Friday, March 13, 2009

"Along this promenade which joins the ends of days to the ends of nights, indefatigably present, whose length cannot be measured in spite of a suspicion of limits barely offered to our minds, along this promenade where the ends of days joined to the ends of night succeed to detach themselves to drag miserably adrift of tunnels, from wreck to wreck, castaways of blindness, we perceive the period of life, the period of joys and greatnesses, of despair and of slaveries, within reach of our fixed looks, within reach of compact and fine masses, infinitely sweet to the doubt that follows us along, we perceive objects. By dint of going from sea to mountain the caress is finally torn apart like the wave, henceforth dwells therein the secret of certitude. Imperceptibly profound are the perspectives of this rent, for it calls forth sorrow, its constant companion, and it is only around it, in the flowing circles caused by a stone in clear weather of water and moon, -- or by the eddies of a train launched at full speed in the sky, -- that life no longer seeks its wherefore and resigns itself to its combustion without shadow nor after-taste. It is not so much the reality of matter and its problematic solidity, as its representation of landmarks to designate space, making us conscious through it of time and our own existence, which attaches the thing of representative form to our mental life. Submarine views, stones of clouds, flights of sharks by waves of applause, retinas of veils, auroras of crustaceans in glass, tables of direction, watches of lightning, crumpled paper that trouble the stars and the thousand feathers of resentment al that which awaken tenderness out of all reason, unstable flames, sisters of love (the very indifference we often show towards them is the guarantee of a great peace, certitude), from childhood until death do you people this ocean which you accompany with your supreme silence, the feeling which selects you according to the indestructible appearances and the infinitely varying forms of the laws of nature. Things to touch, to eat, to crunch, to apple to the eye, to the skin, to press, to lick, to break, to grind, things to lie, to flee from, to honor, things cold or hot, feminine or masculine, things of day or night which absorb through your pores the greater part of our life, that which expresses itself unnoticed, that which matters because it does not know itself and spends itself without reckoning on the thousand load-stones placed along the edge of the unanimous road, your slumbers fixed in a case of butterflies have cut the diamond under all the aspects of the earth, in our childhoods lost inside of ourselves and unspeakably loaded with dreams like the geological layers that serve us as bed sheets.

Flight opened in a cut of flesh above the unused delight of conflagrations of midnight: it is experiences consuming itself with its unavowed impotence. Thirst reabsorbs itself ever cloudy and the contours of the routes of flesh stem from an ever limpid vigilance and from the hills where the vegetations group themselves into marine clots in the form of sponges and microscopic navigations of blood and alcohol.

Thus, in the fixed course of the universe which inscribes itself with cruelty into the psychic life of each one of us, establishes itself in the contradiction of man, which sees in each step on the moving stairway, a familiar utensil, loved or indifferent, whereas the continuity of life does not encumber itself with the materialism of facts, for it is merely waves and imperceptible transitions of rounded angles. And this continuity possesses its own world which fills the land of beaming shadows with the most beautiful memories of caresses, of the dead and of emotions -- so that one can never keep silent enough on the face of this earth. These are projections surprised in transparence, by the light of tenderness, of things that dream and talk in their sleep."

--Tristan Tzara

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