MANIFESTOS OF SURREALISM ANDRE BRETON

Andre Breton - Monoskop THE MANIFESTOS OF SURREALISM 1929 -1940
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Baudelaire is Surrealist in morality. Rimbaud is Surrealist in the way he lived, and elsewhere. Mallarme is Surreal ist when he is confiding. Jarry is Surrealist in ...

[PDF] Manifesto of Surrealism - The exquisite corpse 1924 FIRST MANIFESTO
by A BRETON - ‎Cited by 717 - ‎Related articles
MANIFESTO. OF. SURREALISM ... SURREALISM in the very special sense that we understand it are being ... Baudelaire is Surrealist in morality. Rimbaud is ..

NEW TRANSLATION 2010
[PDF]
First Manifesto of Surrealism - 1924 - Kristine Door
by A Breton - ‎
Secrets of the Magical Surrealist Art. - Written surrealist composition, or first and last draft. - How not to be bored ... Baudelaire is surrealist in morality. Rimbaud is ...

The occultation of Surrealism: a study of the relationship between Bretonian Surrealism and western esotericism 

Bauduin, T.M.

Rad America V4 I1.pdf - Libcom
SPECIAL ISSUE ON SURREALISM
André BRETON: Preface to the International Surrealist Exhibition ... 27 Vincent BOUNOURE: Surrealism and the Savage Heart ... herited from Baudelaire:.

POEM

A burst of laughter

of sapphire in the island of Ceylon

The most beautiful straws

HAVE A FADED COLOR

UNDER THE LOCKS

on an isolated farm

FROM DAY TO DAY

the pleasant

grows worse

coffee

preaches for its saint

THE DAILY ARTISAN OF YOUR BEAUTY

M^ADAM,

a pair

of silk stockings

is not

A leap into space

A STAG

Love above all

Everything could be worked out so well

PARIS IS A BIG VILLAGE

Watch out for

the fire that covers

THE PRAYER

of fair weather

Know that

The ultraviolet rays

have finished their task

short and sweet

THE FIRST WHITE PAPER

OF CHANCE

Red will be

The wandering singer

WHERE IS HE?

in memory

in his house

AT THE SUITORS’ BALL

I do

as I dance

What people did, what they’re going to do

What is Surrealism?

Lecture delivered in Brussels by André Breton on the 1st June 1934

Comrades:
The activity of our surrealist comrades in Belgium is closely allied with our own activity, and I am happy to be in their company this evening. Magritte, Mesens, Nougé, Scutenaire and Souris are among those whose revolutionary will—outside of all consideration of their agreement or disagreement with us on particular points—has been for us in Paris a constant reason for thinking that the surrealist project, beyond the limitations of space and time, can contribute to the efficacious reunification of all those who do not despair of the transformation of the world and who wish this transformation to be as radical as possible.

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 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 Rimbaud'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!" [Never will I work, O torrents of flame! The hand that writes is worth the hand that ploughs! What a century of hands! I will never lift my hand!]).

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 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. The other day I noticed on the front page of a Paris newspaper a photograph of the surroundings of the Lambrechies mine on the day after the catastrophe. This photograph illustrated an article titled, in quotation marks, 'Only Our Chagrin Remains'. On the same page was another photograph—this one of the unemployed of your country standing in front of a hovel in the Parisian 'poor zone'—with the caption Poverty is not a crime. "How delightful!" I said to myself, glancing from one picture to the other. Thus the bourgeois public in France is able to console itself with the knowledge that the miners of your country were not necessarily criminals just because they got themselves killed for 35 francs a day. And doubtless the miners, our comrades, will be happy to learn that the committee of the Belgian Coal Association intends to postpone till the day after tomorrow the application of the wage cut set for 20 May. 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 confirmation 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 see the very cause of man's unhappiness, but also the source of his movement), we have assigned to ourselves the task of 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.

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SOME UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF MARY SHELLEY
BY FLORENCE BOYLSTON PELO 1916
This collection comprises twenty-three unpublished auto
graph letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the gifted
wife of the poet, written to their intimate friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Leigh Hunt. Delightful old letters they are, on age
yellowed paper, with broken seals and ink browned by time ;
they take us back a century, and gladly enough one goes,
to be in such excellent company as that of Shelley, Keats,
Lord Byron, and Charles Lamb.
The friendship between Hunt and Shelley began about
1812, when the young man Shelley sought counsel from him
on a manuscript poem; it ripened at the time Hunt was con
signed to jail for libeling the Prince Regent in an article
from his pen in the Examiner. Hunt says in his autobiog
raphy that " the imprisonment brought him acquainted with
Shelley." In 1816 Shelley visited Hunt, and after the sui
cide of Harriet Westbrook, Shelley's first wife, Hunt proved
in every way a valued and a sympathetic friend. Shelley
;was in need of sympathy, and Hunt gave it warmly. A
deep intimacy followed, lasting throughout Shelley's life
time ; and after his death the Hunts were close and near to
his widow, and Leigh Hunt gave her much valuable advice
and assistance in the compilation of the poet's works.
As the years progressed, the Shelleys and the Hunts
were frequent visitors at each other's houses. Hunt pos
sessed little business acumen, and Shelley's purse was al
ways at his disposal, while Hunt availed himself of every
opportunity to defend his friend against the all too numer
ous attacks of the press. It was with Mr. and Mrs. Hunt
that Shelley passed his last day in London. 

https://archive.org/details/lettersofmarywshe00shel/page/8/mode/2up

"This is one of the 150 copies printed by the Bibliophile Society for the owner of the original manuscript letters being subsequent to the ed. printed for the members."

PAUL VERLAINE 

BY ARTHUR SYMONS 1915

It was on the 29th of April, 1890, that I first met Verlaine.

I remember the hot night, the caf6 on the Boulevard Saint

Michel where Havelock Ellis and I had been dining with Charles

Morice and a young painter, a friend of his, whose name I forget.

Morice was then the titular apostle of Verlaine; he had written

a book about him which still remains better than anything which

has been written since; and in his other, not less admirable

book, La Litterature de Tout a I'Heure, he had planned out, almost

prophetically, the course that literature was to take just then

in France. Morice had promised to introduce me to Verlaine,

and when dinner was over he turned to me in his gentle and

urbane way, bending his great blond head a little, and pror osed

that we should go on to the Cafe Francois, where Verlaine was

generally to be found. Morice went on talking, as we strolled

in the slow French way up the boulevard, through all the noisy,

hasty gaiety of the hour; he talked as he always did, in his

fluent, ecstatic, rather mad way, full of charm and surprise.

I remember nothing that he said; I don't think I knew at the

time. I was awaiting, with delight and almost terror, my first

sight of the extraordinary creature whom I vaguely expected to

find somewhat in the likeness of his caricature in the Hommes

d'Aujourd'hui?cloven-footed and ending in a green tail. We

passed caf6 after caf6, every terrasse and the whole pavement

filled with students and women. Higher up the crowd dwindled,

and at last we came to the corner of the Rue Gay-Lussac. I

saw the name, Morice pushed open the door, we followed.

And there, in the midst of a noisy, laughing company of

young men, all drinking, I saw Verlaine, like Pan, I thought,

among reveling worshipers. He was smiling benevolently; a

large gray hat pushed back on his head, a white scarf around his

neck, no collar, the shabbiest of clothes. And my first thought,

after a moment's disgust at the company in which he sat, was, 

SOME UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF VERLAINE

BY ARTHUR SYMONS 1915

I

It was in the hope of getting a little money for Verlaine

that a few of us arranged for him to come over to London

and give a lecture in the Hall of Barnard's Inn. The date

was fixed for the evening of November 21st, 1893, and he was

to come over by the night boat on the 19th, and stay with

me in the Temple until he went on to Oxford, where he was

to repeat his lecture. Knowing that Verlaine was not to be

relied on in any matter requiring action, I had written over,

a few days before, to a friend of mine, a young American

man of letters who was living in Paris, begging him to see

that Verlaine was properly started on his journey. He did

not even know him personally, he was busy with journalism,

but I knew no one else on whom I could rely, and I made

the letter very imploring and peremptory. I got a quaint

and humorous reply, which put me quite at my ease.

" I

find myself," wrote my friend,

" the somewhat dazed victim

of an obviously fascinating fatality. This instant your

urgent letter : this instant I reply

i Yes.' I don't know what

you are letting me in for, but you may count on me. . . .

Cheque, directions, amulet to conquer the Evil One, I ex

pect by return of post."

Paul Verlaine

by

 

Gauss, Christian 1908

Of all the poets, from Waring to Ernest Dowson, who have
lost themselves in the nineteenth century, the most pitiable, the
most pathetic, because in a sense the most helpless, is Paul
Verlaine, the Pauvre L?lian of his own "Poetes Maudits/' As
Fran?ois Copp?e said at his funeral, he had remained a child
to the end. He had only too often done the things which he ought
not to have done, but he did them always suddenly, impulsive
ly, driven on by one of those compelling whims which had so
frequently led him to garrets, to hospital cots, and had thrice
marked him with the brand of the criminal. Yet he believed
in them still; at least, he followed them. Like Kabelais, he
seemed to think that happiness lay at their end, Bon espoir y gist
au fond: but he never found it and he was to be forever disap
pointed. Yet having yielded and having fallen, he would be over
come by the need of confession, and he would tell you all, in
genuously, naively, like a child. The unaccustomed silence of
his room, a sheet of white paper and his pencil, and he would
start his peccavi: a new-found friend and a little absinthe, and
the sad story would have to be recounted. The caf? table became
his confessional, the caf? blotter often his confessor.
This is the secret of his work, of his characteristic verse from
" Saturnian Poems " to
"
uvres Posthumes," of his prose which
he -could not help making autobiographical, as witness the " Con
fessions/' "My Hospitals/' "My Prisons/' "The Memoirs of
a Widower/' even of his one volume of criticism, in which he
could not refrain, mutato nomine, from passing judgment on
himself. He was pent up in his own immediate experience,
hedged in by his own horizon. The noises of the world came to
die at the threshold of his cell, and like the squirrel in the cage
he turned forever the illusive wheel of confession. Illusive,?
for aside from its bringing him an occasional much-needed five
franc piece from his publisher, Vanier, and providing that
catharsis for excess of sorrow which even so sane an artist as
Goethe knew, his written confessions in poetry and his many un
written ones in prose availed him nothing. 

CASANOVA AT DUX: AN UNPUBLISHED CHAPTER OF HISTORY.
BY ARTHUR SYMONS. NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 1919
I.
The "Memoirs" of Casanova, though they have enjoyed the
popularity of a bad reputation, have never had justice done to
them by serious students of literature, of life and of history. One
English writer, indeed, Mr. Havelock Ellis, has realized that
"there are few more delightful books in the world," and he has
analyzed them in an essay on Casanova, published in "Affirma
tions," with extreme care and remarkable subtlety. But this es
say stands alone, at all events in English, as an attempt to take
Casanova seriously, to show him in his relation to his time, and in
his relation to human problems. And yet these "Memoirs" are
perhaps the most valuable document which we possess on the so
ciety of the eighteenth century; they are the history of a unique
life, a unique personality, one of the greatest of autobiographies;
as a record of adventures, they are more entertaining than "Gil
Bias," or "Monte Cristo," or any of the imaginary travels, and
escapes, and masquerades in life, which have been written in imi
tation of them. They tell the story of a man who loved life pas
sionately for its own sake: one to whom woman was, indeed, the
most important thing in the world, but to whom nothing in the
world was indifferent. The bust which gives us the most lively
notion of him shows us a great, vivid, intellectual face, full of
fiery energy and calm resource, the face of a thinker and a fighter
in one. A scholar, an adventurer, perhaps a Cabalist, a busy
stirrer in politics, a gamester, one "born for the fairer sex," as he
tells us, and born also to be a vagabond; this man, who is remem
bered now for his written account of his own life, 

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About our speakers
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YESTERDAY'S MAN THE CASE AGAINST JOE BIDEN

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Join us for a discussion on how the Democratic establishment triangulated themselves into defeat.

Branko Marcetic's new book exposes the forgotten history of Joe Biden, one of the United States’ longest-serving politicians, and one of its least scrutinized. Over nearly fifty years in politics, the man called “Middle-Class Joe” served as a key architect of the Democratic Party’s rightward turn, ushering in the end of the liberal New Deal order and assisting the political takeover of the radical right.

BAUDELAIRE BY MANET

An Analysis of Paris Spleen

Burak Demiryakan

Baudelaire as a poet who observes the changing city and transforms it into art, constitutes a significant place in the modern literature because he is, as Walter Benjamin states, a lyric poet in the era of high capitalism. Transformation of Paris in 19th century is interpreted by many scholars like Walter Benjamin and artists such as Charles Baudelaire, Edgar Degas, Pierre Auguste Renoir etc. Paris transformed into a modern city from a medieval one after Hausmann renovation. This renovation created boulevards, cafes and museums which affected not only the life of artists who gathered into the cafes, but also the whole life. Modern life has been shaped in flesh and bones because of the transformation of the life space. Changes in the city and in the life are reflected in the artworks. Baudelaire as a flaneur who observes the city with the eyes of an artist reflects the modern life in Paris in 19th century in Paris Spleen as a book that interprets the new Paris as a creator of a spleen.
I tried to examine that how modern life in the city leaked into art. How did Baudelaire see the modern city and its inhabitants? What did he mean by ‘spleen’? What is the relationship between the modern life space and the art? How was the modern daily life in Paris in 19th century and what was the impression of Baudelaire?

Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo - PDF Free Download - ePDF

https://epdf.pub › paris-spleen-and-la-fanfarlo

baudelaire Paris Spleen and La Fanfarlo Translated by raymond n. mackenzie CHARLES BAUDELAIRE aris pleen AND a... ... Charles Baudelaire Le Spleen de Paris Petits poèmes en prose BeQ Charles Baudelaire Le Spleen de Paris Petits poème...

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.241560/page/n3/mode/2up

THE POEMS AND PROSE POEMS

OF

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE BY

JAMES HUNEKER

NEW YORK

BRENTANO'S

PUBLISHERS

1919

---

CONTENTS

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE by James Huneker

THE FLOWERS OF EVIL

The Dance of Death
The Beacons
The Sadness of the Moon
Exotic Perfume
Beauty
The Balcony
The Sick Muse
The Venal Muse
The Evil Monk
The Temptation
The Irreparable
A Former Life
Don Juan in Hades
The Living Flame
Correspondences
The Flask
Reversibility
The Eyes of Beauty
Sonnet of Autumn
The Remorse of the Dead
The Ghost
To a Madonna
The Sky
Spleen
The Owls
Bien Loin D'Ici
Music
Contemplation
To a Brown Beggar-maid
The Swan
The Seven Old Men
The Little Old Women
A Madrigal of Sorrow
The Ideal
Mist and Rain
Sunset
The Corpse
An Allegory
The Accursed
La Beatrice
The Soul of Wine
The Wine of Lovers
The Death of Lovers
The Death of The Poor
The Benediction
Gypsies Travelling
Franciscæ Meæ Laudes
Robed in a Silken Robe
A Landscape
The Voyage

LITTLE POEMS IN PROSE

The Stranger
Every Man His Chimæra
Venus and the Fool
Intoxication
The Gifts of the Moon
The Invitation to the Voyage
What Is Truth?
Already!
The Double Chamber
At One O'clock in the Morning
The Confiteor of the Artist
The Thyrsus
The Marksman
THe Shooting-range and the Cemetery
The Desire to Paint
The Glass-Vendor
The Widows
The Temptations; or, Eros, Plutus, and Glory

According to phylogenetic analyses, the oldest Indo-European common story features a Smith selling his soul to the Devil in return for power, before tricking him out of his prize.

Which, as a frand observed, later came to be known as the tale of Faust. So Europe is a Faustian civilization in the most direct sense.

All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity ...

libcom.org › library › all-solid-melts-air-experience-modernity-marshall-b...

Jan 19, 2017 - Berman delves into the aesthetic and intellectual controversies of art, literature, and architecture: ... All That is Solid Melts into Air.pdf (14.28 M