Essay On Antonin Artaud

Essay On Antonin Artaud-6
These foolhardy works often seem to you the product of a mind which is not yet in possession of itself and which perhaps never will posses itself, but who knows what brain they conceal, what power of life, what mental fever which circumstances alone have reduced. Then feet, hands, scalps, masks, colonnades, porticoes, temples, and alembics, falling slower and slower as if through space, then three scorpions one after the other and finally a frog, and a scarab which lands with heart-breaking, nauseating slowness.]YOUNG MAN [shouting at the top of his voice]: Heaven's gone crazy. [Pushes the GIRL off ahead of him]Who, in the heart of some anxiety at the bottom of certain dreams, has not know death as a marvelous, disruptive feeling which could never be confused with anything else of a mental order?Enough about myself and about my works that are still unborn. Antonin Artaud YOUNG MAN: I love you and everything is fine. One must have experienced with this exhausting crescendo of anguish which comes over one in waves and then swells one up as if forced by some unbearable bellows.Supposed that each of my pondered instants is on certain shaken by these deep tornadoes which are not betrayed by anything external. If only I had the strength, I would sometimes indulge myself, in thought, in the luxury of subjecting to the mortification of such pressing pain any prominent mind, any writer, young or old, who produces and whose new-born thought carries weight in order to see what remained of him.

These foolhardy works often seem to you the product of a mind which is not yet in possession of itself and which perhaps never will posses itself, but who knows what brain they conceal, what power of life, what mental fever which circumstances alone have reduced. Then feet, hands, scalps, masks, colonnades, porticoes, temples, and alembics, falling slower and slower as if through space, then three scorpions one after the other and finally a frog, and a scarab which lands with heart-breaking, nauseating slowness.]YOUNG MAN [shouting at the top of his voice]: Heaven's gone crazy. [Pushes the GIRL off ahead of him]Who, in the heart of some anxiety at the bottom of certain dreams, has not know death as a marvelous, disruptive feeling which could never be confused with anything else of a mental order?Enough about myself and about my works that are still unborn. Antonin Artaud YOUNG MAN: I love you and everything is fine. One must have experienced with this exhausting crescendo of anguish which comes over one in waves and then swells one up as if forced by some unbearable bellows.Supposed that each of my pondered instants is on certain shaken by these deep tornadoes which are not betrayed by anything external. If only I had the strength, I would sometimes indulge myself, in thought, in the luxury of subjecting to the mortification of such pressing pain any prominent mind, any writer, young or old, who produces and whose new-born thought carries weight in order to see what remained of him.

Writers, as the (brilliant) introductory Sontag essay references, such as Sade and Reich attempt to traverse within this nebulous territory of writing in extremis.

With Artaud, what he is trying to communicate, even though it borders on the edge on the possibility of language, is the intense suffering he is going through.

For example, in his notable theatre of cruelty essay in the Theatre and its Double, he advocates shattering this artificial barrier between audience and performance where there exists a conspiracy among set, setting, and spectator, the three operating in creating an illusion which isn't really grounded in illusion.

Even though theatre is an illusion, we must in supension knowing that it is an illusion.

I would recommend this book to anyone interested in volatile minds, explosive language, experimental writing, surrealism (which Artaud has beef with, he's a nice sort of counterpoint to surrealism rather than a surrealist himself), spirituality, or psychoanalysis. It becomes immediately apparent that Artaud was not one who was situated at the fringes of all things--of society, of his associations, of his self--but one who had breached the borders andbecame utterly lost within the dangerous territory that lay beyond.

His severe mental illness seems evident in the bizarre associations hemakes between two concepts, although the strength of his prose is born of his peculiar brand of perverse lyricism. For all of Artaud's evident strangeness, it seems ironic t It becomes immediately apparent that Artaud was not one who was situated at the fringes of all things--of society, of his associations, of his self--but one who had breached the borders andbecame utterly lost within the dangerous territory that lay beyond.Other highlights include: all writing is pig shit, artaud the momo, and his radio play. As with most "Collected Works", some of the items included herein are of dubious worth, like Artaud's early unpublished poems (utterly unexceptional) and some of his letters to friends.To be fair, those two items are shoved in the back of what is an otherwise awesome book.The "short stories" (more like prose poems really) are all amazing and some of his more classic essays, which I'd already read via the Anthology, are in Volume 1.I would recommend this book to anyone interested in volatile m As with most "Collected Works", some of the items included herein are of dubious worth, like Artaud's early unpublished poems (utterly unexceptional) and some of his letters to friends.We cannot know it is a lie that masks the truth; all art lies- Artaud.He has this moralistic principle of what art ought to be that is written in the most honest prose possible.With the publication of Artaud's Collected Works, in four volumes, English readers have been granted access to the range of Artaud's literary output, which extends well beyond his contributions to the theatre.The first volume of Artaud's Collected Works is divided into two parts that contain seven wo Antonin Artaud, along with Bertolt Brecht, is considered "the leading figure of European theatre in the twentieth century".GIRL [lower still]: You love me and everything is fine. It is a sort of suction cup on the soul, whose acridity spread like acid into the furthermost bounds of the senses. Reading Artaud is a very draining experience and a difficult process.There isn't a linear goal with a narrative with premises leading to a conclusion.

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