La imitación de Jesús

Below the belt all men are brothers. Man has never known solitude except in the upper regions where one is either a poet or a madman — or a criminal. “Today,” writes Paul Eluard, “the solitude of poets is breaking down. They are now men among men, they have brothers.” It is unfortunately too true, and that is why the poet is becoming more and more rare. I still prefer the anarchic life; unlike Paul Eluard I cannot say that the word “fraternisation” exalts me. Nor does it seem to me that this idea of brotherhood arises from a poetic conception of life. It is not at all what Lautréamont meant when he said that poetry must be made by all. The brotherhood of man is a permanent delusion common to idealists everywhere in all epochs: it is the reduction of the principle of individuation to the least common denominator of intelligibility. It is what leads the masses to identify themselves with movie stars and megalomaniacs like Hitler and Mussolini. It is what prevents them from reading and appreciating and being influenced by and creating in turn such poetry as Paul Eluard gives us. That Paul Eluard is desperately lonely, that he strives with might and main to establish communication with his fellow-man, I understand and subscribe to with all my heart. But when Paul Eluard goes down into the street and becomes a man he is not making himself understood and liked for what he is — for the poet that he is, I mean. On the contrary, he is establishing communication with his fellow-men by capitulation, by renunciation of his individuality, his high role. If he is accepted it is only because he is willing to surrender those qualities which differentiate him from his fellow-men and make him unsympathetic and unintelligible to them. It is not at all strange that madmen are put under lock and key and saviours crucified and prophets stoned. At any rate, one thing is certain: it is not in this way that poetry will be made by all.

(Query: And why should poetry be made by all? Why?)

In every age, just as in every life worthy of the name, there is the effort to re-establish that equilibrium which is disturbed by the power and tyranny which a few great individuals exercise over us. This struggle is fundamentally personal and religious. It has nothing to do with liberty and justice, which are idle words signifying nobody knows precisely what. It has to do with making poetry, or, if you will, with making life a poem. It has to do with the adoption of a creative attitude towards life. One of the most effective ways in which it expresses itself is in killing off the tyrannical influences wielded over us by those who are already dead. It consists not in denying these exemplars, but in absorbing them, assimilating them, and eventually surpassing them. Each man has to do this for himself. There is no feasible scheme for universal liberation. The tragedy which surrounds the life of almost every great figure is forgotten in the admiration which we bestow on the man's work. It is forgotten that the glorious Greeks, whom we never cease admiring, treated their men of genius more shamefully, more cruelly perhaps than any other people we know of. It is forgotten that the mystery which attaches itself to Shakespeare's life is a mystery only because the English do not wish to admit that Shakespeare was driven mad by the stupidity, non-understanding and intolerance of his countrymen, that he finished his days in a mad-house.

Life is either a feast or a famine, as the old Chinese proverb goes. Right now it is pretty much of a famine.

Without having recourse to the wisdom of such a sage as Freud, it is obvious that in times of famine men behave differently than when there is abundance. In times of famine one prowls the streets with a rapacious eye. One looks at his brother, sees in him a succulent morsel, and straightaway he waylays and devours him.

This is done in the name of the revolution. The fact is that it doesn't matter much in what name it is done.

When men get brotherly they also get slightly cannibalistic. In China, where famines are more frequent and more devastating, the people have become so hysterical (beneath the renowned Oriental mask) that when they see a man being executed they quite often forget themselves and laugh.

The famine which we are living through is a peculiar one in that it occurs in the midst of plenty. It is more of a spiritual famine, we might say, than a physical one. People are not fighting for bread this time, but for a right to their piece of bread, which is a distinction of some importance. Bread, figuratively speaking, is everywhere, but most of us are hungry. Shall I say — especially the poets? I ask because it is in the tradition of poets to starve. It is a little strange therefore to find them identifying their habitual physical hunger with the spiritual hunger of the masses. Or is it vice versa? Anyway, now we are all starving, except the rich, to be sure, and the smug bourgeoisie who have never known what it is to starve, either spiritually or physically.

Originally men killed one another in the direct pursuit of booty — food, weapons, implements, women, and so on. There was sense to it, even though there was no charity or sympathy. Now we have become sympathetic and charitable and brotherly, but we go on killing just the same, and we kill without the least hope of attaining our ends. We kill one another for the benefit of those to come, that they may enjoy a life more abundant. (The hell we do I)

There has been mention throughout this book on Surrealism of our great indebtedness to Freud et alia. But there is one thing which Freud and all his tribe have made painfully clear and which is singularly missing in this account of our supposed indebtedness, ft is something like this... Every time we fail to strike or to kill the person who threatens to humiliate or degrade or enslave or enchain us we pay the penalty for it in collective suicide, which is war, or in fratricidal slaughter, which is revolution. Every day that we fail to live out the maximum of our potentialities we kill the Shakespeare, Dante, Homer, Christ which is in us. Every day that we live in harness with the woman whom we no longer love we destroy our power to love and to have the woman whom we merit. The age we live in is the age which suits us: it is we who make it, not God, not Capitalism, not this or that, call it by any name you like. The evil is in us — and the good too! But as the old bard said — “the good is oft interred with our bones.”

The basic effectiveness of the psycho-analytic doctrine lies in the recognition of the creative aspect of responsibility. Neurosis is not a new phenomenon in the history of human maladies, nor is its most wonderful bloom, schizophrenia. This is not the first time that the cultural soil, and even the sub-soil, has become exhausted. This is a famine which goes to the roots, and it is not at all paradoxical, on the contrary, it is absolutely logical, that it should occur in the midst of plenty. In the midst of this rotting plenty it is altogether fitting and natural that we the living dead should sit like lepers with outstretched arms and beg a little charity.

Or, get up and kill one another, which is a little more diverting, but which comes to the same thing in the end.

That is, nullity.

When at last each man realizes that nothing is to be expected from God, or society, or friends, or benevolent tyrants, or democratic governments, or saints, or saviours, or even from the holiest of holies, education, when each man realizes that he must work with his own hands to save himself, and that he need expect no mercy, perhaps then... Perhaps! Even then, seeing what manner of men we are, I doubt. The point is that we are doomed. Maybe we are going to die to-morrow, maybe in the next five minutes. Let us take stock of ourselves. We can make the last five minutes worth while, entertaining, even gay, if you will, or dissipate them as we have the hours and the days and months and years and centuries. No god is coming to save us. No system of government, no belief will provide us with that liberty and justice which men whistle for with the death-rattle.

The renascence of wonder, which Mr. Read writes about, will be brought about, if it is brought about, by a few individuals for whom this phrase has vital significance, by those, in short, who are unable not to act in accordance with a truth perceived. What distinguishes the majority of men from the few is their inability to act according to their beliefs. The hero is he who raises himself above the crowd. He is not a hero because he lays down his life for his country, or for a cause or principle. Indeed, in making such a sacrifice he is often cowardly rather than heroic. To run with the herd, and die with the herd, is the natural animal instinct which man shares with other beasts. To be a pacifist is not necessarily heroic either. “For if a man,” to quote from the devil himself, “is unprepared or unable to fight for his life, just Providence has already decreed his end.”

To fight for one's life, though Herr Hitler did not mean it this way, usually means to lose one's life. To get men to rally round a cause, a belief, an idea, is always easier than to persuade them to lead their own lives. We live in the swarm and our fine principles, our glorious ideas, are but blinders which we put over our eyes in order to make death palatable. We have not advanced a peg beyond the primitive man's idea of the fertility of death. Since the dawn of civilization we have been killing one another off — on principle. The fact is — I must repeat it again because the Surrealists are guilty of the same mistake as all other warring idealists — that human beings have an imperative need to kill. The distinguishing trait of the civilized man is that he kills en masse. Sadder than that, however, is the fact that he lives the life of the masses. His life is lived according to totem and taboo, as much now as in the past, even more, perhaps.

The role which the artist plays in society is to revive the primitive, anarchic instincts which have been sacrificed for the illusion of living in comfort. If the artist fails we will not necessarily have a return to an

imaginary Eden filled with wonder and cruelty. I am afraid, on the contrary, that we are much more apt to have a condition of perpetual work, such as we see in the insect world. Myself I do not believe that the artist will fail. On the other hand, it doesn't matter a damn to me whether he fails or not. It is a problem beyond my scope. If I choose to remain an artist rather than go down in the street and shoulder a musket or sling a stick of dynamite it is because my life as an artist suits me down to the ground. It is not the most comfortable life in the world but I know that it is life, and I am not going to trade it for an anonymous life in the brotherhood of man — which is either sure death, or quasi-death, or at the very best cruel deception. I am fatuous enough to believe that in living my own life in my own way I am more apt to give life to others (though even that is not my chief concern) than I would if I simply followed somebody else's idea of how to live my life and thus become a man among men. It seems to me that this struggle for liberty and justice is a confession or admission on the part of all those engaging in such a struggle that they have failed to live their own lives. Let us not deceive ourselves about “humanitarian impulses” on the part of the great brotherhood. The fight is for life, to have it more abundantly, and the fact that millions are now ready to fight for something they have ignominiously surrendered for the greater part of their lives does not make it more humanitarian.

“I came not to bring peace, but a sword!” said the great humanitarian. That is not the utterance of a militarist, nor is it the utterance of a pacifist: it is the utterance of one of the greatest artists that ever lived. If his words mean anything they mean that the struggle for life, for more life, must be carried on day by day. It means that life itself is struggle, perpetual struggle. This sounds almost banal, and in fact it has become banal, thanks to the frog-like perspective of Darwin and such like. Banal because our struggle has become banal, because our struggle is for food and shelter —- not even that, by God, but for work. Men are struggling for the right to work! It sounds almost incredible but that is precisely what it amounts to, the great goal of the civilized man. What an heroic struggle! Well, for my part, I will say that whatever else I may want, I know I don't want work. To live as an artist I stopped work some ten or twelve years ago. I made it extremely uncomfortable for myself. I cannot even say that it was a matter of choice, my decision. I had to do it, or die of boredom. Naturally I was not paid to stop work and live as an artist. The time came quickly enough when I had to beg for a crust of bread. They said strange things to me, those whom I asked for food or shelter.

Brother, said one man, why didn't you save your money for a rainy day? Said another: brother, open your heart to God that you may be saved. And another: join the union and we will find you a job so that you may eat and have a place to sleep. None of them gave me money.

which is all I had asked for. I realized that I was ostracized and I understood quickly enough that this was just, because if one chooses to live his own life in his own way he must pay the penalty.

I cannot help seeing in men what I know them to be from my own experience of life. Their illusions and delusions are poignantly touching to me, but they do not convince me that I should offer my life for them. It seems to me that the men who would create a Fascist world are the same at heart as those who would create a Communist world. They are all looking for leaders who will provide them with enough work to give them food and shelter. I am looking for something more than that, something which no leader can give me. I am not against leaders per se. On the contrary, I know how necessary they are. They will be necessary so long as men are insufficient unto themselves. As for myself, I need no leader and no god. I am my own leader and my own god. I make my own bibles. I believe in myself — that is my whole credo.

An age such as ours is the most difficult one of all for an artist. There is no place for him. At least, that is what one hears on all sides. Nevertheless, some few artists of our time have made a place for themselves.

Picasso made a place for himself. Joyce made a place for himself. Matisse made a place for himself. Celine made a place for himself. Should I rattle off the whole list? Perhaps the greatest of them all has not yet made a place for himself. But who is he? Where is he? If he is the greatest of all he will make himself heard. He will not be able to conceal himself.

Those who are perpetually talking about the inability to communicate with the world — have they made every effort? Have they learned what it is to “compromise”? Have they learned how to be as wise and cunning as the serpent, as well as strong and obstinate as a bull? Or are they braying like donkeys, whining about some ideal condition in the ever-receding future when every man will be recognized and rewarded for his labors?

Do they really expect such a day to dawn, these simple souls?

I feel that I have some right to speak about the difficulty of establishing communication with the world

since my books are banned in the only countries where I can be read in my own tongue. I have enough faith in myself however to know that I eventually will make myself heard, if not understood. Everything I write is loaded with the dynamite which will one day destroy the barriers erected about me. If I fail it will be because I did not put enough dynamite into my words. And so, while I have the strength and the gusto I will load my words with dynamite. I know that the timid, crawling ones who are my real enemies are not going to meet me face to face in fair combat. I know these birds! I know that the only way to get at them is to reach up inside them, through the scrotum; one has to get up inside and twist their sacred entrails for them. That's what Rimbaud did. That's what Lautréamont did. Unfortunately, those who call themselves their successors have never learned this technique. They give us a lot of piffle about the revolution — first the revolution of the word, now the revolution in the street. How are they going to make themselves heard and understood if they are going to use a language which is emasculated? Are they writing their beautiful poems for the angels above? Is it communication with the dead which they are trying to establish?

You want to communicate. All right, communicate! Use any and every means. If you expect the world to

You want to communicate. All right, communicate! Use any and every means. If you expect the world to