By Antonin Artaud
“I am the man,” wrote Artaud, “who has top charted his inmost self.” Antonin Artaud used to be a superb poet who, like Poe, Holderlin, and Nerval, desired to dwell within the countless and requested that the human spirit burn in absolute freedom.
To society, he used to be a madman. Artaud, even if, used to be now not insane yet in luciferian pursuit of what society retains hidden. the fellow who wrote Van Gogh the fellow Suicided by way of Society raged opposed to the madness of social associations with perception that proves extra prescient with each passing 12 months. at the present time, as Artaud’s vatic thunder nonetheless crashes above the “larval confusion” he despised, what's so much outstanding in his writings is an extravagant lucidity.
This assortment offers us necessary Artaud at the occult, magic, the theater, brain and physique, the cosmos, uprising, and revolution in its inner most feel.
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Extra resources for Antonin Artaud Anthology
There he is, cast out and onto the naked level of the senses, in a light without dimension. Outside the infinite musicality of his nerve waves, prey to the bound less hunger of the air, to the absolute cold. Translated by Dcrvid Rattray TRANSPARENT ABELARD Humming, the armature of the sky continues to trace on the window pane of his soul the same amorous signs, the same warm communica tions, which would perhaps be able to save him from being a man if only he would consent to save himself from love.
She and I. We're really there. I'm holding her. I'm kissing her. One last pressure holds me back, freezes me. I feel the Church, between my thighs, moaning, holding on to me. Will it paralyze me ? Will I pull out ? No, no ! I'm smashing the last wall. Saint Francis of Assisi, ex-guardian of my sex, draws aside. Sainte Brigitte unclenches my teeth. S aint Augustine undoes my belt. Sainte Catherine of Siena puts God to sleep. It's over, oh it's over, I'm no longer a virgin. The heavenly wall has turned around.
And every fiber in me is unravelled and finds its place revealed in the predestined cells. In it, I return upwards, to my source; in it, I sense the place and position of my mind. He who painted this picture is the greatest painter in the world. To Andre Masson, who deserves it. Translated by David Rattray THERE'S AN ANGUISH • • • There's an acid and turbid anguish - powerful as a knife - whose quartering is heavy as earth; an anguish of lightning, punctuated by abysms, serried and pressed like bedbugs, like a kind of brittle vermin whose every movement is congealed; an anguish where the mind chokes and cuts itself - and kills itself.