The Seer Letter #2, or Lettre de Rimbaud à Paul Demeny - 15 mai 1871:
excerpts:
All ancient poetry ended in Greek poetry, harmonious life. -- From Greece to the romantic movement--Middle Ages--there are writers and versifiers. From Ennius to Theroldus, from Theroldus to Casimir Delavigne, it is all rhymed prose, a game, degradation and glory of countless idiotic generations: Racine is pure, strong and great. -- If his rhymes had been blown out and his hemistichs mixed up, the Divine Fool would today be as unknown as any old author of Origins. -- After Racine, the game get [sic] moldy. It lasted two thousand years!
Neither joke nor paradox. Reason inspires me with more enthusiasm on the subject than a Young France would have with rage. Moreover, newcomers are free to condemn the ancestors. We are at home and we have the time.
Romanticism has never been carefully judged. Who would have judged it? The critics! The Romantics? who prove so obviously that a song is so seldom a work, that is to say, a thought sung and understood by the singer.
For I is someone else [Car Je est un autre: I is an other]. If brass wakes up a trumpet, it is not its fault. This is obvious to me: I am present at this birth of my thought: I watch it and listen to it: I draw a stroke of the bow: the symphony makes its stir in the depths, or comes on to the stage in a leap.
If old imbeciles had not discovered only the false meaning of the Ego, we would not have to sweep away those millions of skeletons which, for times immemorial, have accumulated the results of their one-eyed intellects by claiming to be the authors!
In Greece, as I have said, verses and lyres give rhythm to Action. After that, music and rhymes are games and pastimes. The study of this past delights the curious: several rejoice in reviving those antiquities--it is for them. Universal intelligence has always thrown out its ideas naturally; men picked up a part of these fruits of the mind: people acted through them and wrote books about them. Things continued thus: man not working on himself, not yet being awake, or not yet in the fullness of the great dream. Civil servants, writers: author, creator, poet, that man never existed!
The first study of the man who wants to be a poet is the knowledge of himself, complete. He looks for his soul, inspects it, tests it, learns it. As soon as he knows it, he must cultivate it! It seems simple: in every mind a natural development takes place; so many egoists call themselves authors, there are many others who attribute their intellectual progress to themselves! -- But the soul must be made monstrous: in the fashion of the comprachicos [kidnappers of children who mutilate them in order to exhibit them as monsters], if you will! Imagine a man implanting and cultivating warts on his face.
I say one must be a seer, make oneself a seer.
The Poet makes himself a seer by a long, gigantic and rational derangement of all the senses. All forms of love, suffering, and madness. He searches himself. He exhausts all poisons in himself and keeps only their quintessences. Unspeakable torture where he needs all his faith, all his super-human strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the one accursed--and the supreme Scholar!--Because he reaches the unknown! Since he cultivated his soul, rich already, more than any man! He reaches the unknown, and when, bewildered, he ends by losing the intelligence of his visions, he has seen them. Let him die as he leaps through unheard of and unnamable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where the other collapsed!
from The Seer Letter #2
(French: Lettre de Rimbaud à Paul Demeny - 15 mai 1871)
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Globe and Mail: Four-year-old opens art exhibition in New York; paintings sell for $9,900
Aelita Andre:
Marla Olmstead:
Kieron Williamson:
Aelita Andre:
Marla Olmstead:
Kieron Williamson:
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Robert Bringhurst:
Poetry, I'm often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry (and so is a good deal else). But when words are made from poetry, as when bread is made from wheat, a plate from clay, or a desk and chair from seasoned wood, the substance may or may not be permitted to speak. Poetry can be articulated in words -- but it can just as easily be smothered, wasted, trashed in the very process that might have given it breath.
...
[T]ranslators, like others, can spend their lives in a cultural rut. Then, in the name of enlarging our sense of the world, they only reinforce its known size and shape.
In the indoor world of desks and chairs and words -- the goldfish bowl of bookshelves, ink and paper -- translation becomes a profession. Its fundamental task is still the task of every profession: to honor what-is, by articulating the poetry in things. We have of course no assurance that what-is wants our attention, and that's a reason to pay attention cautiously, respectfully -- but not a reason not to pay what's owed. Translators, lawyers, doctors, teachers and engineers, like bakers, potters and carpenters, all have to be poets in their way. When they are not, things are apt to go awry. And they do go awry, because professions become institutions, and institutions close their doors and windows, leaving poetry outside.
That does no harm to poetry, of course; it only harms the institutions. Outside -- meaning outside human management -- is the place where poetry lives: in the mountains, in the forest, in the body, in the mind. The forest is not an institution, though the Forest Service is. An ecology is not an institution. But a fenced and managed forest or body or mind is somewhere on the path from ecological to institutional status.
So why do we meet poetry so often in the guise of managed language? Because that's where we officially permit it to exist. Poetry, like alcohol and sex, is subjected to rules and invested with ritual because of the threat it represents.
- Robert Bringhurst,
from "What is Found in Translation"
in Everywhere Being is Dancing.
Poetry, I'm often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry (and so is a good deal else). But when words are made from poetry, as when bread is made from wheat, a plate from clay, or a desk and chair from seasoned wood, the substance may or may not be permitted to speak. Poetry can be articulated in words -- but it can just as easily be smothered, wasted, trashed in the very process that might have given it breath.
...
[T]ranslators, like others, can spend their lives in a cultural rut. Then, in the name of enlarging our sense of the world, they only reinforce its known size and shape.
In the indoor world of desks and chairs and words -- the goldfish bowl of bookshelves, ink and paper -- translation becomes a profession. Its fundamental task is still the task of every profession: to honor what-is, by articulating the poetry in things. We have of course no assurance that what-is wants our attention, and that's a reason to pay attention cautiously, respectfully -- but not a reason not to pay what's owed. Translators, lawyers, doctors, teachers and engineers, like bakers, potters and carpenters, all have to be poets in their way. When they are not, things are apt to go awry. And they do go awry, because professions become institutions, and institutions close their doors and windows, leaving poetry outside.
That does no harm to poetry, of course; it only harms the institutions. Outside -- meaning outside human management -- is the place where poetry lives: in the mountains, in the forest, in the body, in the mind. The forest is not an institution, though the Forest Service is. An ecology is not an institution. But a fenced and managed forest or body or mind is somewhere on the path from ecological to institutional status.
So why do we meet poetry so often in the guise of managed language? Because that's where we officially permit it to exist. Poetry, like alcohol and sex, is subjected to rules and invested with ritual because of the threat it represents.
- Robert Bringhurst,
from "What is Found in Translation"
in Everywhere Being is Dancing.
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