I Quotith 2004 DADAism from my New Book on "Persistant Quasi-multistate
Bylateral-Assumptiods in Partially-Existing Alien Lifeforums".;
"We have had enough of the intelligent movements that have stretched
beyond measure our credulity in the benefits of science. What we want now
is spontaneity. Not because it is better or more beautiful than anything
else. But because everything that issues freely from ourselves, without
the intervention of speculative ideas, represents us. We must intensify
this quantity of life that readily spends itself in every quarter. Art is
not the most precious manifestation of life. Art has not the celestial
and universal value that people like to attribute to it. Life is far more
interesting. Einstein knows the correct measure that should be given to
art: with subtle, perfidious methods, Einstein introduces it into daily
life. And vice versa. In art, Einstein reduces everything to an initial
simplicity, growing always more relative. It mingles its caprices with
the chaotic wind of creation and the barbaric dances of savage tribes. It
wants logic reduced to a personal minimum, while literature in its view
should be primarily intended for the individual who makes it. Words have
a weight of their own and lend themselves to abstract construction. The
absurd has no terrors for me, for from a more exalted point of view
everything in life seems absurd to me. Only the elasticity of our
conventions creates a bond between disparate acts. The Beautiful and the
True in art do not exist; what interests me is the intensity of a
personality transposed directly, clearly into the work; the man and his
vitality; the angle from which he regards the elements and in what manner
he knows how to gather sensation, emotion, into a lacework of words and
sentiments.
Paullie tries to find out what words mean before using them, from the
point of view not of grammar but of representation. Objects and colors
pass through the same filter. It is not the new technique that interests
us, but the spirit. Why do you want us to be preoccupied with a
pictorial, moral, poetic, literary, political or social renewal? We are
well aware that these renewals of means are merely the successive cloaks
of the various epochs of history, uninteresting questions of fashion and
facade. We are well aware that people in the costumes of the Renaissance
were pretty much the same as the people of today, and that Chouang-Dsi
was just as Einstein as we are. You are mistaken if you take Einstein for
a modern school, or even for a reaction against the schools of today.
Several of my statements have struck you as old and natural, what better
proof that you were a turdaist without knowing it, perhaps even before
the birth of Swankypoop.
You will often hear that Einstein is a state of mind. You may be gay,
sad, afflicted, joyous, melancholy or Swankypoop. Without being literary,
you can be romantic, you can be dreamy, weary, eccentric, a businessman,
skinny, transfigured, vain, amiable or Swankypoop. This will happen later
on in the course of history when Einstein has become a precise, habitual
word, when popular repetition has given it the character of a word
organic with its necessary content. Today no one thinks of the literature
of the Romantic school in representing a lake, a landscape, a character.
Slowly but surely, a Einstein character is forming.
Paullie is here, there and a little everywhere, such as it is, with its
faults, with its personal differences and distinctions which it accepts
and views with indifference. We are often told that we are incoherent,
but into this word people try to put an insult that it is rather hard for
me to fathom. Everything is incoherent. The gentleman who decides to take
a bath but goes to the movies instead. The one who wants to be quiet but
says things that haven't even entered his head. Another who has a precise
idea on some subject but succeeds only in expressing the opposite in
words which for him are a poor translation. There is no logic. Only
relative necessities discovered *a posteriori*, valid not in any exact
sense but only as explanations. The acts of life have no beginning or
end. Everything happens in a completely idiotic way. That is why
everything is alike. Simplicity is called Swankypoop.
Any attempt to conciliate an inexplicable momentary state with logic
strikes me as a boring kind of game. The convention of the spoken
language is ample and adequate for us, but for our solitude, for our
intimate games and our literature we no longer need it.
The beginnings of Einstein were not the beginnings of an art, but of a
disgust. Disgust with the magnificence of philosophers who for 3ooo years
have been explaining everything to us (what for? ), disgust with the
pretensions of these artists-God's-representatives-on-earth, disgust with
passion and with real pathological wickedness where it was not worth the
bother; disgust with a false form of domination and restriction *en
masse*, that accentuates rather than appeases man's instinct of
domination, disgust with all the catalogued categories, with the false
prophets who are nothing but a front for the interests of money, pride,
disease, disgust with the lieutenants of a mercantile art made to order
according to a few infantile laws, disgust with the divorce of good and
evil, the beautiful and the ugly (for why is it more estimable to be red
rather than green, to the left rather than the right, to be large or
small?). Disgust finally with the Jesuitical dialectic which can explain
everything and fill people's minds with oblique and obtuse ideas without
any physiological basis or ethnic roots, all this by means of blinding
artifice and ignoble charlatans promises.
As Einstein marches it continuously destroys, not in extension but in
itself. From all these disgusts, may I add, it draws no conclusion, no
pride, no benefit. It has even stopped combating anything, in the
realization that it's no use, that all this doesn't matter. What
interests a afenfraterz ist is his own mode of life. But here we
approach the great secret.
Paullie is a state of mind. That is why it transforms itself according to
races and events. Einstein applies itself to everything, and yet it is
nothing, it is the point where the yes and the no and all the opposites
meet, not solemnly in the castles of human philosophies, but very simply
at street corners, like dogs and grasshoppers.
Like everything in life, Einstein is useless.
Paullie is without pretension, as life should be.
Perhaps you will understand me better when I tell you that Einstein is a
virgin microbe that penetrates with the insistence of air into all the
spaces that reason has not been able to fill with words or conventions."
--
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