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Salvador Dalí. (Spanish, 1904-1989). Les Chants de Maldoror by Comte de Lautréamont. 1934. Illustrated book with forty-two photogravure and drypoints after celluloid engravings, page: 12 13/16 x 10″ (32 x 25.5 cm) Prints: various dimensions. Publisher: Editions Albert Skira, Paris. Printer: Lacourière, Paris. Edition: 200 announced; 100 printed.
‘Les Chants de Maldoror was published in 1869 by the Comte de Lautréamont, the ‘noble’ pseudonym adopted by the Uruguayan-born Frenchman Isidore Lucien Ducasse (1846 – 1870). Ducasse died in 1870, aged 24, in the chaos of the siege of Paris during the Franca-Prussian war. His provocative ideas are presented in two books, Les Chants de Maldoror (1869) and Poésies (1870), from which the author emerges as a man apparently deranged, possessing instinctive cruelty, nihilistic humour and extraordinary sexual prowess. The romantic epic of the anti-hero Maldoror consists of six ‘songs’. It is difficult to fathom. Rife with bombastic clichés, crazy Homeric epithets, absurd comparisons, unexpected banalities and pseudo-profundities, the work has a style entirely its own which is mystifying to the reader. One gets the feeling that absolutely everything is undermined, and that every passage is therefore questionable. Maldoror’s overriding preoccupation is to combat God and humanity. The book is a swingeing onslaught on and total invalidation of Western society, the social system, institutions and ideologies. Often resorting to extreme parody, grotesquery and burlesque. cynicism and black humour, Ducasse brazenly takes up arms against the church, state and morals. In a letter to his Belgian publisher Verboeckhoven, Ducasse wrote: ‘I have sung the praise of evil.’ And indeed, his literary hero’s name derives from evil: ‘Mal d’Aurore’ means the Dawn of Evil.
‘It was Pablo Picasso who proposed that Lautréamont’s inspiring ‘cult’ book should be illustrated by his compatriot Dali, who had been introduced to it by the writer René Crevel. Dalì embarked on the task in 1932, drawing preliminary studies for some of the illustrations. He was approximately 28 years old when he made the series, about the same age as the 19th-century author of the bizarre texts who died so young. Dali deployed the entire arsenal of his characteristic imagery in his illustrations to Les Chants. The etcher’s tool transformed the poet’s satanic deluge of words into a paradigm of the artist’s own ‘criticalparanoid’ method. In the like-minded artist, Les Chants evoked associations, hallucinations and deliriums which are linked with his ‘personal myths’. For example, Dali quoted Jean-Francois Millet’s popular painting The Angelus here for the first time. The well-known figures of the farmer and his wife sunk in prayer, standing in a potato field, appear in four etchings with items from Dal!’s typical vocabulary, such as flaccid parts of the body supported by crutches and distorted bones.’ — Chris Will, Boijmans Van Beuningan Museum, Rotterdam
‘This drawing was reproduced as the frontispiece to Comte de Lautréamont, Isidore Ducasse, Oeuvres complétes: Chants de Maldoror, poésies, lettres (Paris, 1940). Lautréamont was central to the alternative literary genealogy the Surrealists constructed for themselves; his violent, gothic epic, Les Chants de Maldoror, was particularly valued for its extraordinary poetic images, such as the famous metaphor “as beautiful as the chance encounter on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella” (Oeuvres complétes, Paris, 1963 ed.,rev. and enl., p. 327), which virtually became the Surrealist’s motto.
‘Very little was known about Lautréamont, however. Dalí claimed the portrait was obtained using his “paranoiac-critical” method, which he thought of as a “spontaneous method of irrational knowledge” (Salvador Dalí, Conquest of the Irrational, New York, 1935, p. 15). Usually, this method involved altenative readings of objective phenomena, as in the double images with which he was experimenting at this time (see The Image Disappears), which Dalí described as a form of delirium. Here, however, it seems there was no original object of image to provoke the paranoiac associations; the image developed spontaneously by a process of intense concentration of the imagination. Dalí once compared himself to a medium, able to “see” images “that would spring up in my imagination: (Salvador Dalí, The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí, New York, 1961, tr. by Haakon M. Chevalier, p. 220), which he could the situate on the blank page of canvas.
‘The focus on certain details and the emphasis on a single, gazing eye recall other portraits by Dalí of this period, most significantly his self-portraits in Impressions of Africa and related preparatory drawings for this painting of 1938 (Rotterdam, Museum Boymans-van Beuningen; Descharnes and Néret 1994, vol. 1, pld. 671-73). Dalí may also have taken a cue from a mysterious image, a very detailed pencil drawing of a single eye, reproduced in La Révolution surréaliste (2 [Jan. 15, 1925], p. 25) with the caption”Marcel Proust, par Georges Bessiére.” Imagery centering on eyes or an eye is ubiquitous in Surrealist art, where it usually stands paradoxically for the idea of internal rather than external vision. Lautrémont was regarder by the Surrealists as one of the great visionaries.
‘Dalí signed this drawing with his own name preceded by that of his companion, Gala, whom he had met in 1929, when she was still married to Paul Eluard. This dual signature reflects the intensity of his relationship with Gala, which lef to a degree of identification with her.’ — Dawn Ades
‘A giant-sized praying mantis was the ostensible subject of Dali’s 1934 painting, “Cannibalism of the Praying Mantis of Lautreamont.” It requires an effort of concentration to perceive not so much the crutch as the small anamorphic skull that issues from the dark knot of the figure on the right, the position occupied by the praying mantis who mimics the the position of the praying woman in Jean-Francois Millet’s celebrated mid-nineteenth century depiction of rural piety. The praying mantis had a sinister symbolism to surrealists because the female praying mantis devours the male after mating with him.’ — Salvador Dali Foundation
Lautreamont: Bio, info
Maldoror: Le Site
‘Maldoror’ editions: a history
Three excerpts from ‘Maldoror’
translated by Sonja Elen Kisa
FIRST CANTO
Stanza 1: The Reader Forewarned
God grant that the reader, emboldened and having become at present as fierce as what he is reading, find, without loss of bearings, his way, his wild and treacherous passage through the desolate swamps of these sombre, poison-soaked pages; for, unless he should bring to his reading a rigorous logic and a sustained mental effort at least as strong as his distrust, the lethal fumes of this book shall dissolve his soul as water does sugar. It is not right that everyone read the pages that follow: a sole few will savour this bitter fruit without danger. As a result, wavering soul, before penetrating further into such uncharted barrens, draw back, step no deeper. Mark my words: draw back, step no deeper, like the eyes of a son respectfully flinching away from his mother’s august contemplation, or rather, like an acute angle formation of cold-sensitive cranes stretching beyond the eye can reach, soaring through the winter silence in deep meditation, under tight sail towards a focal point on the horizon, from where there suddenly rises a peculiar gust of wind, omen of a storm. The oldest crane, alone at the forefront, on seeing this, shakes his head like a rational person and consequently his beak too, which he clicks, as he is uneasy (and so would I be, in his shoes); whilst his old, feather-stripped neck, contemporary of three generations of cranes, sways in irritated undulations that foreshadow the oncoming thunderstorm. After looking with composure several times in every direction with eyes that bespeak experience, the first crane (for he is the privileged one to show his tail feathers to the other, intellectually inferior cranes) vigilantly cries out like a melancholy sentinel driving back the common enemy, and then carefully steers the nose of the geometric figure (it would be a triangle, but the third side, formed in space by these curious avian wayfarers, is invisible), be it to port, or to starboard, like a skilful captain; and, manoeuvring with wings that seem no larger than those of a sparrow, he thus adopts, since he is no dumb creature, a different and safer philosophical course.
Stanza 6: The Nails (The Reader as an Accomplice)
One should let one’s nails grow for a fortnight. Oh! How sweet it is to brutally snatch from his bed a child with no hair yet on his upper lip, and, with eyes wide open, to pretend to suavely stroke his forehead, brushing back his beautiful locks! Then, suddenly, at the moment when he least expects it, to sink one’s long nails into his tender breast, being careful, though, not to kill him; for if he died, there would be no later viewing of his misery. Then, one drinks the blood, licking the wounds; and, during the entire procedure, which ought to last no shorter than an aeon, the boy cries. Nothing could be better than his blood, warm and just freshly squeezed out as I have described, if it weren’t for his tears, bitter as salt. Mortal one, haven’t you ever tasted your blood, when by chance you cut your finger? Tasty, isn’t it? For it has no taste. Besides, can you not recall one day, absorbed in your dismal thoughts, having lifted your deeply cupped palm to your sickly face, drenched by the downpour from your eyes; the said hand then making its fatal way to your mouth, which, from this vessel chattering like the teeth of the schoolboy who glances sidelong at the one born to oppress him, sucked the tears in long draughts? Tasty, aren’t they? For they taste of vinegar. A taste reminiscent of the tears of your true love, except a child’s tears are so much more pleasing to the palate. He is incapable of deceit, for he does not yet know evil: but the most loving of women is bound to betray sooner or later… This I deduce by analogy, despite my ignorance of what friendship means, what love means (I doubt I will ever accept either of these, at least not from the human race). So, since your blood and tears do not disgust you, go ahead, feed confidently on the adolescent’s tears and blood. Blindfold him, while you tear open his quivering flesh; and, after listening to his resplendent squeals for a good few hours, similar to those hoarse shrieks of death one hears from the throats of the mortally wounded on battlefields, you then, running out faster than an avalanche, fly back in from the room next door, pretending to rush to his rescue. You untie his hands, with their swollen nerves and veins, you restore sight to his distraught eyes, as you resume licking his tears and blood. Oh, what a genuine and noble change of heart! That divine spark within us, which so rarely appears, is revealed; too late! How the heart longs to console the innocent one we have harmed. “O child, who has just undergone such cruel torture, who could have ever committed such an unspeakable crime upon you! You poor soul! The agony you must be going through! And if your mother were to know of this, she would be no closer to death, so feared by evildoers, than I am now. Alas! What, then, are good and evil? Might they be one and the same thing, by which in our furious rage we attest our impotence and our passionate thirst to attain the infinite by even the maddest means? Or might they be two separate things? Yes… they’d better be one and the same… for, if not, what shall become of me on the Day of Judgment? Forgive me, child. Here before your noble and sacred eyes stands the man who crushed your bones and tore off the strips of flesh dangling from various parts of your body. Was it a frenzied inspiration of my delirious mind, was it a deep inner instinct independent of my reason, such as that of the eagle tearing at its prey, that drove me to commit this crime? And yet, as much as my victim, I suffered! Forgive me, child. Once we are freed from this transient life, I want us to be entwined for evermore, becoming but one being, my mouth fused to your mouth. But even so, my punishment will not be complete. So you will tear at me, without ever stopping, with your teeth and nails at the same time. I will adorn and embalm my body with perfumes and garlands for this expiatory holocaust; and together we shall suffer, I from being torn, you from tearing me… my mouth fused to yours. O blond-haired child, with your eyes so gentle, will you now do what I advise you? Despite yourself, I wish you to do it, and you will set my conscience at rest.” And in saying this, you will have wronged a human being and be loved by that same being: therein lies the greatest conceivable happiness. Later, you could take him to the hospital, for the crippled boy will be in no condition to earn a living. They will proclaim you a hero, and centuries from now, laurel crowns and gold medals will cover your bare feet on your ancient iconic tomb. O you, whose name I will not inscribe upon this page consecrated to the sanctity of crime, I know your forgiveness was as boundless as the universe. But look, I’m still here!
SECOND CANTO
Stanza 13: The Shipwreck and Sharks (Maldoror’s First Love)
I was seeking a soul resembling mine, and I could not find it. I searched throughout the seven seas; my perseverance proved of no use. Yet I could not remain alone. I needed someone who’d approve of my nature; there had to be somebody out there with the same ideas as me. It was morning; the sun rose over the horizon, in all its splendour, and here rises before my eyes a young man as well, whose presence made flowers sprout in his wake. He approached me, and holding out his hand: “I have come to you who seek me. God bless this happy day.” But I replied: “Begone! I never summoned you. I don’t need your companionship…” It was evening; night was already drawing the darkness of her veil over nature. A beautiful woman, whose form I could barely make out, was also drawing the influence of her enchantment over me. She looked upon me with compassion, however she dared not speak to me. So I said: “Come closer, so I may see your face clearly, for at this distance the starlight is too faint for me to make out its features.” Then, modestly, with her eyes lowered, she glided across the lawn’s grass, coming to my side. As soon as I saw her: “I see that goodness and justice have found a home in your heart: we could never live together. You are now admiring my beauty, which has overwhelmed many a woman, but sooner or later, you’ll regret ever having given your love to me, for you do not know my soul. Not that I would ever be unfaithful to you: to she who bares her heart to me with such abandon and trust, I bare mine back with equal trust and abandon, but get it into your head lest you ever forget it: Wolves and lambs look not on one another with bedroom eyes.” So what was I waiting for, I who rejected in such disgust what was most beautiful in humanity! What I was waiting for, I really couldn’t tell you. I haven’t yet gotten into the habit of keeping a daily record of the phenomena that occur within my psyche, according to the practice recommended by philosophy. I sat on a cliff, by the sea. A ship had just set full sail to escape these waters: a minute speck had just appeared at the horizon, making gradual headway, driven on by gusts, and growing more powerful by the minute. The storm was about to swoop down on us, and already the sky was growing dark, overcast in a black almost as hideous as the human heart. The vessel, which was a great warship, had just cast all her anchors, in fear of being swept against the rocky coast. The wind roared with rage from all four points of the compass, tearing the sails to shreds. Crashes of thunder burst out amid flashes of lightning and could not drown out the sound of wailing to be heard from this house with no foundations, this teetering sepulcher. The rolling of these aqueous masses had not yet managed to shatter the anchor’s chains, however their buffeting had opened up a way into the ship’s ribs: a gaping breach, for the pumps could no longer bail out the masses of salt water beating down on the bridge like mountains of foam. The ship in distress fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly… majestically. He who has never watched a ship sinking in the midst of a storm, with intermittent flashes of lightning between the deepest periods of darkness, while those on board are overwhelmed with that despair you know so well, knows nothing of life’s ups and downs. Finally, a universal shriek of utter distress bursts from within the bowels of the ship, whilst the sea intensifies her fearsome onslaughts. It is that cry one hears when the limits of human capacity give in: we wrap ourselves up in the cloak of despair and leave our fate in the hands of God. We flock together like cornered sheep. The ship in distress fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly… majestically. They’ve had the pumps running all day now. Futile efforts. Night has come, pitch-black and merciless, bringing the delightful show to its climax. Each soul onboard realizes that, once in the water, he won’t be able to breathe, for, as far back as he can remember, he knows of no fish in his family tree; nevertheless he struggles to hold his breath for as long as possible, if only to prolong his life for another two or three seconds: that is the vengeful irony he aims at death… The ship in distress fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly… majestically. He doesn’t know that the ship, as it goes under, sets the ocean swells twisting and turning in a powerful circular motion, stirring up the benthonic mires into the turbid waters, and that a force from below, in counterattack to the tempest wreaking havoc above, drives the element to violent, jolting motions. Thus, despite the stores of courage he mustered in advance, the drowned-to-be, on second thought, ought to be delighted if he can prolong his life, swirling in the vortices of the abyss, even by the space of half a normal breath, for good measure. He will fail in his supreme desire to cheat death. The ship in distress fires her canons to sound the alarm; but she sinks, slowly… majestically. No wait, there’s been a mistake. She’s no longer firing, she’s no longer sinking. The cockleshell is now completely engulfed! Good heavens! How could I continue to live, after experiencing such exquisite pleasures! I had just been granted the chance to witness the death agonies of many a fellow man. Minute by minute, I followed the episodes of their anguish.
Now, the feature presentation was the bellowing of some old lady, brought to hysterics by fear. Now, the squeals of a suckling infant were drowning out the nautical orders. The ship was too distant for me to clearly perceive the groans brought on by blasts of wind, but through sheer willpower I zoomed in on it, and the optical illusion was complete. Every quarter of an hour, when a particularly stronger gust of wind, sounding its gloomy tones amid the cries of the terrified storm petrels, would break open the ship in another lengthwise crack, increasing the laments of those about to be offered as sacrifices to death, I would dig a sharp metal point deeper into my cheek and secretly think: “They are suffering still more!” At least this gave me grounds for comparison. From the shore, I shouted at them, hurling violent curses and threats. I felt that they could hear me! I could feel that my hatred and raving, soaring over the distances, were breaking the physical laws of sound and falling loud and clear onto their ears, deafened by the wrathful ocean’s roars! I felt they ought to be thinking of me, unleashing their vengeance in impotent rage! Every now and then I would cast a glance up at the cities, sounds asleep on dry land, and seeing that nobody suspected a ship to be sinking a few miles from the shore, with birds of prey for a crown and empty-bellied creatures of the deep for a pedestal, I took courage, and regained hope: I could now be sure of their demise! There was no escape! Through an excess of precaution, I had gone fetch my double-barrelled shotgun, so that, should some survivor be tempted to swim up to the rocks to escape impending death, a bullet in the shoulder would shatter his arm, thus thwarting his plan. Just when the tempest was at its fiercest, I saw, at the surface, desperately struggling to keep afloat, a frenetic head, with hair standing on end. He was swallowing gallons of water and was tossed back into the briny deep, bobbing like a piece of cork. But in no time he surfaced again, mane dripping wet, and, eyes focused on the shore, he seemed to defy death. What admirable composure! On his brave and noble face, he bore a deep and gory wound, gashed open by the jagged point of some hidden reef. He must have been sixteen at the oldest, for you could just barely see, by the lightning flashes that lit up the night, the peach fuzz on his lip. And now he was no more than two hundred yards from the cliff, and I was getting a clear view of him. What courage! What indomitable spirit! How his steady head seemed to flout at fate, as he vigorously cleaved through the waves, prying open the grooves before him with effort!… I had made up my mind beforehand. I owed it to myself to keep my promise: the final hour had tolled for all; there could be no exceptions. That was my resolution, and nothing could change it… A sharp blast echoed, and the head sank right under, never to be seen again. From this murder I did not take as much pleasure as you might imagine, and precisely because I had already done more than my share of killing in life, I was doing it now only from sheer habit, so hard to break, and providing only mild enjoyment. Conscience becomes dulled, calloused. What pleasure could I feel at the death of this human being, when more than a hundred were about to present me with the spectacle of their final struggles against the waves, once the ship had been submerged? With this death, not even the thrill of danger aroused me, for human justice, cradled by the night’s ghastly storm, was slumbering in the cottages a few steps from me. Now that the years hang heavy on my shoulders, I can speak this supreme and solemn truth with sincerity: I was never as cruel as it was later said among men, however sometimes their persistent spitefulness went on devastating for years on end. There was then no limits to my fury; I was possessed by fits of cruelty: my wild eyes would strike terror in anyone who dared come close enough to see them, provided they be of my race. If it was a horse or a dog, I would let it go by: did you head what I just said? Unfortunately, on the night of the storm, I was seized by one of my fits of wrath, my reason having abandoned me (for normally I would be just as cruel, only more discreet), and everything falling into my hands on that night had to perish. I am not saying this justifies my misdeeds. My fellow men are not the only ones to blame. I am merely making a statement of fact, as I await the last judgment, which makes me feel my throat constrict in anticipation… What do I care about the last judgment? My reason never abandons me, as I had claimed just to mislead you. And when I commit a murder, I know full well what I am doing: what else would I be wanting to do? Standing on the cliff, as the tempest flailed at my hair and trench coat, I ecstatically watched the full might of the thunderstorm relentlessly hammering at the ship under a starless sky. In a triumphant pose, I followed all the twists and turns of this drama, from the instant the vessel threw her anchors, until the moment she was swallowed up within that final shroud, that cloak which dragged everybody wrapped in it down into the bowels of the sea. But the cue for me to make my entrance in these scenes of nature in tumult was approaching. When the place where the ship had been struggling clearly showed that she had gone spend the rest of her days on the oceanic floor, then, some of those who had been carried off by the waves reappeared on the surface. They seized and grappled each other around the waist, in twos, in threes; this was the way not to save their lives, for their movements became hampered, and they went down like dumbbells… What is this horde of sea monsters ploughing through the waves at top speed? There are six of them, with sturdy fins that cut a passage through the heaving seas. Exercising the privileges of their higher rank on the food chain, the sharks soon make a great eggless omelette of all these wiggling human arms and legs on this far from dry continent. Blood mingles with the waters, and the waters mingle with blood. Their fierce eyes light up the bloodbath… But what is that other tumult of the waves, yonder, on the horizon? It looks like a waterspout coming this way! What strokes! Now I see what it is. An enormous female shark has come to partake of duck liver pâté and to eat cold stew meat. She is furious, for she arrives ravenous. A battle ensues between her and the sharks, to fight over the few palpitating limbs still dumbly floating here and there on the surface of the crimson cream. Left and right she snaps her jaws, delivering many a fatal wound. But three surviving sharks surround her, and she is forced to twist and turn in all directions to outmanoeuvre them. With an increasing emotion unbeknownst until now, the one-man audience follows this new kind of naval battle from his seat at the shore. His gaze is fastened on this courageous female shark, with jaws so mighty. He grits his teeth, raises his rifle, and, skilful as ever, he lodges his second bullet in the gill slit of one of the sharks, just as it rears its head above a wave. Two sharks remain, both showing even greater ferocity. From the top of the rock, the man with the briny saliva flings himself into the sea and swims towards the pleasantly coloured carpet, gripping his trusty steel knife. From now on the sharks each have one enemy to deal with. He closes in on his weary adversary, and, taking his time, buries his sharp blade in its belly. Meanwhile, the nimble-finned citadel easily disposes of the last opponent… Now the swimmer and the female shark saved by him confront each other. For minutes they stare fixedly into each other’s eyes. They swim circling, keeping each other in sight, and each thinking: “I was wrong all along. Here is one more evil than I.” Then in unison they glided underwater towards each other, in mutual admiration, the female shark slitting open the waves with her fins, Maldoror’s arms thrashing the water; and they held their breaths, in deepest reverence, each one anxious to gaze for the first time upon his living image. Effortlessly, at only three yards apart, they suddenly fell upon one another like two magnets, in an embrace of dignity and gratitude, clasping each other tenderly as brother and sister. Carnal desire soon followed this display of affection. Like two leeches, a pair of nervous thighs gripped tightly against the monster’s viscous flesh, and arms and fins wrapped around the objects of their desire, surrounding their bodies with love, while their breasts and bellies soon fused into one bluish-green mass reeking of sea-wrack, in the midst of the tempest still raging by the light of lightning; with the foamy waves for a wedding bed, borne on an undersea current as if in a cradle, rolling and rolling down into the bottomless ocean depths, they came together in a long, chaste, and hideous mating!… At last I had found somebody who was like me!… From now on I was no longer alone in life!… Her ideas were the same as mine!… I was face to face with my first love!
Edition, numbered and limited, illustrated by Salvador Dalí, from Los Cantos de Maldoror (Les chants de Maldoror, French literature, 19th century), by Isidore Ducasse, Count of Lautréamont, from the first Spanish translation of the work, made by Julio Gómez de la Serna in 1925, extended by Ramón Gómez de la Serna and completed by Manuel Serrat Crespo and Henriette Viguié.
3.250,00€
Buy it here
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p.s. Hey. ** JM, Hi, J! A rare treat! I read ‘Anna Karenina’ but ages ago, so in its less great translation, but, yeah, killer. High hopes that you get the job. You’ll look back on your intense artistry spurt with great fondness. Of course wish I was within witnessing distance. Sure, if your heart/head says shop your book around, that’s the way. All those presses in your mind are excellent prospects, obvs. Your ultra-busyness is no doubt heavy on the anticipation-meets-stress, but the way it’s exploding out of your language is a beauty. Enjoy the quick get away, and hang in there, and hope to see you as soon as the rightness of a visit strikes. xo. ** The Black Prince, Wow, you got the job already? They must have been struck by your lightning. Great, big congrats! So you’ll teach theater too? Pink-mermaid was ultra-awww inspiring, yes. Oh, hm, you know all of them intrigued me, I guess in different ways. The father-son one was pretty curious. I like the ones that find new angles. I hope your Thursday is worthy of you too. Mine might be all right. Have a couple of potential fun plans/goals. ** David Ehrenstein, Twins? Oh, the guys in Madrid? They’re just similarly styled bffs. The Malet brothers? Not by name. Hold on. Oh, I think I’ve seen one or the other or both in a film or two. In ‘Querelle’ for one thing. Huh. ** Bill. Hi. A book of photos of Coil in concert? That’s kind of milking it, isn’t it? Not that I’m not, yeah, intrigued. I’m still researching how best to get the vaxx, so not yet. ** _Black_Acrylic, Good, so the day room had room foryour muse? Ah, okay, understood. I’m obviously happy that you can safely finish the vaccinating process. Whew. ** Dominik, Hi, D!!! Know, nice squint on that boy. Supremely strange! I mean, given the relative rarity of truly strange novels, I would say that’s a real score. Ha ha, no arguing with your love’s philosophy. Love whose philosophy is “my ass is not in focus … and it’s TOTATALY FREE FREE FREE i know it sounds unbelievable”, G. ** T, Hi, T. Yes, tellmewhatyoulike proved to be very inspiring. I wondered why that was. I thought a documentary film about him and his fanbase might be a worthwhile venture. For someone, not me. And yes about the furniture accruing angle. Hope he likes IKEA. Well, who doesn’t like IKEA, really, let’s be honest. And who would dare to argue with 19yotwinkbutt’s life outlook. Not me. If plans hold, I’ll be seeing two friends, buying books at my favorite bookstore, and eating Chipotle burritos today, which actually counts as quite immoderate under current lockdown circumstances. So it might be that I’m sowing all my wild oats today and this weekend is consequently fated to be a snoozer. Can you handle three-day helter-skelter weekend? ‘Cos, if so, and if you want, I decree that said wild daylong threesome will commence for you starting … now! ** Steve Erickson, Really? All the Infinite Jest bongs I’ve taken deep hits from have been made by guys in the 50s. I’m still trying to figure how and where and when I can get the vaccine. Hopefully I’ll have some plan set to go by Monday or so. Not that I was cogent back then, but what’s dominating pop/R&B/rap these days reminds of the kind of stuff that dominated pop pre-Elvis/Little Richard/et. al. or, later, The Beatles/Stones/ et. al., i.e. stuff whose only longterm value will be to trigger nostalgia in people of a certain age. ** Brian, Hi, Brian. I know, fuckmeimirish, that squint-cum-cringe is just irresistible. There are people who know me who call me ‘Den’ or ‘Denny’ or ‘Coop’ or ‘the Coop’. I don’t mind those, I suppose. The interview was fun, yeah. Fun to do. I don’t know if it’ll read interestingly. I guess that’s the editor’s job, but, yeah, nice opportunity to catch up with an old bud and fine artist. Otherwise, yesterday was pretty delete-y aka not a ton of fun. ‘The Color of Pomegranates’ is one of my very, very favorite all-time films, so, cool. And the Greenaway is no slouch. Helluva double feature, yes. Um, well, my Friday looks kind of good in theory, so I might have a chance. You, yours? Have an imaginary, tipping dumptruck full of four leaf clovers, and let me know if they successfully upped your Friday’s ante. ** Okay. Today, people, I am giving you the oldest blog post that I have ever restored. It’s from 16 years ago, if you can believe that. May it successfully dust itself off and sit well with you. See you tomorrow.
Now available in North America 
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Dennis! I’m excited by the idea of your potential fun plans & goals… Exciting weekend? I think I might be acquiring a lightning, cause their email was incredibly sweet and positive – a real breath of fresh air from the usual patronising rejections I receive… Oh no, not theatre, apparently by ‘drama’ they just meant ‘dialogue in fiction’, which I’d teach anyway, I mean how can one teach the short story & novel without teaching dialogue at some point… Anyway, thank you so much for this gem of a post. I’ve been reading Maldoror for a commission, and I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would. I find it to be a very slow read though… I wish I could read it in French. xoxo
Dennis, Well, I like Maldoror and I love Dali, so this is right up my alley.
Here, everybody thinks you still need like a doctor’s note or something to get vaccinated. Nope. Some places, just show up and BAM! you’re needled. Others, you make the appointment online and just show up and BAM! stuck like a fat pig on a spit. Pretty easy, from what I’ve seen here.
Yeah, I was talking to Joe about this and it still boggles my mind the info that sites will ask for. I don’t get why they need to know every contact in my phone or have access to my few pics or whatever. Ridiculous. Feel like somebody could set something up where they do ads and make money and all that without all the data grabbing. But that’s just me being my Pollyanna self, I guess.
Hope your weekend’s swell. Me, just errands and shit. Gonna work on that guitar, which is coming along pretty well. Also gotta clean my car’s battery. Fucker wouldn’t start the other day at the gym and Kayla had to come and give me a jump. There’s a lot of corrosion around the negative terminal. Ugh.
Oh! So my mom’s pancreas and urinary tract look okay. No problems. Doc wants her to get a colonoscopy and is looking to start her on warfarin which is an older blood thinner that’s in generic form. $4 per 30-day supply as opposed to $500+ for all the others. The doc says it’s safe. Think we’re going with that.
As I trust we’re all aware, Isidore Ducasse was Dennis avant la lettre.
About the Malets: Pierre played the key role of the Lieutenant in Patrice Chereau’s production of Genet’s “The Screens” which I aw at Naterre in 1983. One day he broke his leg in a motorcycle accident. Thre were no understudies. What to do? Laret decided that he would go on with Pierre holding him up and moving him around the stage. Genet was present to see that performance and went itn ectasies –as you can well imagine.
I’ve been pretty tired of Dali’s paintings for years. But these drawings are very fine. I’m not about to pay that kind of money though.
Yeah there’s a lot of milking with regard to Coil’s legacy. There’s an oral history coming out next year; we’ll see if I’m able to resist.
Bill
Hi!!
The author of the novel introduced his book by comparing it to David Lynch. My first thought was that this was quite ambitious, but, in the end, it did turn out to be pretty out there in a similar way.
Hahaha, yes, I think our loves will get along well. Love deciding to move to the Japanese Rabbit Island and live on as a rabbit, Od.
Oh wow, 16 years ago! I was but 6 years old, and although I did have fairly beautiful locks and no hair upon my upper lip, plus it does seem like aeons since, unfortunately that’s where the comparison with the Child in the Nails stanza ends… Thanks for including a link to buy – it appears that they’re selling it at almost half price for the trifling sum of 1.6 million euros!! I will have to scrabble down the back of my sofa to see if I can get some small change together. Joking aside, I did read the extracts at work on downtime from washing dishes, so the misanthropic ennui hit very nicely.
Generally speaking, I wouldn’t have called today particularly immoderate, but in relative terms (like you say) your decree was observed in a very satisfactory fashion, since I had my first haircut in well over 6 months. Let’s see if things continue heltering and skeltering into the weekend. Did your plans come together? It sounded like a lush day by anyone’s estimation.
“Besides, can you not recall one day, absorbed in your dismal thoughts, having lifted your deeply cupped palm to your sickly face, drenched by the downpour from your eyes; the said hand then making its fatal way to your mouth, which, from this vessel chattering like the teeth of the schoolboy who glances sidelong at the one born to oppress him, sucked the tears in long draughts? Tasty, aren’t they? For they taste of vinegar.”
Those lines fucked me up. the image of sucking vinegar-soaked tears has been in my head all day 🙂
Dennis- can I get a PDF of your novel I WISHED ? I want to read it & write a beautiful review & send the review to a bunch of lit mags. The novel sounds so sad. I love sad novels. In other words, I’m feeling creative and impulsive in my little Brooklyn apartment. I was going to order it from PRH but the only option was pre-order.
Your fan,
Keegan
In general, contemporary pop culture feels like mainstream rock music circa 1975 or hair metal in 1989. The bloat really needs to take a hit.
I’ve listened to the 4-hour Goldie compilation THE ALCHEMIST: 1992-2012. The first half is excellent, and not surprisingly, the TIMELESS-era remixes are more adventurous than the album. But his Ed Sheeran remix is the nadir. He also remixed a Bush song with better results, taking out everything except the vocals.
How do you apply for vaccination in Paris? Here, one had to keep searching several websites each day. There was no real central system to coordinate it, even though I eventually got vaccinated through the city.
Hey, Dennis,
I’m dying to read Lautréamont’s novel(?), have been for some time now. The excerpts only affirm how insane and amazing it must be. I had no idea Dali illustrated it; these are gorgeous. A real banger of a post, even after sixteen years. Yes, the scrunched up face is quite cute indeed. That’s a fine set of nicknames you have there—“the Coop” is a little odd, lol, but fun I guess. Glad to hear you enjoyed your interview. I’m sure it’ll be interesting; I’m looking forward to reading it. Sorry that the rest of the day was so drearily occupied. I didn’t know you felt that way about “The Color of Pomegranates”; that’s really cool. I found it incredibly powerful. Beautiful, of course, but it also had this indescribable emotional effect that was really profound. Loved it. And I also loved the Greenaway, but for vastly different reasons. It was a good evening. Tonight I was a little depressed so I decided to rewatch (for the first time since my initial viewing last May) “In a Year of 13 Moons”. Goddamn. It’s probably my favorite movie, certainly my favorite Fassbinder (next to “Querelle”). Just so overwhelming. I love it to bits. That was the treasure of my Friday, nothing else is worth mentioning. Great art like that is more than enough to qualify as a four leaf clover dumptruck, so I’ll say this week was a win overall, despite my constant depression and apathy. Hopefully the next two days will bring some liveliness. Have you anything planned? I hope the cosmos showers you with good fortune this weekend. All my love as always.