My poor life
This shawl
Frayed on strongboxes full of gold
I roll along with
Dream
And smoke
And the only flame in the universe
Life
The machine
The human soul
A 75mm breech
My portrait
...Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it's not a ...more "...Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it's not a question of your country, my German or French friend, or yours, whether you're black or white or Papuan or a Borneo monkey. It's a question of your life. If you want to live, kill. Kill so that you can be free, or eat, or shit. The shameful thing is to kill in masses, at a predetermined hour on a predetermined day, in honour of certain principles, under cover of a flag, with old men nodding approval, to kill in a disinterested or passive way. Stand alone against them all, young man, kill, kill, you are unique, you're the only man alive, kill until the others cut you short with the guillotine or the cord or the rope, with or without ceremony, in the name of the Community or King.
What a laugh.
I used the word 'prose' in the Trans-Siberian in the early Latin sense of prosa dictu. Poem seemed to me too pretentious, too narrow. Prose is more open, popular.
Blaise CendrarsOnly a soul full of despair can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and still love the world.
Blaise CendrarsMostra la citazione in tedesco
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Δεν βουτώ την πένα μου μέσα στη μελάνη, αλλά μέσα στη ζωή.
Blaise
À quoi bon écrire ? tout s'imprime en moi et c'est peut-être la pure poésie que de se laisser imprégner et de déchiffrer en soi-même la signature des choses.
Blaise CendrarsTag: writing-books
Kako je čitanje nešto neobično!Kako je čudno to čitanje koje poništava vreme, pretače vrtoglavi prostor, a da pri tom ne zaustavlja dah niti oduzima život čitaocu.
Verujemo da smo nevidljivi, odsutni, iako smo svuda prisutni, čak i tamo gde smo, grozničavi, s tom knjigom u ruci koju gutamo, jedemo očima, kao u nekoj radnji bele magije, da bismo nahranili svoj duh.
A čitanje je zbilja čarobna radnja svesti koja otkriva jednu od najnepoznatijih sposobnosti čovekovih i daje mu veliku moć: sposobnost da bude na dva mesta istovremeno i moć da se usami, da se potpuno odvoji od okoline, da izađe iz svog vlastitog života a da ne izgubi vezu sa životom; ukratko, da saobraća sa svim i svačim, čak i kada više ne veruje ni u šta.
Tag: blaise-cendrars
Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?'
Worries
Forget your worries
All the stations full of cracks tilted along the way
The telegraph wires they hang from
The grimacing poles that gesticulate and strangle them
The world stretches lengthens and folds in like an accordion tormented by a sadistic hand
In the cracks of the sky the locomotives in anger
Flee
And in the holes,
The whirling wheels the mouths the voices
And the dogs of misfortune that bark at our heels
The demons are unleashed
Iron rails
Everything is off-key
The broun-roun-roun of the wheels
Shocks
Bounces
We are a storm under a deaf man's skull...
'Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?'
Hell yes, you're getting on my nerves you know very well we're far away
Overheated madness bellows in the locomotive
Plague, cholera rise up like burning embers on our way
We disappear in the war sucked into a tunnel
Hunger, the whore, clings to the stampeding clouds
And drops battle dung in piles of stinking corpses
Do like her, do your job
'Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?
The guillotine is the masterpiece of the plastic arts
Its click
Creates perpetual motion
("The Head")
Tag: death guillotine decapitation perpetual-motion
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