We must rediscover the colours that Lewis used in The Monk in order to paint the apparition of the infernal spirit behind the features of an admirable nude youth with crimson wings, his limbs caught in diamond orbit under the ancient breath of roses, star on his forehead and gaze marked by a fierce melancholy; the colours with which Swinburne captured the true appearance of the Marquis de Sade:
Amidst the whole of this noisy, imperial epic this thundering head is seen blazing, the vast chest streaked with lightning, the phallus-man, an august and cynical profile, the grimace of a sublime and awesome titan, circulating in these accursed pages like a shudder of the eternal, vibrating on the burnt lips like a breath of a stormy ideal. Come near and you will hear throbbing in this foul and bloody carrion the arteries of the universal soul, veins swollen with divine blood. This cloaca is entirely kneaded with azure …
We must, I repeat, rediscover these colours in order to situate in the (to say the least) extraliterary atmosphere appropriate to him that dazzling figure of black light, the Comte de Lautréamont. In the eyes of certain contemporary poets, Maldoror and the Poésies shine with incomparable brilliance. They are the expression of a total revelation that seems to exceed human possibility. All of modern life, in its most specific aspects, is sublimated in one stroke. His backdrops revolve on the swinging doors of ancient suns that illuminate the sapphire floor; the silver-beaked gas lamp, winged and smiling, that glides over the Seine; the green membranes of space and the shops of Rue Vivienne, prey to crystalline rays from the centre of the earth. An absolutely virgin eye watches out for the scientific perfecting of the world, disregarding the consciously utilitarian nature of this perfection, situating it with all the rest in the light of apocalypse. Definitive apocalypse: in this work, the great instinctual urges are lost and exalted on contact with an asbestos cage containing a white-hot heart. For centuries to come, the boldest things that might be thought or undertaken will find their magic law formulated here in advance. It is the word, and no longer the style, that undergoes a fundamental crisis with Lautréamont and marks a new beginning. These are in fact the limits at which words could enter into contact with words, things with things. A principle of perpetual mutation has made away with both objects and ideas, aiming toward their complete deliverance, which also implies humanity’s. In this regard, Lautréamont’s language is at once a solvent and an unequalled germinal plasma.
The terms ‘madness,’ ‘proof by absurdity,’ ‘infernal machine,’ which have been applied, even reapplied, to Lautréamont’s works, prove that the critics have never approached them without sooner or later having to admit failure. It’s just that, brought down to human scale, this opus, which is the very hub of every mental interference, bathes sensibility in a tropical torpor. Léon Pierre-Quint, in his very lucid work Le Comte de Lautréamont et Dieu, has nonetheless isolated some of the most imperious features of this message, which may be handled only with fireproof gloves: (1) Since ‘evil’ is for Lautréamont (as it is for Hegel) the form in which the motor force of historical development becomes manifest, it is important to strengthen its reason for being; and the best way to do this is to set it on the foundation of forbidden desires, which are inherent in primitive sexual activity and especially visible in sadism. (2) Poetic inspiration, for Lautréamont, results from the break between good sense and imagination, a break that is most often consummated in the latter’s favour and obtained by a voluntary, dizzying acceleration of the verbal flux (Lautréamont speaks of the ‘extremely rapid development’ of his sentences; we know that the systematization of this means of expression was the starting point of Surrealism). (3) Maldoror’s revolt would not be eternal Revolt if it perpetually spared one form of thought at the expense of another; it is therefore necessary that with the Poésies it should collapse into its own dialectical game.
From the moral viewpoint, the flagrant contrast between these two works requires no further explanation. But let us seek out what might constitute their unity, their identity from a psychological viewpoint and we will discover that it lies primarily in humour. The various operations that emerge, first, from the abdication of logical and ethical concepts, then from the two new ways of thinking defined by opposition to them, can in the end recognize only one common factor: overstatement of the obvious, a slew of the most audacious comparisons, demolition of anything solemn, cockeyed or topsy-turvy reconstructions of famous ‘maxims,’ etc. Anything that analysis can reveal of the processes in play here pales in comparison to the infallible image that Lautréamont leads us to create for ourselves of humour as he envisions it – humour that attains its supreme power in his work and that physically subjects us, wholly and completely, to its law.
BIBLIOGRAPHY: Chants de Maldoror, 1869. Poésies, 1870.
BIBLIOGRAPHY IN ENGLISH: Maldoror. Poésies.
Two pillars, that it was not difficult, and still less impossible, to take for baobab trees, were to be seen in the valley, taller than two pins. Actually they were two enormous towers. And although at first glance two baobabs do not resemble two pins, nor even two towers, nevertheless, while cleverly pulling the strings of prudence one can affirm without fear of error (for if this affirmation were accompanied by a single iota of fear it would no longer be an affirmation; although the same name expresses these two phenomena of the spirit which present characteristics distinct enough not to be lightly confused) that a baobab is not so different from a pillar as to prohibit comparison between these architectural forms … or geometric forms … or both … or neither … or rather, raised and massive forms. I have just found – I don’t even claim the contrary – the proper adjectives for the nouns pillar and baobab: let it be known that it is not without joy mingled with pride that I address the remark to those who, after waking again, have taken the very commendable resolution to scan these pages while the candle burns – if it be night, or while the sun shines – if day. And again, even if a higher power should command us in the plainest, most precise terms to cast back into the abyss of chaos the judicious comparison which everyone has certainly been able to savour with impunity, even then, and then above all, let none lose sight of this principal axiom: habits acquired through the years, books, contact with one’s fellows, and the innate character of each person who develops in a quick efflorescence – these would impose on the human spirit the irreparable stigma of relapse into the criminal use (criminal, that is, if one momentarily and spontaneously sees it from the higher power’s point of view) of a rhetorical figure many despise, but which many eulogize. If the reader finds this sentence too long, I trust he will accept my apologies; but let him expect no servilities from me. I can acknowledge my faults, but not make them graver by my baseness. My reasonings will sometimes clash head on with the jester’s bells of folly and the serious appearance of what is, in short, merely grotesque (although according to certain philosophers it is quite difficult to distinguish the jester from the melancholic, life itself being a comic drama or a dramatic comedy); however, everyone is allowed to kill flies and even rhinoceroses in order to rest occasionally from over-arduous work. Here is the most expeditious, though not the best, way to kill flies: one crushes them between thumb and forefinger. Most writers who have treated this subject thoroughly have calculated with great plausibility that in a number of cases it is preferable to cut off their heads. Should anyone reproach me for speaking of a radically frivolous subject such as pins, let him note without prejudice that the greatest effects have often been produced by the smallest causes. And so as not to deviate still further from the framework of this piece of paper, is it not evident that this laboured piece of literature I am bent on composing since the start of this stanza would, perhaps, be relished less had it taken as fulcrum some knotty problem of chemistry or internal pathology? Besides, nature caters to all tastes; and at the beginning when I compared pillars to pins with so much accuracy (indeed, I did not think that one day I would be upbraided for it), I based my observation on the laws of optics, which have established that the further the line of sight from the object, the smaller the image reflected on the retina.
Thus that which our minds’ bent for farce takes to be a wretched witticism is generally, in its author’s imagination, only an important truth majestically proclaimed! Oh! that asinine philosopher who burst out laughing when he saw a donkey eating a fig! I invent nothing: ancient books have related in the greatest detail this wilful, shameful deprivation of human nobility. I know not how to laugh. I have never been able to laugh, although I have tried it a number of times. It is very difficult to learn how to laugh. Or rather, I think that a feeling of repugnance for this monstrosity forms an essential characteristic of my personality. Well, I have witnessed something even more outrageous: I have seen a fig eating a donkey! And yet I did not laugh; frankly, no buccal portion stirred. I was seized by so strong an urge to weep that my eyes let fall a tear, ‘Nature! Nature!’ I cried out, sobbing. ‘The sparrowhawk rends the sparrow, the fig eats the donkey, and the tapeworm devours man!’ Without resolving to go further, I am really wondering whether I spoke of the way to kill flies. I did, didn’t I? It is no less true that I did not speak of the destruction of rhinoceroses! If certain of my friends were to claim the contrary I would not listen to them, and would recall that praise and flattery are two great stumbling-blocks. However, so as to satisfy my conscience as much as possible, I cannot help pointing out that this dissertation on the rhinoceros would lead me beyond the bounds of patience and composure and in itself would probably (let us in fact have the audacity to say ‘certainly’) dishearten present generations. Not to have spoken of the rhinoceros after the fly! At least for a passable excuse I should promptly have mentioned (and did not do so!) this unpremeditated omission, which will astonish no one who has seriously studied the real and inexplicable contradictions that inhabit the lobes of the human brain. To a noble, simple intellect, nothing is unworthy: the least phenomenon of nature, if it hold mystery, gives the sage inexhaustible food for thought. If anyone sees a donkey eat a fig or a fig eat a donkey (these two incidents do not often occur, except in poetry) you may be sure that after two or three minutes’ reflection in order to know what course to take, he will abandon the way of virtue and begin to crow with laughter like a cock! Again, has it not been correctly proved that cocks open their beaks to imitate man and pull a cockeyed face? What I call grimace in birds bears the same name among men! The cock does not stray from its nature – less from incapacity than pride. Teach them to read and they rebel. This is no parrot – which would be in ecstasies before its ignorant and unforgivable weakness! Oh! loathsome degradation! How like a goat one is when one laughs! The calm brow has disappeared to make way for two enormous fishes’ eyes which (is it not deplorable?) … which … begin to shine like lighthouses! I often happen to state, solemnly, the most clownish propositions … I do not find that that provides a peremptorily sufficient reason for expanding the mouth! ‘I cannot help laughing,’ you will answer me; I accept this absurd explanation, but let it be a melancholy laugh, then. Laugh, but weep at the same time. If you cannot weep with your eyes, weep with your mouth. If this is still impossible, urinate. But I warn you, some sort of liquid is needed here to attenuate the aridity which laughter, with her rear-split features, carries in her womb. As for me, I shall not let myself be put out by the comical clucking and odd bellows of those who always find some fault in a character unlike their own, because this is one of the innumerable intellectual modifications that God, without departing from the primal model, created to regulate our bony frames. Until today poetry was on the wrong track. Rising up to heaven or grovelling on the ground, it has misunderstood the principles of its existence and has been, not without reason, constantly derided by upright folk. It has not been modest … the finest quality that ought to exist within an imperfect being! I want to display my good qualities, but am not hypocrite enough to hide my vices! Laughter, evil, pride, folly, will appear in turn, between compassion and love of justice, and will serve – to mankind’s stupefaction – as examples. Everyone will recognize himself herein, not as he should be but as he is. And perhaps this simple ideal conceived by my imagination will yet surpass all that poetry has hitherto deemed most imposing and most sacred. For if in these pages I let my vices leak out, people will only believe more strongly in the virtues I cause to glitter here and whose halo I’ll let so high that the greatest geniuses of the future will sincerely express their grateful recognition of me. Hypocrisy will thus be driven firmly from my abode. And so as to scorn accepted opinions, there will be in my lyrics an impressive proof of force and authority. He sings for himself alone and not for his fellow men. He does not weigh his inspiration upon human scales. Free as the storm, some day he shall run aground upon the indomitable shores of his terrible will! He fears nothing, unless it be himself! In his supernatural battles he shall successfully assault man and the Creator, as when the xiphias sinks its sword into the whale’s belly. Accursed – by his children and by this emaciated hand of mine – be he who persists in not understanding the implacable kangaroos of laughter and the bold lice of caricature! … Two enormous towers were to be seen in the valley; this I stated at the start. Multiplying them by two, the product was four … but I could scarcely perceive the need for this arithmetical process. I continued on my way with fevered brow, crying out incessantly: ‘No … No … I can scarcely perceive the need for this arithmetical process!’ I had heard the clank of chains, and painful groans. May no one, passing this spot, find it possible to multiply the towers by two so that the product be four! Some surmise that I love mankind as if I were its own mother and had borne it nine months in my perfumed womb: this is why I never again pass through the valley whence rise the two units of the multiplicand!
– Fourth Canto
• • •
Before broaching my theme, I think it stupid that it should be necessary (I imagine not everyone will be of my opinion, if I am mistaken) for me to set beside me an open inkwell and a few sheets of unrumpled paper. Thus it will be possible for me to begin, with love, with this sixth canto, the series of instructive poems I am longing to produce. Dramatic episodes of a relentless utility! Our hero became aware that by frequenting caves, and taking refuge in inaccessible places, he was transgressing the rules of logic, and setting up a vicious circle. For if on the one hand he thus encouraged his repugnance for man by the compensation of solitude and distance, and passively circumscribed his limited horizon amid stunted bushes, brambles, and creepers – on the other, his activity no longer found any nutriment to feed the minotaur of his perverse instincts. Consequently he resolved to draw nearer to the human agglomerations, convinced that among so many ready-made victims his various passions would find plenty of means of satisfying themselves. He knew that the police, that shield of civilization, had been looking for him doggedly for a good many years, and that a veritable army of police and their spies were continually at his heels. Without, however, managing to find him. So greatly did his astounding cleverness baffle, in fine style, the most unquestioned wiles (from a stand-point of their success) and arrangements resulting from the best-informed cogitation. He had a special faculty for assuming forms unrecognizable to expert eyes. Superior disguises – speaking as an artist! Outfits of a really mediocre effect, if I consider the morality. On that score, he came close to genius. Have you not noticed the slimness of a pretty cricket with alert movements in the sewers of Paris? It can only be he: that was Maldoror! Mesmerizing the prosperous capitals with a pernicious fluid, he leads them into a lethargic state in which they are incapable of keeping watch upon themselves as they should. A state the more dangerous for being unsuspected. Today he is in Madrid; tomorrow he will be in St Petersburg; yesterday he was in Peking. But to state exactly the place which the exploits of this poetic Rocambole are currently filling with terror is a task beyond the possible strength of my dull-witted ratiocination. The bandit is perhaps seven hundred leagues away from this area – or perhaps a few steps from you. It is not easy to make men perish entirely, and there are laws; but with patience one can exterminate the humanitarian ants one by one. Now from the day of my birth, when, still inexperienced in setting my snares, I lived with the first forbears of our race; since remote times set beyond history, when, in subtle metamorphoses at divers epochs I ravaged the regions of the globe by conquests and carnage, and spread civil war among citizens – have I not already ground beneath my heel, member by member or collectively, whole generations whose untold total it would not be difficult to conceive? The radiant past has made brilliant promises to the future: it will keep them. To scrape together my sentences I needs must employ the natural method, regressing to the savages so they may give me lessons. Simple and majestic gentlemen, their gracious mouths ennoble all that flows from their tattooed lips. I have just proved that nothing on this planet is laughable. Droll but lofty planet. Grasping a style some may find naive (when it is so profound), I shall make it serve to interpret ideas which unfortunately may not seem imposing! For that very reason, ridding myself of the light and sceptical turn of ordinary conversation, and prudent enough not to pose … I no longer know what I was intending to say, for I do not remember the start of the sentence. But know this: poetry happens to be wherever the stupidly mocking smile of duck-faced man is not. First I am going to blow my nose, because I need to; and then, mightily aided by my hand, shall again take up the penholder my fingers had let fall. How could the Pont du Carrousel observe its steadfast neutrality when it heard the harrowing screams seemingly uttered by the sack!
– Sixth Canto
22 May 1869
Sir,
Just yesterday I received your letter dated 21 May: it was yours. Well, you must understand that I cannot, unfortunately, let this occasion pass without sending you my apologies. This is why: because, had you informed me the other day, in ignorance of what troubles might be affecting the circumstances in which I find my own self, that the funds were running out, I would have taken care not to draw on them; but assuredly I would have been quite as happy not to write these three letters as you yourself not to read them. You have enforced the deplorable system of distrust vaguely prescribed by my father’s eccentricity; but you have guessed that my aching head does not prevent my considering attentively the difficult situation in which hitherto you have been placed by a sheet of writing paper from South America, its main shortcoming lack of clarity; for I am not taking into account the offensiveness of certain melancholy observations which one readily forgives an old man, and which appeared to me on first reading intended to impose upon you, in the future perhaps, the necessity of deviating from your clearly defined role of banker vis-à-vis a gentleman come to live in the capital …
… Pardon me, Sir, I have a request to make of you: should my father send other funds before the 1st of September, at which time my body will make an appearance before your bank door, would you be kind enough to let me know? Besides, I am at home at all hours of the day; you would only have to write me the word and it is probable that I would receive it almost as soon as the young lady who opens the door, or even before, if I happen to find myself in the entrance-hall …
… And all this, I repeat, for an insignificant bagatelle of formality! To present ten dry fingernails instead of five, is that all it comes to: after giving the matter much thought, I confess it looked to me full of a notable quantity of unimportance …
(translated by Alexis Lykiard)