not forget. But it is a knife which is halfway into dreams, which I keep inside myself, which I do not allow to come to

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the frontier of the lucid senses. That which belongs to the realm of the image is irreducible by reason and must remain within the image or be annihilated. Nevertheless, there is a reason in images, there are images which are clearer in the world of image-filled vitality. There is in the immediate teeming of the mind a multiform and dazzling insinuation of animals. This insensible and thinking dust is organized according to laws which it derives from within itself, outside the domain of clear reason or of thwarted consciousness or reason. In the exalted realm of images, illusion properly speaking, or material error, does not exist, much less the illusion of knowledge: but this is all the more reason why the meaning of a new knowledge can and must descend into the reality of life.The truth of life lies in the impulsiveness of matter. The mind of man has been poisoned by concepts. Do not ask him to be content, ask him only to be calm, to believe that he has found his place. But only the madman is really calm. Manifesto Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes TO THE PUBLIC Before going down among you to pull out your decaying teeth, your running ears, your tounges full of sores, Before breaking your putrid bones, Before opening your cholera-infested belly and taking out for use as fertilizer your ignoble spleen and your diabetic kidneys, Before tearing out your ugly sexual organ, incontinent and slimy, Before extinguishing your appetite for beauty, ecstasy, sugar, philosophy, mathematical and poetic metaphysical pepper and cucumbers, Before disinfecting you with vitriol, cleansing you and shellacking you with passion, Before all that, We shall take a big antiseptic bath, And we warn you We are murderers. (Manifesto signed by Ribemont-Dessaignes and read by seven people at the demonstration at the Grand Palais des Champs Elysées, Paris, 5 February 1920.) Manifeste cannibale dada Francis Picabia You are all indicted; stand up! Stand up as you would for the Marseillaise or God Save the King.... Dada alone does not smell: it is nothing, nothing, nothing. It is like your hopes: nothing. like your paradise: nothing. like your idols: nothing. your too fatted liver,

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like your politicians: nothing. like your heroes: nothing. like your artists: nothing. like your religions: nothing. Hiss, shout, kick my teeth in, so what? I shall still tell you that you are half-wits. In three months my friends and I will be selling you our pictures for a few francs.

(Manifeste cannibale dada by Francis Picabia, read at the Dada soirée at the Théâtre de la Maison de l'Oeuvre, Paris, 27 March 1920.) Chanson Dada (Song of Dada) Tristan TZARA, 1923 I the song of a dadaïst who had dada in the heart also tired his engine which had dada in its heart the elevator carried a king heavy fragile autonomous he cut off his large right arm sent it to the pope in Rome this is why the elevator did not have any more dada in its heart eat chocolate wash your brain dada dada drink water II the song of a dadaïst who was neither merry nor sad and loved a cyclist who was neither merry nor sad but the husband on New Year's Day knew all and in a crisis sent to the Vatican their two bodies in three bags neither lover nor cyclist were no longer merry nor sad eat good brains wash your soldier dada dada

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drink water

III the song of a cyclist who was dada of heart who was thus a dadaïst like all the dada of heart a snake wore gloves it closed the valve quickly put on snakeskin gloves and comes to kiss the pope it is touching belly in flower did not have any more dada in the heart drink bird's milk wash your chocolates dada dada eat veal Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries Tristan Tzara I MONSIEUR ANTIPYRINE'S MANIFESTO DADA is our intensity: it erects inconsequential bayonets and the Sumatral head of German babies; Dada is life with neither bedroom slippers nor parallels; it is against and for unity and definately against the future; we are wise enough to know that our brains are going to become flabby cushions, that our anti dogmatism is as exclusive as a civil servant, and that we cry liberty but are not free; a severe necessity with entire discipline nor morals and that we spit on humanity. DADA remains within the framework of European weaknesses, it's still shit, but from now on we want to shit in different colours so as to adorn the zoo of art with all the flags of all the consulates. We are circus ringmasters and we can be found whistling amongst the winds of fairgrounds, in convents, prostitutions, theatres, realities, feelings, restaurants, ohoho, bang bang. We declare that the motor car is a feeling that has cosseted us quite enough in the dilatoriness of its abstractions, as have transatlantic liners, noises and ideas. And while we put on a show of being facile, we are actually searching for the central essence of things, and are pleased if we can hide it; we have no wish to count the windows of the marvellous elite, for DADA doesn't exist for anyone, and we want everyone to understand this. This is Dada's balcony, I assure you. From there you can hear all the military marches, and come down cleaving the air like a seraph landing in a public baths to piss and understand the parable. DADA is neither madness, nor wisdom, nor irony, look at me, dear bourgeois.

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Art used to be a game of nuts in May, children would go gathering words that had a final ring, then they would exude, shout out the verse, and dress it up in dolls' bootees, and the verse became a queen in order to die a little, and the queen became a sardine, and the children ran hither and you, unseen... Then came the great ambassadors of feeling, who yelled historically in chorus: Psychology Psychology hee hee Science Science Science Long live France We are not naive We are successive We are exclusive We are not simpletons and we are perfectly capable of an intelligent discussion. Be we, DADA, don't agree with them, for art isn't serious, I assure you, and if we reveal the crime so as to show that we are learned denunciators, it's to please you, dear audience, I assure you, and I adore you. II DADA MANIFESTO 1918 The magic of a word - DADA - which for journalists has opened the door to an unforeseen world, has for us not the slightest importance. To launch a manifesto you have to want: A.B. & C., and fulminate against 1, 2, & 3,work yourself up and sharpen you wings to conquer and circulate lower and upper case As, Bs & Cs, sign, shout, swear, organise prose into a form that is absolutely and irrefutably obvious, prove its ne plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life in the same way as the latest apparition of a harlot proves the essence of God. His existence had already been proved by the accordion, the landscape and soft words.* To impose one's A.B.C. is only natural - and therefore regrettable. Everyone does it in the form of a crystalbluff-madonna, or a monetary system, or pharmaceutical preparations, a naked leg being the invitation to an ardent and sterile Spring. The love of novelty is a pleasant sort of cross, it's evidence of a naive don't-give-a-damn attitude, a passing, positive, sign without rhyme or reason. But this need is out of date, too. By giving art the impetus of supreme simplicity - novelty - we are being human and true in relation to innocent pleasures; impulsive and vibrant in order to crucify boredom. At the lighted crossroads, alert, attentive, lying in wait for years, in the forest.* I am writing a manifesto and there's nothing I want, and yet I'm saying certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am against principles (quantifying measures of the moral value of every phrase - too easy; approximation was invested by the impressionists).* I'm writing this manifesto to show that you can perform contrary actions at the same time, in one single, fresh breath; I am against action; as for continual contradiction, and affirmation too, I am neither for nor against them, and I won't explain myself because I hate common sense. DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.* Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine

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complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life. To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls. - DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING If we consider it futile, and if we don't waste our time over a word that doesn't mean anything... The first thought that comes to these minds is of a bacteriological order: at least to discover its etymological, historical or psychological meaning. We read in the papers that the negroes of the Kroo race call the tail of a sacred cow: DADA. A cube, and a mother, in a certain region of Italy, are called: DADA. The word for a hobby horse, a children's nurse, a double affirmative in Russian and Romanian, is also: DADA. Some learned journalists see it as an art for babies, other Jesuscallingthelittlechildrenuntohim saints see it as a return to an unemotional and noisy primitivism - noise and monotonous. A sensitivity cannot be built on the basis of a word; every sort of construction converges into a boring sort of perfection, a stagnant idea of a golden swamp, a relative human product. A work of art shouldn't be beauty per se, because it is dead; neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark; it is to rejoice or maltreat individualities to serve them up the cakes of sainted haloes or the sweat of a meandering chase through the atmosphere. A work of art is never beautiful, by decree, objectively, for everyone. Criticism is, therefore, useless; it only exists subjectively, for every individual, and without the slightest general characteristic. Do people imagine they have found the psychic basis common to all humanity? The attempt of Jesus, and the Bible, conceal, under their ample, benevolent wings: shit, animals and days. How can anyone hope to order the chaos that constitutes that infinite, formless variation: man? The principle: "Love thy neighbour" is hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian, but more acceptable because it includes malice. No pity. After the carnage we are left with the hope of a purified humanity. I always speak about myself because I don't want to convince, and I have no right to drag others in my wake, I'm not compelling anyone to follow me, because everyone makes his art in his own way, if he knows anything about the joy that rises like an arrow up to the astral strata, or that which descends into the mines stewn with the flowers of corpses and fertile spasms. Stalactites: look everywhere for them, in creches magnified by pain, eyes as white as angels' hares. Thus DADA was born1 , out of a need for independence, out of mistrust for the community. People who join us keep their freedom. We don't accept any theories. We've had enough of the cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Do we make art in order to earn money and keep the dear bourgeoisie happy? Rhymes have the smack of money, and inflexion slides along the line of the stomach in profile. Every group of artists has ended up at this bank, straddling various comets. Leaving the door open to the possibility of wallowing in comfort and food. Here we are dropping our anchor in fertile ground. Here we really know what we are talking about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the trident into heedless flesh. We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength. Cubism was born out of a simple manner of looking at objects: Cezanne painted a cup twenty centimetres lower than his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate it appearance by cutting a vertical section through it and soberly placing it to one side (I'm not forgetting the creators, nor the seminal reasons of unformed matter that they rendered definitive).* The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects side by side, mischievously embellished by a few guide-lines. This doesn't stop the canvas being either a good or a bad painting destined to form an investment for intellectual capital. The new painter creates a world whose elements are also its means, a sober, definitive, irrefutable work. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionistic reproduction) but creates directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, rocks, or locomotive structures capable of being spun in all directions by the limpid wind of the momentary sensation.* Every pictorial or plastic

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work is unnecessary , even if it is a monster which terrifies servile minds, and not a sickly-sweet object to adorn the refectories of animals in human garb, those illustrations of the sad fable of humanity. - A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator. For its creator it has neither case nor theory. Order = disorder; ego = non-ego; affirmation - negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control.* I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past.* Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, canalised; they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time. Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: what's the use? 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.* DADA 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 wind 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

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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. DADAIST SPONTANEITY What I call the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless (the wire-less telephone) transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism. Active simplicity. The incapacity to distinguish between degrees of light: licking the twilight and floating in the huge mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured against the scale of Eternity, every action is vain - (if we allow thought to have an adventure whose result would be infinitely grotesque - an important factor in the awareness of human incapacity). But if life is a bad joke, with neither goal nor initial accouchement, and because we believe we ought, like clean chrysanthemums, to make the best of a bad bargain, we have declared that the only basis of understanding is: art. It hasn't the importance that we, old hands at the spiritual, have been lavishing on it for centuries. Art does nobody any harm, and those who are capable of taking an interest in it will not only receive caresses, but also a marvellous chance to people the country of their conversation. Art is a private thing, the artist makes it for himself; a comprehensible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment I enjoy mixing this monster in oil paints: a paper tube imitating the metal that you press and automatically squeeze out hatred, cowardice and villainy. The artist, or the poet, rejoices in the venom of this mass condensed into one shopwalker of this trade, he is glad to be insulted, it proves his immutability. The author or the artist praised by the papers observes that his work has been understood: a miserable lining to a collaborating with the heat of an animal incubating the baser instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh multiplying itself with the aid of typographical microbes. We have done violence to the snivelling tendencies in our natures. Every infiltration of this sort is macerated diarrhoea. To encourage this sort of art is to digest it. What we need are strong straightforward, precise works which will be forever misunderstood. Logic is a complication. Logic is always false. It draws the superficial threads of concepts and words towards illusory conclusions and centres. Its chains kill, an enormous myriapod that asphyxiates independence. If it were married to logic, art would be living in incest, engulfing, swallowing its own tail, which still belongs to its body, fornicating

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in itself, and temperament would become a nightmare tarred and feathered with protestantism, a monument, a mass of heavy, greyish intestines. But suppleness, enthusiasm and even the joy of injustice, that little truth that we practise as innocents and that makes us beautiful: we are cunning, and our fingers are malleable and glide like the branches of that insidious and almost liquid plant; this injustice is the indication of our soul, say the cynics. This is also a point of view; but all flowers aren't saints, luckily, and what is divine in us is the awakening of anti-human action. What we are talking about here is a paper flower for the buttonhole of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, our white, lithe or fleshy girl cousins. They make a profit out of what we have selected. The contradiction and unity of opposing poles at the same time may be true. IF we are absolutely determined to utter this platitude, the appendix of alibidinous, evil-smelling morality. Morals have an atrophying effect, like every other pestilential product of the intelligence. Being governed by morals and logic has made it impossible for us to be anything other than impassive towards policemen - the cause of slavery - putrid rats with whom the bourgeois are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists. Every man must shout: there is great destructive, negative work to be done. To sweep, to clean. The cleanliness of the individual materialises after we've gone through folly, the aggressive, complete folly of a world left in the hands of bandits who have demolished and destroyed the centuries. With neither aim nor plan, without organisation: uncontrollable folly, decomposition. Those who are strong in word or in strength will survive, because they are quick to defend themselves; the agility of their limbs and feelings flames on their faceted flanks. Morals have given rise to charity and pity, two dumplings that have grown like elephants, planets, which people call good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and resolute, and ruthless towards compromise and politics. Morality infuses chocolate into every man's veins. This task is not ordained by a supernatural force, but by a trust of ideas-merchants and academic monopolists. Sentimentality: seeing a group of bored and quarrelling men, they invented the calendar and wisdom as a remedy. By sticking labels on to things, the battle of the philosophers we let loose (money-grubbing, mean and meticulous weights and measures) and one understood once again that pity is a feeling, like diarrhoea in relation to disgust, that undermines health, the filthy carrion job of jeopardising the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all the cosmic faculties to that blennorrhoea of a putrid sun that issues from the factories of philosophical thought, the fight to the death, with all the resources of DADAIST DISGUST Every product of disgust that is capable of becoming a negation of the family is dada; DADA; acquaintance with all the means hitherto rejected by the sexual prudishness of easy compromise and good manners: DADA; abolition of logic, dance of those who are incapable of creation: DADA; every hierarchy and social equation established for values by our valets: DADA; every object, all objects, feelings and obscurities, every apparition and the precise shock of parallel lines, are means for the battle of: DADA; the abolition of memory: DADA; the abolition of archaeology: DADA the abolition of prophets: DADA; the abolition of the future: DADA; the absolute and indiscutable belief in every god that is an immediate product of spontaneity: DADA; 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: DADA DADA DADA; - the roar of contorted pains, the interweaving of contraries and all contradictions, freaks and irrelevancies: LIFE.

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III UNPRETENTIOUS PROCLAMATION Art is putting itself to sleep to bring about the birth of a new world "ART" - a parrot word - replaced by DADA, PLESIOSAURUS, or handkerchief The talent THAT CAN BE LEARNT turn the poet into an ironmonger TODAY criticism balances doesn't throw up any resemblances Hypertrophic painters hyperaestheticised and hypnotised by the hyacinths of the muezzins of hypocritical appearance CONSOLIDATE THE EXACT HARVEST OF CALCULATION HYPODROME OF IMMORTAL GUARANTEES: There is no importance there is neither transparence nor appearance MUSICIANS SMASH YOUR BLIND INSTRUMENTS on the stage The BAZOOKA is only for my understanding. I write because it's natural like I piss like I'm ill Art needs an operation Art is a PRETENSION heated at the TIMIDITY of the urinary basin, hysteria born in the studio We are looking for a straightforward pure sober unique force. we are looking for NOTHING we affirm the VITALITY of every instant the the anti-philosophy of spontaneous acrobatics At this moment I hate the man who whispers before the interval - eau de cologne - sour theatre. SWEET WIND. IF EVERYONE SAYS THE OPPOSITE IT'S BECAUSE HE'S RIGHT Prepare the action of the geyser of our blood - the submarine formation of transchromatic aeroplanes, metals with cells and ciphered in the upsurge of images above the rules of the Beautiful and of its inspection It isn't for those abortions who still worship their own navels. IV MANIFESTO OF MONSIEUR AA THE ANTIPHILOSOPHER without the pursuit of I worship you which is a French boxer maritime values as irregular as the depression of Dada in the blood of a bicephalous animal

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I glide between death and the vague phosphates that scratch slightly at the common brain of dadaist poets luckily because gold mine tariff's and the high cost of living made me Decide to abandon D's it isn't true that sham dadas have Deprived me of them because here's enough to bewail the nothing that is called nothing and I've cleared illnesses at the customs I the carapace and umbrella of the brain from noon till two o'clock two hour's subscription superstitious releasing the mechanism of the spermatozoon ballet that you'll find being dress-rehearsed in all the hearts of suspect individuals I'll eat your fingers a bit I'm renewing your subscription to the celluloid love that creaks like metal gates and you are idiots I shall come back once in the guise of your renascent urine as the obstetric wind of joie de vivre and I'm going to establish a boarding school for poets' supporters and I've come again to start again and you're all idiots and the selfkleptomaniac's key only works with crepuscular oil on every knot of every machine there's the nose of a new-born baby and we're all idiots and very suspect of a new form of intelligence and a new logic after our own manner which isn't at all Dada and you're letting yourselves be led astray by Aaism and you're all idiots poultices of the surgical spirit of purified sleep of bandages and of virgin

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idiots V TRISTAN TZARA Have a good look at me! I'm an idiot, I'm a practical joker, I'm a hoaxer. Have a good look at me! I'm ugly, my face has no expression, I'm small. I'm like the rest of you!1 But ask yourselves, before you look at me, whether the iris by which you dispatch arrows of liquid sentiments isn't in fact fly-shit, if you belly's eyes are not sections of tumours who looks will at one moment emerge from some part of your body in the form of a blennorrhagic discharge. You see with your navels - why do you hid from your navels the ridiculous spectacle we offer them? And lower down, women's genitals, love, pure love, naturally - rare steaks and oil painting. Everybody who looks and who understands can easily be classified somewhere between poetry and love, between steak and painting. They'll be digested, they'll be digested. I was recently accused of the theft of some furs. Probably because people thought I should still be classified as a poet. One of those poets who satisfy their legitimate need of cold onania in hot furs. H a H u, I know other, equally platonic, pleasures. Ring up your family on the telephone and piss down the hole designed for musical, gastronomic and sacred nonsense. DADA suggests 2 solutions: NO MORE LOOKS! NO MORE WORDS!2 Stop looking! Stop talking! For I, chameleon alteration infiltration with convenient attitudes - multicoloured opinions for every occasion size and price - I do the opposite of what I recommend to other people.3 I've forgotten something: where ? why ? how ? in other words: the ventilator of cold examples will serve the fragile snake of the procession and I have never had the pleasure of seeing you, my dear, the ear will take itself out of the envelope rigid like all marine equipment and the products of Aa & Co's firm, chewing-gum for example and dogs have blue eyes, I drink chamomile tea, they drink the wind, DADA introduces new points of view, people site down now at the corners of tables, in attitudes which lean a bit to the left and to the right, that's why I've quarrelled with Dada, insist everywhere on the suppression of the Ds, eat Aa, brush yourself with Aa toothpaste, buy your clothes at Aa's. Aa is a handkerchief and genitals blowing their noses rapid collapse - made of rubber - noiseless, needs neither manifestos nor address books, it gives a 25% discount buy your clothes at Aa's he has blue eyes. VI MONSIEUR AA THE ANTIPHILOSOPHER

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SENDS US THIS MANIFESTO Long live the undertakers of the combine! Every act is a revolver shot - both the insignificant gesture and the decisive moment are attacks (I open the fan of knock-outs for the distillation of the air that separates us) - and with the words put down on paper I enter, solemnly, into myself. In the scalp of notions I implant my 60 fingers and brutally shake the curtains, the teeth, the bolts of their joints. I shut, I open, I spit. Careful! The moment has come when I should tell you I've been lying. If there is a system in the lack of system - that of my proportions - I never apply it. In other words, I lie. I lie when I apply it, I lie when I don't apply it, I lie when I write that I lie because I do not lie - because I have lived the mirror of my father - chosen from the profits of baccarat - from town to town - for myself has never been myself - for the saxophone wears like a rose the assassination of the visceral car-driver - he's made of sexual copper and leaves of racecourses. Thus drummed the maize, the alarm and pellagra where the matches grow. Extermination. Yes, naturally. But doesn't exist. Myself: mixture kitchen theatre. Long live the stretcher-bearers of the convocations of ecstasies! Lying is ecstasy - which lasts longer than a second - there is nothing that lasts longer. Idiots brood over the century - they start all over again several centuries later - idiots remain within the circle for ten years idiots hover over the dial of a year - Myself (an idiot) I stay there for five minutes. The claim of the blood to distribute in my body and my event the accidental colour of the first woman I touched with my eyes in these tentacular times. The bitterest banditry is to finish one's thought-out phrase. The banditry of the gramophone, the little anti-human mirage that I like in myself - because I believe it to be ridiculous and dishonest. But the bankers of language will always get their little percentage on the discussion. The presence of (at least) one boxer is indispensible for a match - affiliated members of a gang of dadaist assassins have signed a self-protection contract for operations of this sort. Their number is extremely limited - the presence of (at least) one singer for a duet, or (at least) one signatory for a receipt, of (at least) one eye for sight, being absolutely indispensible. Put the photographic plate of the face in the acid bath. The shocks that have sensitized it will become visible and will surprise you. Punch yourself in the face and drop dead. DADA MANIFESTO ON FEEBLE LOVE AND BITTER LOVE I preamble = sardanapalus one = suitcase

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woman = women trousers = water if = moustache 2 = three stick = perhaps after = sightreading irritant = emerald vice = screw october = periscope nerve = or all this drawn together in any old savory, soapy, brusque or definitive order - drawn by lot - is alive. It is thus that over and above the vigilant spirit of the clergyman built at the corner of every road, be it animal, vegetable, imaginable or organic, everything is the same as everything that is not the same. Even if I didn't believe it, it's the truth of the fact that I've put it on paper - because it's a lie that I have FIXED like a butterfly on a hat. Lies circulate - welcome Mister Opportune and Mister Convenient: I arrest them - they're turning into the truth. Thus DADA takes on the job of the two-wheeled cops and of undercover morality. Everyone (at a certain moment) was sound in mind and body. Repeat this 30 times. I consider myself very likeable. Tristan Tzara II A manifesto is a communication made to the whole world, whose only pretensions is to the discovery of an instant cure for political, astronomical, artistic, parliamentary, agronomical and literary syphilis. It may be pleasant, and good-natured, it's always right, it's strong, vigorous and logical. Apropos of logic, I consider myself very likeable. Tristan Tzara Pride is the star that yawns and penetrates through the eyes and the mouth, she insists, strikes deep, on her breast is inscribed: you will die. This is her only remedy. Who still believes in doctors? I prefer the poet who is a fart in a steam-engine - he's gentle but he doesn't cry - polite and semi-homosexual, he floats. I don't give a single damn about either one of them. It's by pure (unnecessary) chance that the first should be German and the second Spanish. Far be it from us, in actual fact, the idea of discovering theory of the probability of races and the epistolary perfection of bitterness. III We have always made mistakes, but the greatest mistakes are the poems we have written. Gossip has one single raison d'être: the rejuvenation and maintenance of biblical traditions. Gossip is perfecting itself, encouraged by the state-controlled tobacco company, the railways, the hospitals, the undertaking

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industry and cloth factories. Gossip is encouraged by the culture of the family. Gossip is encouraged by Peter's pence. Every drop of saliva that escapes from a conversation is converted into gold. Since the people have always needed divinities to protect the three essential laws, which are those of God: eating, making love and shitting, since the kinds are on their travels and the laws are too hard, the only thing that counts at the moment is gossip. The form under which it most often appears is DADA. There are some people (journalists, lawyers, amateurs, philosophers) who even think that other forms: business, marriages, visits, wars, various conferences, limited companies, politics, accidents, dance halls, economic crises, fits of hysterics, are variations of dada. Not being an imperialist, I don't share their opinion - I believe, rather, that dada is only a divinity of the second order, which must quite simple by placed beside the other forms of the new mechanism of the religions of the interregnum. Is simplicity simple, or dada? I consider myself rather likeable. Tristan Tzara IV Is poetry necessary? I know that those who shout loudest against it are actually preparing a comfortable perfection for it; they call it the Future Hygienic. People envisage the (ever-impending) annihilation of art. Here they are looking for a more art-like art. Hygiene becomes mygod mygod purity. Must we no longer believe in words? Since when do they express the contrary of what the organ that utters them things and wants?* Herein lies the great secret: Thought is made in the mouth. I still consider myself very likeable. Tristan Tzara A great Canadian philosopher said: Thought and the past are also very likeable. V A friend, who is too good a friend of mine not to be very intelligent, said to me the other day: a shudder a palmist IS ONLY THE WAY PEOPLE SAY good morning good evening AND WHICH DEPENDS ON THE FORM THAT HAS BEEN GIVEN TO its forget-me-not his hair I answered YOU ARE RIGHT idiot prince BECAUSE I AM CONVINCED OF THE contrary Tartary naturally we hesitate WE ARE NOT (DO NOT)

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right. I am called wish to understand THE OTHER Since diversity is diverting, this game of golf gives the illusion of a "certain" depth. I support all the conventions - to suppress them would be to make new ones, which would complicate our lives in a truly repugnant fashion. We wouldn't know any more what if fashionable: to love the children of the first or second marriage. The "pistil of the pistol" has often landed us in bizarre and restless situations. To disorder meanings - to disorder notions and all the little tropical rains of demoralisation, disorganisation, destruction and billiard-breaks, are actions which are insured against lightning and recognised as being of public utility. There is one known fact: dadaists are only to be found these days in the French Academy. I nevertheless consider myself very likeable. Tristan Tzara VI It seems that this exists: more logical, very logical, too logical, less logical, not very logical, really logical, fairly logical. Well then, draw the inferences. "I have." Now think of the person you love most. "Have you?" Tell me the number and I'll tell you the lottery. VII A priori, in other words with its eyes closed, Dada places before action and above all: Doubt. DADA doubts everything. Dada is an armadillo. Everything is Dada, too. Beware of Dada. Anti-dadaism is a disease: selfkleptomania, man's normal condition, is DADA. But the real dadas are against DADA. The selfkleptomaniac. The person who steals - without thinking of his own interests, or of his will - elements of his individual, is a kleptomaniac. He steals himself. He causes the characters that alienate him from the community to disappear. The bourgeois resemble one another - they're all alike. They used not to be alike. They have been taught to steal - stealing has become a function - the most convenient and least dangerous thing is to steal oneself. They are all very poor. The poor are against DADA. They have a lot to do with their brains. They'll never get to the end of it. They work. The poor are against DADA. He who is against DADA is for me, a famous man said, but then he died. They buried him like a true dadaist. Anno domini Dada. Beware! And remember this example. VIII TO MAKE A DADAIST POEM Take a newspaper. Take some scissors.

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Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem. Cut out the article. Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag. Shake gently. Next take out each cutting one after the other. Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag. Them poem will resemble you. And there you are - an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.* IX There are some people who explain, because there are others who learn. Abolish hem and all that's left is dada. Dip your pen into a black liquid with manifesto intentions - it's only your autobiography that you're hatching under the belly of the flowering cerebellum. Biography is the paraphernalia of the famous man. Great or strong. And there you are, a simple man like the rest of them, once you've dipped your pen into the ink, full of PRETENSIONS which manifest themselves in forms as diverse as they are unforeseen, which apply to every form of activity and of state of mind and of mimicry: there you are, full of AMBITIONS to keep yourself on the dial of life, in the place where you've only just arrived, to proceed along the illusory and ridiculous upward path towards an apotheosis that only exists in your neurasthenia: there you are, full of PRIDE greater, stronger, more profound than all the others. Dear colleagues: a great man, a little one, a strong, weak, profound, superficial one, that's why you're all going to die. There are some people who have antedated their manifestos to make other people believe that they had the idea of their own greatness a little earlier. My dear colleagues, before after, past future, now yesterday,

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that's why you're all going to die. There are some people who have said: dada is good because it isn't bad, dada is bad, dada is a religion, dada is a poem, dada is a spirit, dada is sceptical, dada is magic, I know dada. My dear colleagues: good bad, religion poetry, spirit scepticism, definition definition, that's why you're all going to die, and you will die, I promise you. The great mystery is a secret, but it's known to a few people. They will never say what dada is. To amuse you once again I'll tell you something like: dada is the dictatorship of the spirit, or dada is the dictatorship of language, or else dada is the death of the spirit, which will please many of my friends. Friends. X It is certain that since Gambetta, the war, Panama and the Steinheil affair, intelligence is to be found in the street. The intelligent man has become and all-round, normal person. What we lack, what has some interest, what is rare because he has the anomalies of precious being, the freshness and liberty of the great antimen, is THE IDIOT Dada is working with all its might towards the universal installation of the idiot. But consciously. And tends itself to become more and more of one. Dada is terrible: it doesn't feel sorry about the defeats of intelligence. Dada could rather be called cowardly, but cowardly like a mad dog; it recognises neither method nor persuasive excess. The lack of garters which makes it systematically bend down reminds us of the famous lack of system which basically has never existed. The false rumour was started by a laundress at the bottom of her page, the page was taken to the barbaric country where humming-birds act as the sandwich-men of cordial nature. This was told me by a watch-maker who was holding a supple syringe which, in characteristic memory of the hot countries, he called phlegmatic and insinuating. XI Dada is a dog - a compass - the lining of the stomach - neither new nor a nude Japanese girl - a gasometer of jangled feelings - Dada is brutal and doesn't go in for propaganda - Dada is a quantity of life in transparent, effortless and gyratory transformation. XII

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gentlemen and ladies buy come in and buy and don't read you'll see the fellow who has in his hands the key to niagara the man with a game leg in the game box his hemispheres in a suitcase his nose enclosed in a chinese lantern you'll see you'll see you'll see the belly dance in the massachusetts saloon the fellow who sticks the nail in and the tyre goes down mademoiselle atlantide's silk stockings the trunk that goes 6 times round the world to find the addressee monsieur and his fiancee his brother and his sister-in-law you'll find the carpenter's address the toad-watch the nerve like a paper-knife you'll have the address of the minor pin for the feminine sex and that of the fellow who supplies the obscene photos to the kind of greece as well as the address of l'action francaise. XIII DADA is a virgin microbe DADA is against the high cost of living DADA limited company for the exploitation of ideas DADA has 391 different attitudes and colours according to the sex of the president It changes - affirms - says the opposite at the same time - no importance - shouts - goes fishing. Dada is the chameleon of rapid and self-interested change. Dada is against the future. Dada is dead. Dada is absurd. Long live Dada. Dada is not a literary school, howl Tristan Tzara XIV To "prettify" life in the lorgnette - a blanket of caresses - a panoply with butterflies - that's the life of life's chambermaids. To sleep on a razor and on fleas in rut - to travel in a barometer - to piss like a cartridge - to make faux pas, be idiotic, take showers of holy minutes - be beaten, always be the last one - shout out the opposite of what the other fellow says - be the editorial office and the bathroom of God who every day takes a bath in us in company with the cesspool clearer - that's the life of dadaists. To be intelligent - respect everyone - die on the field of honour - subscribe to the Loan - vote for So-and-So - respect for nature and painting - to barrack at dada manifestations - that's the life of men. XV DADA is not a doctrine to be put into practice: Dada - is for lying: a successful business. Dada gets into debt and doesn't live on its well-filled wallet. The good Lord created a universal language, that's why people don't take him seriously. A language is a utopia. God can allow himself not to be successful: so can Dada. That's why the critics say: Dada goes in for luxuries, or Dada is in rut. God goes in for luxuries, or God is in rut. Who's right: God, Dada or the critic?

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"You're deviating," a charming reader tells me. - No no, not at all! I simply wanted to reach the conclusion: Subscribe to Dada, the only loan that doesn't pay. XVI howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl Who still considers himself very likeable Tristan Tzara APPENDIX HOW I BECAME CHARMING LIKEABLE AND DELIGHTFUL I sleep very late. I commit suicide at 65%. My life is very cheap, it's only 30% of life for me. My life has 30% of life. It lacks arms, strings and a few buttons. 5% is devoted to a state of semi-lucid stupor accompanied by anaemic crackling. This 5% is called DADA. So life is cheap. Death is a bit more expensive. But life is charming and death is equally charming. A few days ago I was at a meeting of imbeciles. There were a lot of people there. Everyone was charming. Tristan Tzara, a small, absurd and insignificant individual was giving a lecture on the art of becoming charming. He was charming, at that. Everyone is charming. And witty. It's delightful, isn't it?

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Everyone is delightful, at that. 9 degrees below zero. It's charming, isn't it? No, it isn't charming. God isn't up to it. He isn't even in the directory. But even so he's charming. Ambassadors, poets, counts, princes, musicians, journalists, actors, writers, diplomats, directors, dressmakers, socialists, princesses and baronesses are charming. You're all of you charming, very subtle, witty and delightful. Tristan Tzara says to you: he's quite willing to do something else, but he prefers to remain an idiot, a practical joker and a hoaxer. Be sincere for a moment: what I've just said to you - is it charming or idiotic? There are some people (journalists, lawyers, amateurs, philosophers) who even think that business, marriages, visits, wars, various conferences, limited companies, politics, accidents, dance halls, economic crises, fits of hysterics, are variations of dada. Not being an imperialist, I don't share their opinion. I believe rather, that dada is only a divinity of the second order, which must quite simply be placed beside the other forms of the new mechanism of the religions of the interregnum. Is simplicity simple, or dada? I consider myself rather likeable. Tristan Tzara COLONIAL SYLLOGISM No one can escape fate No one can escape DADA Only DADA can make you escape fate. ________________________ You owe me 943 francs 50 No more drunkards! No more aeroplanes! No more vigour! NO more urinary passages! No more enigmas! Lampisteries TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: A Lampiste is a man who makes lamps. He is also in argot a scapegoat. note on art Art is at present the only self-contained construction about which there is no more to be said, such is its richness, vitality, meaning and wisdom. To understand, to see. To describe a flower: relative poetry more or less artificial flower. To see. Until we discover the intimate vibrations of the final cell of a mathematical god-brain and the explanation of the primary astronomies - its essence - we shall always find ourselves describing this impossibility with its logical elements of perpetual contradiction, a marshland of starts and of futile bell-ringing. Like toads

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squatting on cold lanterns, squashing the descriptive intelligence of the red belly. What people write on art is an educative work, and in this sense it has a right to exist. We want to give back to mankind the ability to understand that a unique fraternity comes into existence at the intense moment when beauty and life itself, brought into high tension on a wire, ascend towards a flash-point; the blue tremor liked to the ground by our magnetised gaze which covers the peak with snow. The miracle. I open my heart to creation. There are many artists who are no longer looking for solutions in the object and in its relations with the outside world; they are cosmic or primary, decided, simple, wise and serious. The diversity of today's artists is a compressed jet of water scattered at crystal liberty. And their efforts create new limpid organisms, in a world of purity, with the aid of transparencies and of the materiality of construction of a simple image which is in the process of formation. They are carrying on the tradition; the past and its evolution are pushing them slowly, like a snake, towards their inner, direct consequences, beyond both surfaces and reality. note on negro art The new art is first and foremost concentration, the lines from the base to the apex of a pyramid forming a cross; through purity we have first deformed and them decomposed the object, we have approached its surface, we have penetrated it. We want a clarity that is direct. Art is grouped into camps, each with its special skills, within its own frontiers. The influences of a foreign nature which were mixed up in it are the rags of a Renaissance lining still sticking to the souls of our fellow men, for my brother's soul has sharp branches, black with autumn. My other brother is naive and good, and laughs. He eats in Africa or along the South Sea Islands. He concentrates his vision on the head, carves it out of wood that is as hard as iron, patiently, without bothering about the conventional relationship between the head and the rest of the body. What he thinks is: man walks vertically, everything in nature is symmetrical. While working, new relationships organise themselves according to degree of necessity; this is how the expression of purity came into being. From blackness, let us extract light. Simple, rich luminous naivety. Different materials, the scales of form. To construct in balanced hierarchy. EYE: button, open wide, round, and pointed, to penetrate my bones and my belief. Transform my country into a prayer of joy or anguish. Cotton wool eye, flow in my blood. Art, in the infancy of time, was prayer. Wood and stone were truth. In man I see the moon, plants, blackness, metal, stars, fish. Let the cosmic elements glide symmetrically. Deform, boil. Hands are big and strong. Mouths contain the power of darkness, invisible substance, goodness, fear, wisdom, creation, fire. No one has seen so clearly as I this dark grinding whiteness. note on art h. arp Having finally succeeded in making parallel lines meet at infinity, and arrived at the sobriety of skilful superimpositions, he shook his art like a thousand-branches explosion whose richness of forms and allusions are marvellously grouped in one simple organic unity. The summit sings what is being spoken in the depths.

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Nature is organised in its totality, the rigging of the fabulous ship up to the focal point in the principles that regulate crystals and insects in hierarchies like trees. Every natural thing keeps its clarity of organisation, hidden, pulled by relationships which are grouped together like the family of lunar lights, the hub of a wheel that might revolve ad infinitum, the sphere, it ties its liberty, its final, absolute existence, to innumerable and constructive laws. My sister, root, flower, stone. The organism is complete in the mute intelligence of a nervure and in its appearance. Man is dirty, he kills animals, plants, his brothers, he quarrels, he's intelligent, talks too much, doesn't know how to express his thoughts. But the artist is a creator: he knows how to work in a manner that becomes organic. He decides. He makes man better. Cultivates the garden of intentions. Commands. The purity of a principle makes me happy. To see, beyond the horizontal which expands as it tranquillises the vegetable novelties of far-off countries, icy inflorescenes. The vertical: thinking of infinity while feeding the depth of a moment of animality. H.Art Symmetry flower of a midnight encounter in which fever and bird become the tranquillity of a halo and the hop-bine climbs the flower becomes crystal or beetle magnet start to want to live a simple life. If we can live a miracle we have reached the level where your blood will be an order of archangels, the medicine of astronomy, reader, - belief stored up clearly in simple hearts, - wisdom, knowledge. guillaume apollinaire "le poete assassine" "les mamelles de tiresias" For this poet, life is a serious and revolving game of jokes, sadness, good-nature, naivety and modernism, turn and turn about. The finger bores into all sorts of flesh till it gets to the innermost part that shrieks and vibrates, where is becomes a flower, and laughs. The unforeseen is everywhere's explosive star, and speed harmonises with the tranquil, curious narrator, in a natural affirmation of constant novelty. This collision begets the burlesque. The past put in a reflecting mirror which is projected several centuries ahead. With the unerringness of a cowboy. With an elegant and grotesque turn. Impulsive, capricious, subtle. At the gallop above life, man is ridiculous.

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While Second Lieutenant Apollinaire was in hospital with a serious head-wound, his book of stories, Le poete assassine appeared, and the Croniamantal poet in a frock coat, in a pink cradle, burst forth simultaneously in Munich and in various cellars frequented by princes. The theatre. Since it still remains attached to a romantic imitation of life, to an illogical fiction, let us give it all the natural vigour that it had at the outset: whether it be entertainment or poetry. The tortured little sensitivities of changeable psychologies, a declamatory theory, cannot reveal a truth that will for ever remain obscure, like all useless actions and their relative results. At an evening organised by the review Sic on June 24th, Apollinaire's surrealist drama Les mamelles de Tiresias was performed. Let women have children - their duty and their purpose. It's reasonable and correct. It seems that people enjoyed themselves very much listening to what Apollinaire said so clearly in sets made out of scraps of newspapers and in masks which were supposed to represent fever cut out of the margin of a supreme, multicoloured star. Laughter is men's goodness. Look for medicines and wisdom in songs, and let's start again. pierre reverdy "le voleur de talan" An unexpected book, almost the novel of one's dreams. Since the Renaissance, the centre and principle of art has been anecdote: in other words, a story told to a rich man in order to awaken in him a "feeling"; 64% pity and the rest humility, etc., + forgetting of an inconvenient instant in which we made a splendid bargain. Half of all writers know that and take advantage of it; the other half are still trying to warm up the egg of anecdote to turn it into art, they are speculating on the short tradition of a few centuries. But they serve the same stomach, which they neither wanted nor foresaw. The Renaissance was the infernal age of the cynic. For art it was a shambles, divided between anecdote and charm. Illusion became the goal, and man was trying to go one better than God. But the problems of an eventful life made him interesting and, unfortunately, productive. We want to continue the tradition of Negro, Egyptian, Byzantine and Gothic art and destroy in ourselves the atavistic sensitivity bequeathed to us by the detestable era that followed the quattrocento. Reverdy's novel is a poem. Its episodes are carefully muffled up in a substance with which we are unfamiliar. The collision of its elements is particularly brutal. But it is a difficult life that burns within the golden egg. Straight lines emerge from this flesh, penetrate us and link us to it. For Reverdy the action, transformed into a centipede, advances slowly inside the organism of the novel, and a hundred bees bring us little by little, by thousands of invisible stings, the consequences and the facts, and introduce them uniformly into our bloodstream. Le Voleur de Talan is above all in a radiator of vibrations, and the images which are discharged in all directions (an almost electrical effect as they go past) unite around it; because of this, Reverdy's work is COSMIC. But this ambulant and ever-renewed halo leaves us with a cloudy impression and the bitter taste that man is the centre of it and that he can, in his little world, become a god-master. What I call "cosmic" is an essential quality of a work of art. Because it implies order, which is the necessary condition of the life of every organism. Multiple, diverse and distant elements are, more or less intensely, concentrated in the work; the artist collects them, chooses them, arranges them, makes them into a construction or a composition. Order is the representation of a unity governed by those universal

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faculties, sobriety and the purity of precision. There are two principles in the cosmic: (1) To attach equal importance to each object, being, material, and organism in the universe. (2) To stress man's importance, to group round him, in order to subordinate them to him, beings, objects, etc ... The nucleus of the latter principle is a psychological method; the danger is the need to CORRECT men. They should be left to what they want to become - superior beings. The poet allows himself to be implicated at the whim of succession and impression. For the form principle, this need takes on a new form: to place men beside the other elements, just as they are, to make men BETTER. To work together, anonymously, on the great cathedral of life we are preparing, to level man's instincts, for if we were to stress his personality too much, he would take on babylonian proportions of spite and cynicism. Reverdy, in grouping breaths, and the relations of the elements, around man, creates near-material conditions which remain stagnant throughout the journeys of the various characters, and towards the end of the book, if we have been following with some care the steps covered, we almost suffocate in that atmosphere, knowing as we do the secrets of its composition. One of the great qualities of this book is that it moves us so strongly, given Reverdy's deliberate sobriety in the choice of the means that he uses; in this he is honest and serious. He comes close to the first principle in that he does not moralise, because he allows all the elements, except man, to appear simultaneously. To art for art's sake, Reverdy opposes art for life's sake. To which we oppose life for the sake of cosmic diversity, for totality, for the universal, and we want to see as innate in the latter the slow life which exists, and even sleeps, in what is usually called death. But theories and formulae are relative and elastic - in terms of the absolute, they would become narrow dogmas and fanaticism - and we don't want to go in for that. Reverdy's novel must be read; its poetry is wise and clam, as if it were the evidence of a tranquillity that grows and increases in its own power. A cascade that seems to fall from on high, like a productive conflagration, a great tree with multiple and diverse fruits. pierre albert-birot trente et un poemes de poche Irregular necklaces of houses, green fir trees. Each notion in its own box: an atmosphere in a box of matches and speed captured; insects, trams, crawling up towards a glass head. To say: futurism for young ladies, an explosion in a convent school and, squashed under soft pillows, new landscapes? But each little page should too loudly and implodes in its vase, each one contains a new idea, and we are astrally amazed at the rapid passage (a little too brutal, but perhaps necessary) of the images of intense and highly-coloured life.* note on negro poetry "I don't even want to know that there were men before me" (DESCARTES), but some simple, essential laws, the pathetic, secret fermentation of a solid earth. To fix at the point where forces have accumulated, from which the expressed meaning springs, the invisible radiation of substance, the natural - though hidden and accurate - relationship, naively, without

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explanation. To round off and arrange images into forms and constructions according to their weight, their colour, their matter, or organise values, material and durable densities on different spatial levels without subordinating anything to them. Classification of operas comiques sanctioned by the aesthetics of the props. (O, my drawer number ABSOLUTE>) I can't bear going into a house where the balconies, the "embellishments", are carefully stuck on to the walls, And yet the sun and the stars continue to vibrate and hum freely in space, but I am loath to identify explanatory (and probably asphyxiating) hypotheses with the principles of life, activity and certainty. The crocodile hatches future life, rain falls for vegetable silence, we are not creators by analogy. The beauty of the satellites - the lesson light - will content us, for we are only God for the country of our knowledge, within the laws in which we live our experience on this earth, on both sides of our equator, within our frontiers. A perfect example of the infinite that we can verify: the sphere. To round off and arrange images into forms and constructions according to their weight, their colour, their matter, or organise values, material and durable densities by personal decision and the unshakeable with the matter transformed, very close to the veins commensurate with the matter transformed, very close to the veins and rubbing itself against them while waiting for a present and definitive joy. An organism is created when its elements are ready for life. Poetry lives primarily for the functions of the dance, of religion, of music and of work. guillaume appollianaire is dead He fell like the feverish "rain" that he had so carefully composed for a Paris magazine. Will the trains, the dreadnoughts, the variety theatres and the factories raise the wind of mourning for the most enduring, the most alert, the most enthusiastic of French poets? The fog isn't enough, nor is the tumult and the shouting. His season should have been the joy of victory, of our victory, that of the new men working in essential darkness, shaping the essential Logos. He knew the mechanism of the stars, the exact proportion of turmoil and discretion. His spirit was a gallop of clarity, and the hail of fresh words, the escort of their crystalline kernels, were the angels. He'll meet Henri Rousseau. Is Apollinaire dead? r. huelsenbeck "prieres fantastiques" Energy and speed propelled over the glacier, vertiginous currents leaping furiously through invisible obstacles, a stagnant effervescence expanding enormously above, descending into the mines, thrusting out on all sides, always struggling and calling on all objects, colours, feelings, races, factories, animals and different languages to help him - his companions, his witnesses. He casts his vision of paradise into hell, and vice versa; nothing is sacred, everything is of divine essence. In this suspense - gymnastics in the irregular movement of the pendulum (irony, deep voice, sacrilegious flower), which gradually slows down towards the end of the book, calm and serious, clear, a wise passion, the final prayer resounds. The representation of noise sometimes really, objectively becomes noise, and the grotesque takes on the proportions of disconnected, chaotic phrases. The bourgeois spirit, which renders ideas usable and

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useful, tries to assign to poetry the invisible role of the principle engine of the universal machine: the practical soul. With its help they'll give Christ back to men: expressionism. In this way it is possible to organise and fabricate everything. Liberty, fraternity, equality, expressionism, are produced. Huelsenbeck is one of the rare people who, having shouted and protested, will remain inaccessible to the paths of the snivellers disguised as butterflies. note on poetry The poet of the last station has given up vain weeping; lamentation slows down progress. The humidity of past ages. People who feed on tears are contented and obtuse, they thread their tears behind the necklaces of their souls so as to cheat the snakes. The poet can go in for Swedish gymnastics. But for abundance and explosion he knows how to kindle hope TODAY. Whether tranquil, ardent, furious, intimate, pathetic, slow or impetuous, his burning desire is for enthusiasm, that fecund form of intensity. To know how to recognise and pick up the sign of the power we are awaiting, which are everywhere; in the fundamental language of cryptograms, engraved on crystals, on shells, on rails, in clouds, or in glass; inside snow, or light, or coal; on the hand, in the beams grouped round the magnetic poles, on wings. Persistence quickens joy and shoots it like an arrow up to the celestial domes, to distil the quintessence from the waves of phlegmatic nourishment, creating new life. Flowing in all colours and bleeding amongst the leaves of all the trees. Vigour and thirst, emotion faced with a form that can neither be seen nor explained - that is poetry. Let's now look for analogies in the various forms in which art is materialised; each must have its own liberty and its own frontiers. There are the equivalents in art, each branch of the start develops independently, expands, and absorbs the world of its choice. But the parallelism that records the march of a new life will brand the era, without any theory. To give each element its identity, its autonomy, the necessary condition for the creation of new constellations, since each has its own place in the group. The drive of the Word: upright, an image, a unique event, passionate, of dense colour, of intensity, in communion with life. Art is a series of perpetual differences. For there is no measurable distance between "how are you?", the level on which people make their world grow, and human actions when seen from this angle of underwater purity. The strength to transmute this succession of ever-changing notions into the instant that is the work of art. An Everlasting Sphere, a shape begotten by necessity, without a begetter. The mind is alive with a new range of possibilities: to centralise them, to collect them under a lense that is neither material nor delimited - what is popularly called: the soul. The ways of expressing them, of transmuting them: the means. Bright as a flash of gold - the increasing beating of expanding wings. Without pretensions to a romantic absolute, I present a few mundane negations. A poem is no longer a formal act: subject, rhythm, rhyme, sonority. When projected on to everyday life, these can become means, who use is neither regulated nor recorded, to which I attach the same with as I do to the crocodile, to burning metals, or to grass. Eye, water, equilibrium, sun, kilometre, and everything that I can imagine as belonging together and which represents a potential human asset, is sensitivity. The elements love to be closely associated, truly hugging each other, like the cerebral hemispheres and the cabins of transatlantic liners. Rhythm is the gait of the intonations we hear, but there is a rhythm that we neither see nor hear: the radius of an internal grouping that leads towards a constellation of order. Up to now, rhythm has been the beating of a dried-up heart, a little tinkle in putrid, padded wood. I don't want to put fences round what people call principles, when what is at stake is freedom. But the poet will have to be demanding towards

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his own work in order to discover its real necessity: order, essential and pure, will flower from this asceticism - (Goodness without a sentimental echo, its material side). To be demanding and cruel, pure and honest towards the work one is preparing and which on will be situating amongst men, new organisms, creations that live in the very bones of light and in the imaginative forms that action will take - (REALITY). The rest, called literature, is a dossier of human imbecility for the guidance of future professors. The poem pushes up or hollows out the crater, remains silent, kills or shouts in an accelerating crescendo of speed. It will no longer depend on its visual image, on sense perception or on intelligence, but on its impact, or capability of transmuting the trances of emotions. Comparison is a literary means which no longer satisfies us. There are different ways of formulating an image or of integrating it, but the elements will be taken from different and remote spheres. Logic no longer guides us, and though it is convenient to have dealings with, it has become impotent, a deceptive glimmer, sowing henceforth a light that has failed forever. Other creative powers, flamboyant, indefinable and gigantic, are shouting their liberty on the mountains of crystal and of prayer. Liberty, liberty: not being a vegetarian, I'm not give any recipes. Obscurity must be creative if it is so pure a white light that it blinds our fellow-men. Where their light stops, our starts. Their light is for us, in the fog, the microscopic and infinitely compact dance of the elements of darkness in imprecise fermentation. Is not matter in its pure state dense and unerring? Under the back of felled trees, I seek the image of thing to come, of vigour, and in underground tunnels the obscurity of iron and coal may already be heavy with life. pierre reverdy "les ardoises du toit" "les jockeys camoufles" We know to what extent psychological art anaesthetises any movement - even if it is sometimes a literary movement - and the balance that le Voleur de Talan established in favour of the cosmic spirit. Les ardoises du Toit marks another state of equilibrium, a sensitivity specialising in soft, warm atmospheres, through elegance, the unexpected ending, first-rate and appreciable qualities, but it is definitely with Les jockey camoufles that Reverdy achieves the maximum personal state of freedom: suddenly stopping and re-winding the movement starting from the other end, piling image upon image, dissipating the patchy fog, working on the reader's underwater matter, shocks of varying strength, dimension, level and price, poetry is certainly not a neurasthenic serum. Reverdy inclines more and more closely towards precise, free and cosmic CERTAINTY. There are no laws, we can do whatever we like let us use all means, every element calls to us, post coitum exact flower of the sun. francis picabia "l'athlete des pompes funebres" "rateliers platoniques"

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When it wants to destroy, the creative blood attains geyser-force, and collective, non-zoological vitality is heralded, inscribed in shorthand on the piano of anti-artistic isthmuses. In painting, Picabia has destroyed "beauty" and built his work with the left-overs: cardboard, money, the bird of the eternal mechanism, brain in an intimate relationship with the qualities of machines. Functions. Not merely the fabrication or expression of time, but the natural simplicity of an immediate notation with personal means. Whence the purity of his works. Romanticism is the descriptive exasperation of the gutter, of the plant, of the motor car, or a tender way of looking; disgust with observed systems leads Picabia on to the clear realities of machines; the rest is tranquillity, - immediate externalisation is the least effort or a naivety of means. A stone expresses itself by the form and sometimes the luminosity of its facts, the vibration of the air passed through. I hate nature. Picabia doesn't like professionalism. His poems has not ending, his prose works never start. He writes without working, presents his personality, and doesn't control his feelings. Probes into the flesh of organisms. neither word-stability nor music predominates, and I glide over his phrases towards a subterranean harmony. Picabia throws light on the rotation of realities and of mystery and reduces importances or pretensions to the relative equality of cosmic formation; he kills hysterical declamation and pathos on the little paths that we still find everywhere. fancis picabia "pensees sans langage" The philosophical myriapoda have broken some wooden or metal legs, and even some wings, between the stations Truth-Reality. There was always something that could not be grasped: LIFE. To try to replace life by a private pleasure is an adventure that is sometimes amusing. (The remorseless adventures that insinuate themselves into art by its means, in order to destroy it slowly, revive the embers in the kernel, mutual interests, insinuations and obstacles system DADA movement.) But to make a joke into something eternal and then starve it to death is ridiculous, it's the naive hello of the onanist, salvation army music, a motley pretension, a branch of the bourgeoisie flirting with art. Anaemia isn't propagated on the continent, but you know about strength, microbes, flowers, alcohol, blood, invention which diffuse their rain - aimlessly - or break like echoes on the solid, morning rock. I'm thinking about the same need to impress - teach me how to say things seriously without soudning false - and it's always everyone else who is right. The need to try to find explanations for what has no other reason than that it has quite simple been done, with no argument, with the minimum of criterion or criticism, is like self-kleptomania: like permanently sticking your own objects in different pockets. We also usually manage to build up a collection of some sort of moral speciality, to make it easy to pass judgement. Men are poor because they steal from themselves. It isn't a question of the difficulty of understanding modern life, but they steal elements of their own personalities. PICABIA. His words fertilise metal. Whether meteor or wheel, urubu or hemstitched hurricane, he lets his feelings sleep in a garage. I place a hoot-owl in a hexagon, sing in hexameters, wear down and use up angles, howl "down with", and abuse. Geometry is dry, and old. I've seen a line leap in a different way. A line that has leapt kills theories; all we have to do then is look for adventure in the life of lines. A personal work, a work that shuns the absolute. And lives. Escapes. Full of silent sap. The mechanism of the aorta makes more noise than a life, its cog-wheels are on fire, awakening: typography of one's primary feelings, too simple to be deciphered so soon by the captains of science. My dear Picabia: "To live" without pretension, to dance on iron spikes, telegraphically, or to keep quiet on the equinoctial line, to know that

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at every instant - perpetua mobilia - it is today. "Charm" and "pretty" apply to a moonlit night, to feelings, to paintings that sing and to songs that see, stick to traditions, insinuate themselves amongst the conventional and amongst painters. Cubist and futurist painters, who ought to be allowing free vibration to their joy at having liberated appearances from a cumbersome and futile exterior, are becoming scientific and academic. Theoretical propagation of carrion, blood pump. There are words which are also legions of honour. Hunting down the vulgar words that ensure the happiness of humanity, and the prestidigitatic prestige of prodigious predilections for the pleasure of the people who pay. Item: respect for bread and butter. Ideas poison painting; if the poison bears the sonorous name of a big philological pot-belly, art becomes contagion and, if people rejoice at this intestinal musicality, the mixture becomes a danger for clean and sober men. It is only negative action that is necessary. Picabia has reduce painting to a simple structure; everyone will find therein the lines of his own life, which go with time by railway and by wireless telephony if he knows how to look without wondering why a cup is like a feeling. open letter to jacques riviere People these days no longer write with their race, but with their blood (what a platitude!) What, for the other sort of literature, was a characteristic, is today temperament. It more or less amounts to the same thing if we write a poem in Siamese or if we dance on a locomotive. It's only natural that the elderly don't notice that a new type of man is being created here, there and everywhere. With some insignificant variations in race the intensity is, I believe, the same everywhere, and if there is a common characteristic to be found in people who are creating today's literature, it will be that of anti-psychology. ........................................................................ If one writes, it isn't a refuge: from every "point of view". I am not a professional writer and I have no literary ambitions. I should have become a successful adventurer, making subtle gestures, if I had had the physical force and nervous stamina to achieve this one exploit: not to be bore. One writes, too, because there aren't enough new men, out of habit, one publishes to try to find men, and to have an occupation (this in itself is very stupid.) There could be a solution: to resign oneself; quite simply: to do nothing. But you need enormous energy. And one has an almost hygienic need of complications. art and hunting Man-hunting has its roots and sources in one's topographical map in the discount bank; this goes without saying for that soft and subtle hallucination: man. This is normal and quite good, and quite foolish in the repetition that always attaches new importance to its latest apparition. But the results of man-hunting that are sold on the Stock Exchange need to be exhibited. With éclat and in a frame. It is here that a thick beard starts growing round the clear idea that I have, it hasn't yet had forty years of existence and of honest toil. I hate madness and its platonic form which is poetry and the absurd. "I hate" no longer has the unpleasant flavour that it used to have; it now means that I am smoking a cigarette. Men are impenetrable; people who believe that men can interpenetrate each other like two hands crossed over a stomach, are wrong, are lying, and are getting a bad bargain. Values are as elastic as Lassalle's iron law of wages. Conflicts no longer exist because we are in summer's pocket. Bad

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speculation on the Institute, which used to express an insult, has brought us to see things on the same level: Place Vendome, which couldn't contain pejorative mustard, is only a purely verbal statement. Our ideas are clear and have no need of expression; the sport that consists of discharging, parallel with ideas, breaths which run and which discuss, is known to our best dialecticians. It is these breaths that try to dominate and to be in the right. But even the most beautiful women in France have only succeeded in showing themselves off at the Casino de Paris. Language is pretty threadbare, and yet is alone fills the lives of most men. All they know is the stories life has been able to tell them. Cracking jokes and the little pejorative air are for them the savour of language, the salt of life. Dada brutally intervened in this little cerebral domestic scene. But the most important inventions of the century have gone unnoticed: the tooth brush, God, aluminium. Therefore, Madam, mind you understand that a really dada product is something other than a brilliant label. Dada has abolished nuances. Nuances don't exist in words, but in the brains of a few atrophied people where the cells are too congested. Simple notions which serve deaf-mutes as signs are entirely sufficient to express the four or five mysteries we have discovered. Active influences are felt in politics, in commerce, in language. The whole world and everything in it has slid a bit to the left with us. Dada has stuck a nozzle into the hot bread. Little by little, big by big, it destroys. And we shall also see certain liberties that we take every day with feelings, and with social and moral life, becoming common practice. Already liberties are no longer being considered as crimes, but as itches. dada proverb Paul Eluard wants to achieve a concentration of words, crystallised as if for the people, but whose meaning remains null and void. For example, the definition: "A proverb is a proverb", or: "A very proverby proverb." The dada proverb is the result of a multi-faceted sonority which comes out of all mouths with the force of inertia and with conviction of tone, but which alights with the tranquillity of time on wine. The motivating force behind the popular proverb is observation and experience, that of the dadaist proverb is a spontaneous concentration which penetrates in the guise of the former and may achieve the same degree and result: the little collective madness of a sonorous pleasure. the bankruptcy of humour reply to a questionnaire I think we should invent new words to express better what we would like to mean by humour. I tried to introduce a meaningless word: "Dada." Spontaneity closes the circuit of problems and the world which everyone creates in himself, purifies the work of art and generates the intimate communion of the soul with things. It is the great principle of subjectivism, the noble force of reality, the knowledge of the individual, that will characterise future art. The difference between Latin art (active simplicity) and German art, the result of heavy, systematic research until there is no longer any distinction between labour and creative spark, is defined by spontaneity. The work has wings, it takes its place amongst the elements of existence. Isn't it enough to say: Rimbaud + Lautreamont + Jarry: the surety and most complex expression of French art? I don't think anyone will ever mange to put the most cosmic-diverse writers into pigeon-holes. Their richness, which belongs to the great apparitions and events of nature, their cosmic

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diversity, their supreme power of expressing the inexplicable simultaneously, without previous logical discussion, by severe and intuitive necessity, place them above all classification and formulae. I don't believe in influences, I sometimes think (at around 6 o'clock in the evening) of a spirit common to the period, but I declare myself an enemy of explanatory criticism and of objectivity. (Where is the fine, definitive and perfect system that we have been promised for the last 3,333 years, and the happiness of onanists? Philosophical discussions don't amuse me, for I am a partisan of the wireless.) I don't believe, either, in the mechanical elements of art, which are neither the regulation of the beautiful, nor its control, nor its consequence; but which we would be more likely to find at the peak of the intersection of two parallel lines, or in a submarine formation of stars and transchromatic aeroplanes. In the blood of stone, perhaps, in the obscurity of cellular metals and of cryptograms, and in the surge of images under the back of trees. I have seen "the deflatable man" at the olympia IN the dead-tired courtyard, two men are sleeping - patches of difficult hours on the clock-face of human literatures. A cart, planks, furniture smelling of young wood and resin. Why are we sitting in the stalls watching him descend from sleep into death? We always leave by the stage door. Death is the colour of lead, his moustaches droop like the wings of worldly birds. His arms hang loosely. his chest is heavy. His leg muscles are like jelly. Everything is inflated with condemned breath. And that mass of accustomed material and flesh screws itself into a spiral in the centre of gravity that attracts it. His comrade is strong. He doesn't understand. He tries to sit him down on a chair. So as not to be next to a corpse any longer. He doesn't understand a thing. The other is still subsiding. He persists. Gets furious. Can't see anything but the tranquillity of balance. This lasts as long as the normal course of an illness. They are sitting side by side on chairs, and sleeping. The sun. They wake up. The deflatable man first. And scratches his head, which is seething with animal irritants. note on the comte de lautreamont, or the cry We know now that Lautreamont will be the Rimbaud of the poetry of today. "The Dictatorship of the Mind", presented without bothering about improvements or circumspection, is an affirmation of intensity, and steers every thought towards that noble, precise, sumptuous force, the only one worthy of interest - destruction. Mal d'or or gold of dolour Mal d'or or gold has destroyed the door of death. His madness was not sublime - which is why it still lives on. Who dares to combat a reality because it is served up as a form of reproach? TO SEE : necessity of a cerebral trigger. Those people who uncertainties show themselves in pretension and whose pride rises in the form of cerebral saliva, those people for whom swamps and excrement have determined the rules of philosophical pity, will see, one of these days, this immeasurable malediction destroy their filthy, feeble muscles. The Comte de Lautreamont has gone beyond the tangential point which separates creation and madness. For him, creation is already mediocrity. On the other hand it is unpronounceable solemnity. The frontiers of wisdom are unexplored. Ecstasy devours them with entire hierarchy nor cruelty.

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The dolour that freezes the brains, pulverises the crystal of its blood, and leads the chaos of the sheathing of the hulls of old boats, of the lining of old coats, down a strange channel of pathetic regrets. Whether imaginary or exaggerated, dolour drinks silence, and accompanies the high-pitched force that is constantly trying to dissolve itself in the magic, universal delirium tremens. The liberty of his faculties, which are bound by nothing, which he turns in all directions and especially towards himself, the strength sincerity far too intimate to interest us, are the highest human attitude because, transformed, as actions, they ought to culminate in the annihilation of that strange mixture of bones, flour and vegetation: humanity. The mind of the negative man, who was ever ready to be killed by the merry-go-round of the wind and to be trampled on by a hail of meteors, goes beyond the sickly hysteria of Jesus and other tireless windmills installed in the sumptuous apartments of history. Don't love if you want to die in peace. Mal d'or or gold of dolour Mal d'or or gold has destroyed the door of death by this brilliance and the music of the zephyr's frogs. inside-out photography man ray It is no longer the object which, with the trajectories from its extreme points intersecting in the iris, projects a badly reversed image on the surface. The photographer has invented a new method; he presents to space an image that goes beyond it; and the air, with its clenched hands, and its head advantages, captures it and keeps it in its breast. An eclipse revolves round a partridge: is it a cigarette case? The photographer makes the spit of thoughts revolve to the creaking of a badly-greased moon. The light varies according to the giddiness of the pupil on the cold paper according to its weight and to the shock it produces. A wisp of a delicate tree enables us to anticipate metalliferous strata, mighty chandeliers. It illuminates the vestibule of the heart with a torch of snowflakes. And what interests us has neither reason nor cause, like a cloud that spits out its abundant voice. But let us talk art. Yes, art. I know a man who does excellent portraits. The man is a camera. But, you say, the colour and the quivering of the brush are missing. That vague shiver that was first a weakness and later, in order to justify itself, called itself sensitivity. Human imperfection, it would appear, possesses more serious virtues than the exactitude of machines. And what about still lifes? We'd be glad to know whether hors-d'oeuvres, desserts and game hampers don't excite our appetite more. I listen to the humming of a tube in an oil field, a torpedo twists its mouth, the crockery breaks with the sound of domestic quarrels. Why not make the portrait of all that? Because this applies to a particular disturbance through a channel that leads to those sorts of emotion but which consumes neither eyes nor colours. Painters have seen this, they've got together, talked for a long time, and discovered the laws of decomposition. And the laws of construction. And of circumvolution. And the laws of intelligence and of comprehension, of sales, of reproductions, of dignity and of museum-keeping. Other people arrived later with enlightened cries to say that what the first ones had produced was nothing but bird-droppings. They offered their merchandise instead, an impressionist blueprint reduced to a vulgar but attractive symbol. For a moment I believed in their idiots' cries, washed by the melting snow, but I soon discovered that it was only sterile jealousy that was tormenting them. They all ended up producing English postcards. After having known Nietzsche and sworn by their mistresses, after having pulled all the enamel paint off the corpses of their friends, they declared that beautiful children were just as admirable as good oil painting,

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and that the painting that sold for the most money was the best. Noble painting, with curly hair, in gilt frames. That's their marble; that's our piss. When everything that people call art had got the rheumatics all over, the photographer lit the thousands of candles in his lamp, and the sensitive paper gradually absorbed the darkness between the shapes of certain everyday objects. He had invented the force of a fresh and tender flash of lightning which was more important than all the constellations destined for our visual pleasures. Precise, unique and correct mechanical deformation if fixed, smooth and filtered like a head of hair through a comb of light. Is it a spiral of water, or the tragic gleam of a revolver, an egg, a glittering arc or a sluice gate of reason, a subtle ear with a mineral whistle or a turbine of algebraical formulae? As the mirror effortlessly throws back the image, and the echo the voice, without asking us why, the beauty of matter belongs to no one, for henceforth it is a physico-chemical product. After the great inventions and storms, all the little swindles of the sensibility, of knowledge, and of the intelligence have been swept up into the pockets of the magical wind. The negotiator of luminous values takes up the bet laid by the stable-boys. The ration of oats they give morning and evening to the horses of modern art won't be able to disturb the passionate progress of his chess and sun game. reply to a questionnaire I got your letter at Hohenscwangau, the well-know site of the grotesque and shapeless memories of a mad king and another Wagner, where every step I take makes me realise the extent to which these false world-wide reputations still have a pernicious influence in France. From symbolism to instrumentalism, from orphism to paroxysm, from futurism to all the etceterisms that mix music and poetry, the singularly primitive idea of a "universal art" has tormented our writers' minds, and left traces of Wagnerian bouillabaisse, that mysterious but undiscoverable sensitivity of which M. Maurice Barres in Ennemi de Lois. 1. Who is M. Thiers? Is he the author of the Fetes Galantes? In that case here's no doubt about it: he's the worst writer in the French language. With a bit of subtlety on the part of the reader, we can substitute any other name for that of M. Thiers, even that of M. France. With the aid of progress, of perfected perfidy, of logic and of Wilde-like repartee, anyone can be right about anything. So far as I am concerned, the worst writer I had to read at school was M. France. He knows how to cheat his readers by well-worn seductive methods, and how to make his ambition pass for humanitarian good nature. 2. I won't talk about Massenet, that victorhugo of verlainian poetry. Nor of the Dumas-fils toothpaste, the false crocodile Rolinat, nor of the Sully vase and the broken Prudhomme, the boring Emile Augier ... I ought to quote all M. Doumic's history (I apologise for talking about the latter, because I believe he's still alive). Mallarme has achieved a false reputation since the commercial zeal of the N.R.F. has acquainted us with those miserable Vers de circonstance, which reveal nothing but the rapidity and narrowness of mind of their author. I consider myself robbed by Mallarme, because when re-reading his poems that I used to like, all I can see in them is mechanical procedure of purely exterior syntax whose relative beauty lies in their workmanship. This is why they sympathy certain "constructivist" cubists feel towards him doesn't surprise me. 3. A writer whose reputation has been systematically usurped by the sweet, latent irony of a few snobs, is A. Dumas pere. Yet his novels are extremely amusing, unique in the genre of direct literature, and more likeable since we have been sure that someone else wrote them. I suggest that lovers of French poetry should count the numbers of copies sold of all the existing editions

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of Rimbaud. They will certainly be amazed. The work of the Comte de Lautreamont, which I don't want to popularise here, had to suffer the malicious praise of Remy de Fourmont and Leon Bloy who, with the superior airs, classified it as a literary curiousity and declared that is author was mad. Those who know Les Chants de Maldoror, however, are aware that nothing counts in comparison with that marvellous anti-human epic. In every register, that of the illuminated assassin, of the irritating petit bourgeois, of the prophet conscious of his ridiculous position, with the grandeur that accepts and uses both the good and the bad, Lautreamont has formulated the greatest accusation against the human species. You know very well that this species is only distinguished from the others by its mania for writing and reading books. In talking to you of these three writers who reputations have been usurped, I can't help adding that I prefer the worst writers to the best, and false reputations to real ones. Lecture on dada You already know that for the general public, and for you society people, a dadaist is the equivalent of a leper. But that's only a manner of speaking. When people talk to us at close quarters, they still treat us with the remains of elegance that they owe to their habit of believe in progress. But from ten metres away, their hate starts up again. That's dada. If you ask me why, I wouldn't be able to answer you. Another characteristic of Dada is that we are always parting from our friends. We part, and we resign. The first person to resign from the Dada Movement was I. Everyone knows that Dada is nothing. I parted from Dada and from myself the moment I realised the true implication of nothing. If I continue to do something, it's because it amuses me. or rather because I have a need for activity which I exert in all directions. In actual fact, the real dadas were always apart from Dada. Those people to whom dada was still important enough for them to part from it with éclat, were only acting with a view to their own personal advertisement, and proved that counterfeiters have always insinuated themselves with filthy worms amongst the purest and most lucid adventures of the spirit. I know you're expecting some explanations about Dada. I'm not going to give you any. Explain to me why you exist. You've no idea. You'll say: I exist to make my children happy. But you know it's not really true. You'll say: I exist to protect my country from barbaric invasions. That's not enough. You'll say: I exist because God wants me to . That's a tale to tell the children. You'll never know why you exist, but you'll always allow yourselves to be easily persuaded to take life seriously. You'll never understand that life is a ply on words, because you'll never be alone enough to refuse hate, judgements, and everything that needs a great effort, in favour of an even, calm state of mind in which everything is equal and unimportant. Dada isn't at all modern, it's rather a return to a quasi-buddhist religion of indifference. Dada places an artificial sweetness on things, a snow of butterflies which have come out of a conjuror's head. Dada is immobility and doesn't understand the passions. You'll say that this is a paradox because Dada manifests itself by violent actions. Yes, the reactions of individuals contaminated by destruction are fairly violent, but once these reactions have been exhausted and annihilated by the continuous and progressive satanic insistence of a "what's the use?", what remains and predominates is indifference. I could, what's more, with the same air of conviction, maintain the contrary. I admit that my friends don't approve of this point of view. But this Nothing can only be expressed as a reflection of an individuality. That is why it will be useful to everybody, as no one accords any importance to anything but himself. I'm speaking of myself. That's already too much. How could I dare to speak of

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everyone at the same time and please everybody? Nothing is more pleasant than to baffle people. The people one doesn't like. What's the use of explaining to them things that can only interest their curiosity? For people only like their own person, their income and their dog. This state of affairs derives from a false conception of property. If one is poor in spirit one possesses a sure and unshakeable intelligence, a ferocious logic and an immutable point of view. Try to become empty and to fill you brain cells haphazard. Go on destroying what you have in you. Indiscriminately. You could understand a lot of things, then. You aren't any more intelligent than we are, and we aren't any more intelligent than you. Intelligence is an organisation like any other, social organisation, the organisation of a bank, or the organisation of a gossip-session. A society tea-party. Its purpose is to create order and introduce clarity where there is none. Its purpose is to create a hierarchy within a state. To make classifications for a rational piece of work. To separate questions of a material order from those of a moral order, but to take the former extremely seriously. Intelligence is the triumph of good breeding and pragmatism. Life, fortunately, is something different, and its pleasures are numberless. Their price cannot be evaluated in the currency of liquid intelligence. These observations about everyday conditions have led us to a knowledge that constitutes our minimum of understanding, apart from the sympathy that links us, which is mysterious. We couldn't base it on principles. For everything is relative. What are Beauty, Truth, Art, Good, Liberty? Words which have a different meaning for every individual. Words which claim to make everybody agree, which is why they're usually written with capital letters. Words which do not have the moral value and the objective force that people are used to giving them. Their meaning changes from one individual to another, from one country to another. Men are different, it's their diversity that gives them their interest. There is no common basis in humanity's brains. The unconscious is inexhaustible and uncontrollable. Its strength is beyond us. It is as mysterious as the last particle of the brain cell. Even if we are familiar with it, who would dare state that we could reconstruct it as a viable generator of thoughts? What use have philosophical theories been to us? Have they helped us to take a single step forward to backward? Where is "forward", where is "backward"? Have they transformed our forms of contentment? We are. We quarrel, we fuss, we struggle. The intervals are sometimes pleasant, often mixed with a boundless tedium, a swamp adorned with the beards of moribund shrubs. We have had enough of the considered actions that have swollen beyond measure our credulity in the blessings of science. What we want now is spontaneity. Not because it is more beautiful or better than anything else. But because everything that comes from us freely without any intervention from speculative ideas, represents us. We must accelerate this quantity of life that spends itself so readily here, there and everywhere. Art is not the most precious manifestation of life. Art does not have the celestial, general value that people are pleased to accord it. Life is far more interesting. Dada boasts of knowing the exact proportion that is to be given to art; it introduces it with subtle, perfidious means into the acts of everyday fantasy. And vice versa. In art, Dada brings everything back to the initial, but relative, simplicity. It mingles its caprices with the chaotic wind o creation and with the barbaric dances of savage tribes. It wants logic to be reduced to a personal minimum and literature to be primarily intended for the person who creates it. Words have a weight, too, and are used for an abstract construction. The absurd doesn't frighten me because, from a more elevated point of view, I consider everything in life to be absurd. It is only the elasticity of our conventions that makes a link between disparate acts. Beauty and Truth in art don't exist; what interest me is the intensity of a personality, transposed directly and clearly into its work, man and his vitality, the angle under which he looks at the elements and the way he is able to pick these ornamental words, feelings and emotions, out of the basket of death. Dada tries to find out what words mean before using them, not from the point of view of grammar, but

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from that of representation. Objects and colours also pass through the same filter. It isn't a new technique that interests us, but the spirit. Why do you think we should bother about a pictorial, moral, poetic, social or poetic renovation? we all know that these stylistic renovations are only the successive uniforms of different historical eras, uninteresting questions and fashions and facades. We know very well that the people in Renaissance clothes are more or less the same as the people of today, and that Dchouang-Dsi was a dada as we are. You are making a mistake if you take Dada for a modern school, or even for a reaction against present-day schools. Several of my assertions have seemed to you to be old-fashioned and natural; this is the best proof that you were dadaists without knowing it, and perhaps even before the birth of dada. You will often hear it sad: Dada is a state of mind. You can be gay, sad, distressed, joyful, melancholy or dada. Without being literary, you can be romantics, you can be dreamers, weary, whimsical, shopkeepers, thin, convicts, conceited, pleasant or dada. Later, in the course of history, when Dada has become a precise, everyday word, and when its popular repetition has given it the meaning of an organic word with its necessary content, people will be dada with neither shame nor prejoration, for who today still thinks of literature in terms of calling a lake, a landscape, or a character, romantic? Slowly but surely a dada character is being formed. Dada is more or less everywhere, just as it is; with its defects, with the differences between people which it accepts and regards with indifference. We are very often told that we are incoherent, but people intend this word to convey an insult which I find rather hard to grasp. Everything is incoherent. The man who decides to have a bath but who goes to the cinema. The other man who wants to keep quiet but who says things that don't even come into his head. Another one who has an exact idea about something but who only manages to express the opposite in words which for him are a bad translation. No logic. Relative necessities discovered a posteriori, valid not from the point of view of their exactitude, but as explanations. The acts of life have neither beginning nor end. Everything happens in a very idiotic fashion. That's why everything is the same. Simplicity is called dada. To try to reconcile an inexplicable and momentary state with logic seems to me an amusing game. The convention of spoken language is amply sufficient, but for ourselves alone, for our inner games and our literature we don't need it any more. In painting, things happen in the same way. Painters, technicians who do very well what a camera records much better, will carry on with the game. We'll play ours. We don't know why, nor how. With everything that comes to hand. It will be badly done, but we don't care. The beginnings of Dada were not the beginnings of an art, but those of a disgust. Disgust with the magnificence of philosophers who for 3000 years have been explaining everything to us (what was the use?), disgust with the pretensions of those artists who were god's representatives on earth, disgust with passion, with real, morbid malice applied in cases where it isn't worth while, disgust with a new form of tyranny and restriction, which only accentuates men's instinct for domination instead of allaying it, disgust with all the catalogued categories, with the false prophets behind whom financial interests must be sought, with pride or with illness, disgust with people who separate good from evil, beauty from ugliness (for why is it more estimable to be red rather than green, left or right, tall or short?), disgust, finally, with the jesuitical dialectic that can explain everything and insert into people's poor brains oblique and obtuse ideas with neither roots nor base, all this by means of blinding artifices and the insinuating promises of charlatans.

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Dada, after having again attracted the attention of the whole word to death, to its constant presence amongst us, works by destroying more and more, not in extent but in itself. Moreover it takes no pride in these disgusts, they bring it neither advantage nor profit. It doesn't even fight anymore because it knows that there is no point in doing so, that none of this is of any importance. What interests a dadaist is his own way of living. But here we are reaching the places reserved for the great secret. Dada is a state of mind. That is why it is transformed according to races and events. Dada is applicable to everything, and yet it is nothing, it is the point where yes and no meet, not solemnly in the castles of human philosophies, but quite simple on street corners like dogs and grasshoppers. Dada is as useless as everything else in life. Dada has no pretensions, which is how life ought to be. Perhaps you'll understand me better if I tell you that dada is a virgin microbe that insinuates itself with the insistence of air into all the spaces that reason hasn't been able to fill with words or conventions. ABOUT THE AUTHORS Artaud, Antonin 1896-1948 French dramatist, poet, actor, and theoretician of the Surrealist movement who attempted to replace the "bourgeois" classical theatre with his "theatre of cruelty," a primitive ceremonial experience intended to liberate the human subconscious and reveal man to himself. Artaud's parents were partly Levantine Greek, and he was much affected by this background, especially in his fascination with mysticism. Lifelong mental disorders sent him repeatedly into asylums. He sent his Surrealist poetry L'Ombilic des limbes (1925; "Umbilical Limbo") and Le Pèse-nerfs (1925; Nerve Scales) to the influential critic Jacques Rivière, thus beginning their long correspondence. After studying acting in Paris, he made his debut in Aurélien Lugné-Poë's Dadaist-Surrealist Théâtre de l'Oeuvre. Artaud broke with the Surrealists when their leader, the poet André Breton, gave their allegiance to communism. Artaud, who believed the movement's strength was extrapolitical, joined another defecting Surrealist, the dramatist Roger Vitrac, in the short-lived Théâtre Alfred Jarry. Artaud played Marat in Abel Gance's film Napoléon (1927) and appeared as a friar in Carl Dreyer's classic film La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc (1928). Artaud's Manifeste du théâtre de la cruauté (1932; "Manifesto of the Theatre of Cruelty") and Le Théâtre et son double (1938; The Theatre and Its Double) call for a communion between actor and audience in a magic exorcism; gestures, sounds, unusual scenery, and lighting combine to form a language, superior to words, that can be used to subvert thought and logic and to shock the spectator into seeing the baseness of his world. Artaud's own works, less important than his theories, were failures. Les Cenci, performed in Paris in 1935, was an experiment too bold for its time. His vision, however, was a major influence on the Absurd theatre of Jean Genet, Eugène Ionesco, Samuel Beckett, and others and on the entire movement away from the dominant role of language and rationalism in contemporary theatre. His other works include D'un voyage au pays des Tarahumaras (1955; Peyote Dance), a collection of texts written between 1936 and 1948 about his travels in Mexico, Van Gogh, le suicidé de la société (1947), and Héliogabale, ou l'anarchiste couronné (1934; "Heliogabalus, or the Crowned Anarchist"). Breton, André

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1896-1966 As a medical student, Breton was interested in mental illness; his reading of the works of Sigmund Freud (whom he met in 1921) introduced him to the concept of the unconscious. Influenced by psychiatry and Symbolist poetry, he joined the Dadaists. In 1919 with Louis Aragon and Philippe Soupault, he cofounded the review Littérature; in its pages, Breton and Soupault published "Les Champs magnétiques" (1920; "Magnetic Fields"), the first example of the Surrealist technique of automatic writing. In 1924 Breton's Manifeste du surréalisme defined Surrealism as "pure psychic automatism, by which it is intended to express . . . the real process of thought. It is the dictation of thought, free from any control by the reason and of any aesthetic or moral preoccupation." Surrealism aimed to eliminate the distinction between dream and reality, reason and madness, objectivity and subjectivity. Breton's novel Nadja (1928) merged everyday occurrences with psychological aberrations. L'Immaculée Conception (1930), written with Paul Éluard, attempted to convey a verbal impression of different types of mental disorder. Les Vases communicants (1932; "The Communicating Vessels") and L'Amour fou (1937; "Mad Love") explored the connection between dream and reality. Breton also wrote theoretical and critical works, including Les Pas perdus (1924; "The Lost Steps"), Légitime Défense (1926; "Legitimate Defense"), Le Surréalisme et le peinture (1926; "Surrealism and Painting"), Qu'est-ce que le surréalisme? (1934; What is Surrealism?), and La Clé des champs (1953; "The Key to the Fields"). The Surrealist movement eventually became politically involved in the ferment of the 1930s, and Breton and several colleagues joined the Communist Party. His second Surrealist manifesto, published in 1930, explored the philosophical implications of Surrealism. Breton broke with the Communist Party in 1935 but remained committed to Marxist ideals. During the German occupation of France, Breton escaped to the United States. In 1942 at Yale University he organized a Surrealist exposition and issued yet another Surrealist manifesto. In 1946 Breton returned to France, where, the following year, he produced another Surrealist exhibition. His Poèmes appeared in 1948 in Paris, and Selected Poems was published in London in 1969. Picabia, Francis 1879-1953 Picabia was the son of a Cuban diplomat and a Frenchwoman. After studying at the École des Beaux-Arts and the École des Arts Décoratifs, he painted for nearly six years in an Impressionist mode akin to that of Alfred Sisley. In 1909 he adopted a Cubist style, and, along with Marcel Duchamp, he helped found the (Cubist) Section d'Or group of artists in 1911. Picabia went on to combine the Cubist style with Orphic elements in such paintings as "I See Again in Memory My Dear Udnie" (1913-14) and "Edtaonisl" (1913), to which he gave proto-Dadaist names. These early paintings are richly coloured assemblages of closely fitted, highly polished, metallic-looking shapes. As Picabia moved away from Cubism to Orphism, his colours and shapes became softer until, about 1916, he began to paint the satiric, machinelike contrivances that are his chief contribution to Dadaism. The drawing "Universal Prostitution" (1916-19) and the painting "Amorous Procession" (1917) are typical of his Dadaist phase. In 1915 in New York City, Picabia, Duchamp, and Man Ray together founded an American Dadaist movement. There Picabia exhibited at Alfred Stieglitz' gallery "291" and contributed to the proto-Dadaist review 291. In 1917 Picabia returned to Europe and joined Dadaist movements in Barcelona, Paris, and Zürich. After Dadaism broke up about 1921, he followed the poet André Breton into the Surrealist movement. He subsequently painted in Surrealist, abstract, and figurative styles. Picabia was notable for his inventiveness, adaptability, absurdist humour, and disconcerting changes of style.

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Tzara, Tristan 1896-1963 The Dadaist movement originated in Zürich during World War I, with the participation of the artists Jean Arp, Francis Picabia, and Marcel Duchamp. Tzara wrote the first Dada texts--La Première Aventure céleste de Monsieur Antipyrine (1916; "The First Heavenly Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine") and Vingtcinq poèmes (1918; "Twenty-Five Poems")--and the movement's manifestos, Sept Manifestes Dada (1924; "Seven Dada Manifestos"). In Paris he engaged in tumultuous activities with André Breton, Philippe Soupault, and Louis Aragon to shock the public and to disintegrate the structures of language. In about 1930, weary of nihilism and destruction, he joined his friends in the more constructive activities of Surrealism. He devoted much time to the reconciliation of Surrealism and Marxism and joined the Communist Party in 1936 and the French Resistance movement during World War II. These political commitments brought him closer to his fellowmen, and he gradually matured into a lyrical poet. His poems revealed the anguish of his soul, caught between revolt and wonderment at the daily tragedy of the human condition. His mature works started with L'Homme approximatif (1931; "The Approximate Man") and continued with Parler seul (1950; "Speaking Alone") and La Face intérieure (1953; "The Inner Face"). In these, the anarchically scrambled words of Dada were replaced with a difficult but humanized language. ART CORE Guerrilla Mind Theatre Collected essays and manifestoes from the Avant-Garde movement Handprint graphic adapted from DADA perodical cover art Artist Bios obtained at Britannica.com Formatted for eBook by Fauve Released October 2000

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*Example: when dogs cross the air in a diamond like ideas and the appendix of the meninx tells the time of the alarm programme (the title is mine) prices they are yesterday suitable next pictures/ appreciate the dream era of the eyes/ pompously that to recite the gospel sort darkens/ group apotheosis imagine said he fatality power of colours/ carved flies (in the theatre) flabbergasted reality a delight/ spectator all to effort of the no more 10 to 12/ during divagation twirls descends pressure/ render some mad single-file flesh on a monstrous crushing stage/ celebrate but their 160 adherents in steps on put on my nacreous/ sumptuous of land bananas sustained illuminate/ joy ask together almost/ of has the a such that the invoked visions/ some sings latter laughs/ exits situation disappears describes she 25 dance bows/ dissimulated the whole of it isn't was/ magnificent has the band better light whose lavishness stage music-halls me/ reappears following instant moves live/ business he didn't has lent/ manner words come these people Return

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*Translator's note: Pierre Albert-Birot's widow in helping with certain technical points of meaning has pointed out that this form of criticism is a critical synthesis, the point of which is to give an impression of the work without the critic intervening personally. The review is a form of digest in which the intelligent reader can discern the writer's opinion of the work in question. Return

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