Surrealism in Greece: An Anthology 9780292794344

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Surrealism in Greece

T h e S u r r e a l i st R e v o l u t i o n S e r i e s Franklin Rosemont, E d i t o r

A renowned current in poetry and the arts, surrealism has also influenced psychoanalysis, anthropology, critical theory, politics, humor, popular culture, and everyday life. Illuminating its diversity and actuality, the Surrealist Revolution Series focuses on translations of original writings by participants in the international surrealist movement and on critical studies of unexamined aspects of its development.

Surrealism in Greece An Anthology

E d i t e d a n d t r a n s l at e d b y N i k o s S ta b a k i s

UN i v e r s i t y o f T e x a s P r e ss   A u st i n

Every effort has been made to trace any copyright owners for the works reproduced herein. The University of Texas Press will be happy to hear from any who may hold copyrights whom we found impossible to contact.

© 2 0 0 8 b y t h e U n i v e r s i t y o f T e x a s P r e ss All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2008 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html ♾ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper). L i b r a r y o f C o n g r e ss C ata l o g i n g - i n - P u b l i c at i o n D ata Surrealism in Greece : an anthology / edited and translated by Nikos Stabakis.    p.   cm. — (The Surrealist revolution series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-292-71800-5 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Greek literature, Modern—20th century—Translations into English. 2. Surrealism (Literature)—Greece.  I. Stabakis, Nikos, 1969– PA5273.S87  2008 889´.0801163—dc22  2008006948

C o n t e n ts

A c k n o w l e d g m e n ts

vii



1

Introduction

Pa rt I. T h e F o u n d e r s  1

ONE

Andreas Embirikos  14



T WO

Nicolas Calas  56



T HREE



FOUR



FIVE

Nikos Engonopoulos  82 Odysseus Elytis  131 Nikos Gatsos  162

Pa rt II. T h e S e c o n d G e n e r at i o n  169

S IX

Matsi Hatzilazarou  174



S EVEN

Miltos Sahtouris  182



EI G H T

Hector Kaknavatos  195

v i    Contents



NINE



T EN



ELEVEN

Nanos Valaoritis  211 Dimitris Papaditsas  257 E. Ch. Gonatas  259

Pa rt III. T h e Pa l i G r o u p  271

T WELVE

Mando Aravantinou  282



T HIRT EEN

Yorgos V. Makris  288



FOURT EEN

Alexander Skinas  293



FIF T EEN

Tassos Denegris  309



S IX T EEN

Panos Koutrouboussis  311



S EVEN T EEN



EI G H T EEN



Afterword

337



Notes

343



Bibliography

355



Index

359

Eva Mylona  324 Dimitris Poulikakos  328

A c k n o w l e d g m e n ts

The editor would like to thank the following persons, without whom the present volume would not have been possible: Nanos Valaoritis, for his interest and encouragement during the preparation of this anthology, despite our largely divergent opinions as regards the actuality of the surrealist intervention in Greece; Despina Tsouma for the invaluable help she provided regarding copyright matters; Panos Koutrouboussis and Alexander Skinas for reading, commenting upon, and helping give final shape to my translations of their works; Dr. Yannis Karavidas for his insights on the work of Nikos Engonopoulos, and for providing considerable help and suggestions regarding the translations from that poet’s work included herein; and Dr. Victor Ivanovici and Sotiris Liontos for their help in various practical matters. This anthology is dedicated to the memory of Nikos Stangos (cotranslator of the first Greek surrealist book published in the English language), E. Ch. Gonatas, and Miltos Sahtouris, all of whom died as the work was reaching completion.

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Surrealism in Greece

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Introduction

In the “Surrealist Map of the World” printed in the “Surrealism Special” of the journal Variétés in 1929, Greece is conspicuous by its absence. So, of course, are several other countries, but Greece and Italy in particular (insofar as having originated the “Greco-Roman” civilization) were reportedly seen by surrealism’s founder, André Breton, as symbols of an insipid rationality imposed upon what has come to be called the Western world. Yet the simultaneous absence of France and presence of Paris on the map should draw attention to the function of the emphatically present Constantinople: a Greco-Turkish hybrid (Turkey being equally absent), a crossroads between East and West. From the outset, Constantinople (the fabled origin of the surrealist Nikos Engonopoulos) marks a challenge to the assumed heritage of Greek civilization. It is thus that Greek surrealism has been blatantly conscious of the cultural practices and attitudes reporting to “tradition,” as well as of the complexity pertaining to the latter concept. The relationship of its major representatives with the Greek language itself will be addressed in the course of this anthology (as concisely as possible, given that such a relationship is by definition resistant to translation). Equally noteworthy, however, is the use of “indigenous” themes, especially by Greek surrealism’s foremost figures, Andreas Embirikos and Nikos Engonopoulos. In the former’s paganist inclinations and in the latter’s pointed rejection of French rationalism and neoclassicism in favor of an idiosyncratic treatment of Greek themes, a crucial inversion takes place: to the earlier French surrealists’ repudiation of the classical heritage, Greek surrealism answers by promoting an alternative, expansive, and indeed subversive interpretation of this very heritage.

    Introduction

Certain critics, whose hostility toward surrealism is complemented by a tendency to pronounce definitive statements, often argue that the movement flourished in Greece to an extent unequaled in any other country, save perhaps France. This contention, which chooses to ignore surrealism’s international dynamics, rests on the impressively wide influence surrealist imagery has exerted on mainstream Greek poetry: an actual fact, albeit one alarmingly reminiscent of the “Chinese whispers” game, whereby the original explosion is too often evoked and eventually replaced by its tiny echo. Nonetheless, the phenomenon is not without its importance, for in Greece, unlike many other cultures (notably English-speaking ones), it has been impossible, even on the level of the most conservative literary tendencies, to ignore surrealism altogether. And this, in fact, is not hard to explain. Being a postcolonial state marked by financial provinciality and political instability and informed by countless layers of history and culture even though a mere century old, that Greece to which surrealism was introduced in the early 1930s boasted of neither a substantial, tried, and tested cultural canon nor a coherent prehistory of radical expression. This said, an anthology of Greek presurrealism such as that envisaged by Nanos Valaoritis1 in homage to Nicolas Calas (the first Greek writer who conceived of mapping the early mavericks, extremists, and experimenters) would perhaps place the present work in perspective. It is also Valaoritis who has noted, on various occasions, that Embirikos, both through his work and through his physical presence (exerting as he did a quasipolar attraction on young poets), has attained in Greece a status similar to that of Guillaume Apollinaire in France. The comparison is particularly apt because troubling, for Embirikos, Calas, and (a little later, yet more aggressively) Engonopoulos propagated surrealism in a country that ignored the very notion of an “avant-garde,” with all the complications or limitations this term may entail. Greek surrealism thus knew no preparatory stages; the double result of which was, on the one hand, an overwhelmingly scandalous (if quantitatively modest) debut, in the shape of a few, albeit important, early books and interventions, and, on the other, a number of obstacles to its development. Other critics, equally (but less openly) hostile to surrealism, make the exact opposite argument, to the effect that Greek surrealism has never actually existed; and in fact, the extreme peculiarity pertaining to these two entirely contradictory interpretations of the phenomenon would in itself suffice to render the latter remarkable. This second scenario is often based on the assumption that the appearance of the earliest surrealist-related events and texts in Greece came at too late a date (that is, around 1935!) to be either truly radical or unproblematically incorporated into a movement conveniently presumed to have died a little while before or after World War II. Of course, given that radical expression had not been properly introduced

Introduction    

to the country before Embirikos’s first book, this argument (which, as we shall see, is repeated vis-à-vis the Greek surrealist presence in the 1960s and beyond) would be meaningless, even if its claims regarding international surrealism were true. Alternately, the aforementioned view attempts to prove the international movement’s incompatibility with Greek surrealist production and activity; this could be an intriguing effort, were it not based on a fragmentary knowledge (and systematic distortion) of those early writings of Breton’s that happened to be translated in Greek. It goes without saying that here, too, the movement’s history and continuation are completely ignored. What is more, this attack originates with figures of the academic establishment and is contemporary to, and neatly (if not overtly) compatible with, the pseudoprogressive, “deconstructive” attitude of certain North American academics in particular toward international surrealism; the difference being that here the movement’s denigration is replaced by that of a specific expression/incarnation of it, surrealism itself being misread rather than lambasted. Such a symptom could well be considered one instance in a transnational academic “enterprise” and thus may as well be put aside as a potential topic for a special study. This, of course, is not all: the seminal works of Embirikos and Engonopoulos in particular have, over the years, been read and reread in whichever way was deemed convenient according to each given critic’s ideological frame. At once impossible to ignore, in terms of their influence, to start with, and uncomfortably daring, these works have been distorted in the following ways:



a. By assigning to them a minor value, seeing them as the mere preconditions for more “substantial” and acceptable kinds of “literary production.” In this view, the most groundbreaking Greek surrealists are thereby, by definition, “not really” poets, but rather blind slaves to an “ideology,” albeit also too radical and indeed free-flowing in their approach to be taken seriously. This rather paradoxical position is by far the commonest and oldest treatment of the phenomenon, judging from another kind of curious “dialectics” Greek surrealism is subjected to: its notoriety all too often giving way to silence when it comes to critical treatment, it is accordingly suppressed on the level of translation, despite (or because of) the international potential (as ­opposed to national stereotype) attached to its works. b. By reclaiming them for the “tradition” of Greek literature, while dissociating them from surrealism. This view utilizes in particular the Greco-centered thematics of certain surrealists (an aspect, to be addressed throughout this anthology, not unexpected in the surrealist expression of a peripheral country) in order to celebrate them as “pure” artists despite their rash alliance to the movement (a newer, rapidly developing critical tendency would have

    Introduction

surrealism itself  being identified with these presumed ethnocentric poetics, its international practice blissfully ignored); or else, to challenge them as signs to the effect that surrealism has not really operated in Greece in any substantial way and is now therefore (it being too late for an actual resurgence) unacceptable even as an influence. We can thus see that a certain mechanism of suppression (of evasion, even) is firmly at work, certainly not in the sense of a “conspiracy,” but rather of a network of academic discourses coming to terms with a particularly bothersome residue. Seldom is the issue of Greek surrealism placed in the right perspective—namely, that of its compatibility (in terms of products and of public presence) with the international movement’s activity. This crucial matter is not so easy to resolve, and accordingly few have deemed it worth bothering about, save for extracting facile conclusions from familiar (as titles if not as texts) French books. The organization of Greek surrealism has always been deficient, indeed intermittent; but this factor is usually addressed neither vis-à-vis its objective causes (as this anthology will purport to do) nor within the temporal framework proper to it, owing to the prejudices peculiar to art and literary history—hence the critical suppression or underrating (as a nostalgic venture) of an actual surrealist resurgence in the 1960s, one that reported boldly to international developments and remained a long-standing influence on younger generations. It is for these reasons that the present anthology focuses on activity within the spatial confines of a country (as opposed to adopting “ethnocentric” criteria); all the names included herein have been connected, in one way or another, to groups formed around Embirikos and/or Nanos Valaoritis. This explains the absence of such longestablished surrealist figures as Gisèle Prassinos and Ado Kyrou, who may have maintained some loose links with Greece but actually operated in the context of French language and activity. Likewise, the French and English works of Calas and Valaoritis are also excluded (excepting a few French poems by Calas, so far printed only in Greece). In the former’s case, given that his non-Greek writings constitute the bulk of his output (which, nevertheless, cannot be assessed independently of those writings which display his intellectual formation within a particular milieu), one may only hope that his mature theoretical work will become widely available in its original form. With the latter, who, even while physically absent, has always written and published extensively in Greek, the situation is more straightforward. In concluding this introduction, I note a couple of points about the structure and choice of texts. For the reader’s convenience, the anthology has been divided into three sections, preceded by brief introductions to the eras addressed. However, this

Introduction    

is not meant to be read as a linear narrative, but rather as a presentation of successive groups of writers, whose works and activities more often than not overlap at some point or other; the reader is thus strongly advised to use this classification as nothing more than a guide. Also, this being (one hopes) the most comprehensive selection of Greek surrealist poetry, prose, and theory ever published, it should nonetheless be pointed out that if almost all poems and stories are presented in their entirety, the essays included are usually abridged, to a greater or lesser extent, as the reader will find. This, in some cases, is due to their overwhelming length; in other cases, it is merely an effort to omit details that would seem too peculiar to a specific time and place. In the hope that such a conscious choice, which nevertheless leaves the bulk of the crucial arguments intact, will not spoil the overall picture, it is now time to proceed.

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Andreas Embirikos (1901–1975)

​O n e

​B

orn in Braila (Rumania), to an Andros family of shipowners. One of the great visionary poets, originator of surrealism and psychoanalysis in Greece. His work, ranging from automatic writing and love poetry to fairy-tale-like narratives and the most explicit erotic pages in Greek literature, reveals a utopian desire beyond metaphysics, reflected on a unique linguistic sensibility, whereby the dryness of the “official” Greek dialect is subjected to a hedonistic détournement. Despite being less active in his late years, he remained interested in the continuation of surrealism, whose signs he was eager to detect; in the 1960s he made the acquaintance of younger surrealists, such as Philip Lamantia, and was among the very first Greek writers to show awareness and appreciation of the North American “beat” scene, to the point of dedicating one of his late poems to Jack Kerouac. He translated poetry by Breton and Picasso’s Les Quatre Jeunes Filles. “The equal of a Solomos, a Baudelaire, a Lautréamont, a Dante” (Nikos Engonopoulos).

I. From Blast Furnace (1935) The Necktie’s Vibrations Her sand is incredible. Her face joyous and each leaf on her boulevard at a standstill. Beyond the grease of the cup-bearing coach her sky became as a tingling knot’s eye and without effort or bridle the kneader of remote murders returns among us. The garden bears her trail toward the west palm of the swollen road and the little wick cries in her ever-shining bending over ices of withering vain ices related to the sly

Andreas Embirikos    1 5

catapult’s unrighteous shrinking. No procession echoes and the forgetfulness lamenting the sea-frayed combs endures like an intrigue inside the husk of the breast’s systematic narration. Completion of Freighter Steamboat Like the waters of a sworn jury her eyes’ calmness was troubled yet her recovered sight finally prevailed and flew to the clear sky of her domed dream as does a fly from a sleeping child’s nose to the tumult of brilliant silence. Then the law-observers’ assembly decided to kill silence once and for all and erect on that very point the statue of her eyes’ calmness for the young woman was holding her recovered sight inside her hands like a miraculous snake. The Wires of Emotions Attacking with the violence of fever he overthrew the tyranny of precipitous rocks. The clamor of the populace in ruins was hung on the wires and the ruptured brains gazed in ecstasy at the murder slipping toward the ulcer of the abyss. The lamentation of young trees was transformed into a laudation of great dimensions, and the flying animalcules bade farewell to the false panacea once offered to them at five p.m. and after bidding farewell to each other began to sing against seats and shields with admirable accuracy. The nature lovers voted for the abolition of subservience and the spurt of every last one became the pilgrimage of lepers and healthier units alike. At the top of the most illustrious hill an ammoniac catamount asylum was established in whose refreshment room the entrance of all seasons was permitted as was the cohabitation of young ladies with the dancing seafarers of the current year. Cyclopes and Stores The solution of manic affliction contains the fatigue of the icy well’s billowing. The entire dilation of the erect camels’ restoration on the fire-species that we all favor consents as reduction of spring’s briefest semaphores. Here passing bugle-calls of roaring vultures there marks on cheeks of half-bared women expecting us in the place of widowed serpents’ buzz. Beneath the branches of ocean steamers next to us the herbivorous horsemen will be named acrobats and like a practical saracen’s leaning his crystals will flow with the pear-skins preferring a penis’ erection to clouds of dead-calm in lateral roads of chemical refutation and recovery of excrement and jewels.

1 6    The Founders

Light on Whale Woman’s original form was the interweaving of two dinosaurs’ necks. Times have changed since and so has female shape. She became smaller more fluid better harmonized to the two-masted (three-masted in certain countries) ships sailing over the life-struggle’s disasters. She herself sails on the scales of a cylinder-carrying pigeon of long calibre. Seasons change and the woman of our times resembles a wick’s chasm. Lime We have no quinces. We have been deprived of our briefest pulp’s equivalent sum and beneath its murmuring only the young leopards remain alone with their dark florins and with the final gull’s cold desolation. We have no quinces. Eucalyptus burdens die in the palm of our pulses and whatever we say and see we treat the distinguished intelligence of perfumed youths. We have no quinces or is it that we have their quince-made harshest form struggles of barrages and tepid gleanings of transients pole’s negative roaming and hole. The Tradesmen’s Welcome Even before tomorrow’s fornication the long-suffering edge of the last mountain range lowered its eyelids to accept the gifts of automatic revolvers. Thirty members of the hermaphrodite conversation possessed the irreparable boulevard in full instrumentation where bride-bazaars abounded primarily with lobsters and with elegant lemonade boxes. Yet as no one raised the net named by others in that country a Bavarian protuberance the fabrics’ blade was torn in two and the dean of sacred fury emerged once and for all uncannily like a bird exiting a sock. Winter Grapes She was deprived of her toys and lover. So she bent her head and almost died. But her thirteen fortunes like her fourteen years sabred the elusive disaster. No one spoke. No one ran to protect her against the overseas sharks that had already cast the evil eye upon her as a fly casts it upon a diamond an enchanted land. So this story was mercilessly forgotten as is the case whenever the forester forgets his thunderbolt in the woods.

Andreas Embirikos    1 7

Affably Slaughtered Larks I recall how impressed we were by cassocks. We were right for under the plaits the polyhedral watchtower of an adulteress’ sighs was already outlined. Our impulse was not sufficiently explained. Yet it was as substantial as the running tears of a retarded epoch. Under the cassocks the demonstration finally prevailed and upon their abolition the scene of the young woman’s deliverance by fencing thoughts was performed. The crowd did not consent to complete her encomium and the adulteress’ first disappointment strikes at the second’s heart to avenge the titles withdrawn while adding pheasant feathers where once her lovers worshiped her eyes. Yet a day of revelry is at hand when the diamond shall rise and profitably adorn the unjustly locked charm of her now wholly deprived pubis and this in the presence of roaring bulls and before the excessively opened eyes of today’s executioners for never at all do the notes of a commenced epic stop even if its glass is repeatedly emptied even if the mistaken mob stands upon its head. Ispahan A most thunderous storm covered the country. Howling rocks assaulted the broadbrimmed lakes and the injured fish crawled to the anchorites’ station. No aid was supplied there for the bellowing of megalosauruses scattered its fluttering on both sides and mushrooms kept silence over the actual facts in the hovering nuptial procession of a young planet’s sighs. Afterwards nothing meant the same as before. Tranquillity did not exist as a real entity. Disaster was curbed by camels. The temples of the dead were blooming. The few doves were laboring because the lake’s pulp had formed a canal at the narrowest point of their passage through thousand-mouthed insults trampled with the frenzied noise of mothers and young children thinner than a bat’s bones. Decimal Bottles of Some Lean Lever The day was like a most slender boat and many believed that it bore on its shoulders the homecoming day. The first in line troubled the psalm’s commencement and the glass table streams westwards ever since. Terrible are the momentary facts and our desire goes beyond the hourglasses. Terrible are the maidens’ eyes when tossed in the midst of love in the midst of a font in the midst or indirect midst of vultures. Yet there remain the resurrectional fish the lilies of buy-and-sellers the swords of marble coups d’état and finally the awe of the fields’ werewolf. The record collection

1 8    The Founders

knows no satiety. The epic is of no use to cavities neither for nor against the sexton’s vibration when cutting off the acrostic of the holy goat’s right thigh. That maybe is why his eyes were turning mercilessly green. That maybe is why to us the lesson was named shrimp. Riding Donkeys Loving Ladies The most incomprehensible whirl attained by a clavichord carried away the mole held by the young nurse’s regular nose. Before the great martyr the nurse’s hand dissolved and the right eye of a serpent in black collapsed with a terrible clatter. Yet the smoke was not carried away. Each of its flakes became a finch and insisted with dangerous fanaticism on envisaging the almond tree of a virtuoso orchestra’s hiding place. The beast-tamer was vanquished and for the thousandth time shone the bow tie that induced many bathing women to the coffeehouse of the sixty-eighth zebra’s village. No one was more soiled than a burst watermelon. The ancient dotard’s impotence was abolished and on its place a reveling fog arose once and for all. Malaria Curls were washed in honey. Vile exploiters of an entire generation’s essential toils surrendered without striking a blow and evaded on tiptoe the singing quartet of feasting angels. On that day the spinning mills collapsed. Three furnaces became forests and over the foliages an unhappy woman who lost two sons and one charming chick at the China wars emitted a ladder-like cry. Yet her desire remained as a statue of high tension and now dominates recognized by the boats that sail all around despite the utmost arguments of an entire era’s political authors. Moroccan Lady After the shrieking halo’s confusion she stood on the lake’s edge and taking hold of her long hair attempted to adopt the breeze. Soon a rain exceeding girl-school teachers in elegance took pity on her and came from all sides to embrace her. The dove of the opaque creature that lay in ambush for her fell dead at her feet as the moving spindle falls outside fate. Morning’s leaf was slower in crawling to repent next to the drama and the dominant miracle yet the undamaged concert of spouts and of the complex advantages of the tufts’ invincible love for her breast leaned heavily upon her and begged her foot to allow its joyful deception without the gleaming warmth on her left eye.

Andreas Embirikos    1 9

Desire Prostrate with sugarcoated lips she lay on love’s luminous wreath. Before long the call was heeded. First she was taken away by two birds then by the wires of compassionate intrigue and finally by five roosters resembling trained horses who placed her between her own thighs. The response of alien ingredients vanished and with longing perfumed seaweeds and scintillating sighs she came unrestrained and clean like an essential and intense cloud. Now they are both named Merope. Castration of the Third Springtime’s Flag-Bearers Not with glittering velvets not with the necklaces of damsels standing at the window not with ostriches’ necks but with a naked grief bearing the wreath of vanished phosphorescence the classification of heroes and distribution of perfumed saddles took place. Yet no one could appropriate one’s own destiny. Like the locked-up lamb wailing upon the sight-leaf quilt the fear of an entire corporation arose and went insane upon casting its utensils to the sea. At once the order of effeminate policemen was disturbed and the century-old cyclone crumbled from its shelf shattering young hens carrying off praying hyacinths ridiculing priests and prostitutes and contributing a great deal to the creation of new embankments before the entrance of the martyrs’ borough. Where once the most famous paint factory was in bloom now children are sold and for the price of two teeth one may transform the individuality of an enamored cow into the trophy of an androgynous assemblage with no forgiveness of sins no sorrow-sickness no deviation to the right or left but only with the soft caresses of an affectionate electric compass. The Magnates’ Crossing Is Completed Poverty goes ashore the flower-glass today and her borders touch the small toothed screws following us. Our few hazelnuts shine in her hands and on her perfectly round breast wander the flocks that we do not yet own. Nevertheless the pen fell vertically and slowly but with no pretences the rolls of our own findings started dripping. Our joy shall bring about disaster unless we submit fundamentally to their will. Brilliant and sensitive as a fruit shop it announces our poverty’s end on condition of the taps’ removal and of a silk lamp-bracket’s promotion amidst marine sorrows. Larks on pheasants fishes on mere fabrics and rhombuses on a locomotive accompany the precious screws’ arrival and the polyhedral bell rings the retreat before us in order to retain all continuity and all stitches of our flowers’ shudder

2 0    The Founders

and the supine emission of metallic plates already thickening on breasts and inside each of our clots’ pockets. Spinning Mill of Nocturnal Repose We are all within our future. When singing before the painters’ expressive pictures when leaning before a burnt town’s straws when appropriating the drizzle of shudders we are all within our future for whatever we pursue it is impossible to say yes or no without the future of our destination just as a woman can do nothing without the conflagration enclosed within the ashes of her legs. Whoever saw her did not stand and stare at the rotating gardens nor at the revelry of worshiped hair nor even at the fifes of laboratory transfusions from one country to veins of a warm bay protected from this world and from the north winds of the slender virgins’ azure reflection. We are all within the future of a composite flag bearing before my heart’s walls the enemy fleets safeguarding delusions certifying intermediate supplicating reformations without the object of struggle being understood. Certain snapshots suggested to us the correctness of our procedure toward the trainer of the same phantom of the dreams’ origin and of each resident of an ancient town’s heart. Upon the exhaustion of our chronicles we shall seem more naked than the arrival of the conviction of similar tentacles and clean winches for we are all within the silence of collapsing pain inside the sparkling tricks of our future.

II. From Hinterland (1945; written 1934–1937) Fracture Swallows are melting today Rough fury intoxicates the plowmen of pain Now that the feline games Betray the mood of the moment Ah the poor swallows Vainly melting in the sun Within the fire lit with rum By grave-robbers Ah those poor swallows Their fate was told by the whisper Of a gypsy lady with pulsing breasts Before the sun had set on the blond nets Of the open sea’s fishing boats.

Andreas Embirikos    2 1

The Dam

For Nikitas Randos Despite the substructures and granite works The rock emits its cry Winter flowers have stopped breathing Velvet drops fall before the mirror The fund submerged upon arrival An old woman still standing on the beach observes the sea’s senility Her face filtered by the wind And her white hair entwined round the ship’s shrouds Her bones stripped of their flesh And the old woman strikes her fingers A Spanish lady dances the fandango The phantom of Grenada intoxicates her The grenadiers gaze at her Their cells are dilating A bee emerges and vanishes in the wind Replaced by a blooming carnation The dancer’s rattles are seized by the wind Who begins hissing as sometimes does a rattlesnake This coastal drama does not exist There only exists the chief grenadier Who is standing on the edge of the jetty Expecting his fiancée’s arrival. Olive Fruit Above the transaction of a definitively condemned malady’s infectious waters The vapor of health culminates and chants Faith in adventure has not abated Her eyes are green and reflected on youth’s waters A young man meets a girl and kisses her From their lips drunken words spring Their whole life resembles a meadow Whose green is here and there adorned with mansions Youth youth how beautiful is thy hair Thy charms are embellished with almond-tree flowers of lowlands

2 2    The Founders

In those lands caesars’ triumphs sometimes pass sweeping the gardens’ waters The gardeners’ wives bare their breasts and beseech them A series of pearls drip into a crucible Each pearl is a drop and each drop is a dragon His castle has collapsed and now kids play in shadows The fragments of the manor-lady’s mirror are also gems Thrown by the brave during stone-fights. Instant of Purple No crevice expands without desire Birds open their wings on the garden’s rails The river’s vicinity attracts them The vulture’s passion for the white dove Is the peak of a snowcapped mountain When ices melt we sing in valleys Getting drunk on the waters Our eye-pupils wash their treasures Some blonde some dark They bear our hopes’ reflection on their face Our life’s milk on their breast And we stand all around them Surrounded by eternal commands The mountains’ clots vibrate and dissolve Their snows are songs of the coming years’ arrival These years are our life Inside their hollows birds rest at noon No crevice expands without the desire of expanse Sometimes we become hourglasses And sponges wriggle for each of our drops. The Loudspeaker’s Whisper We are lifted by an ivory pulley With whose strings the light plays The disheveled sea sails on her foam The pearls on her fingers are of many colors And one by one drop amidst the waves

Andreas Embirikos    2 3

Which assume momentarily the falling pearls’ colors In the orbit of the white ocean-steamer On whose bridge wind-shelter snow is heaped On the other side sailors pile sapphires And stokers kindle with pheasant feathers the boiler room fires This ocean-steamer has thirty boats Filled with the populations of a coral peninsula Each boat’s inhabitants hold an oar And present an ensemble of harmonious mystery Where the female sex prevails This ocean-steamer has thirty beast-tamers And a small hippodrome where striped ponies run And compare their stripes to those of zebras This ocean-steamer has been traveling for five or six years This ocean-steamer is the pace of a blond seafarer Now in his prime Wars have left him unscathed Wars have made him detest them In his hands he holds a phial Full of engine oil. Vision of Morning Hours

For Yves Tanguy Natural inclination Spread by the pulses’ dove The tears of rivers flow endlessly They are the tears of homeless joy They are the lakes where snow-white storks once dwelled No southwest wind nestles among the sugarcanes And clouds rise whenever a gunshot sounds Their scattered layers are elevated Where the corvettes are spreading their sails Down on earth a shadow seeks her lost body The climate of the valley that stole it Thickens the fog that conceals it The lake’s treasures worry and shiver Seaweeds and elementary creatures tremble at the bottom

2 4    The Founders

A medusa laments the lake’s transparence of yesterday Which will return with the first fishers’ lantern Before winter comes Before the lantern is even thought of being lit Beneath which a blonde woman contemplates her future The lighthouse attendant stoops and kisses her lips Like seafarers kiss their symplegades. The Caryatids

For Yorgos Gounaropoulos O breasts of youth O livid waters of fig-eaters The pavements echo with steps of matinal people Vigorous grove with your scarlet trees Youth senses your significance Already gushing from your fringes Downy tufts stir between the breasts of girls Who walk half-naked down your lanes Their hair is lovelier than Absalom’s Amber drips between the curls And the brunettes are holding ebony sheets Their footsteps scented by ferrets The forest is affected The forest is an anthill with legions of lancers Here even larks are stripped of their shadows Tramways are nowhere to be heard The day sighs Her youngest daughter is playing with her breasts No insult subsists Only a deer passes holding in her mouth The three cherries that she found between youth’s breasts The evening here is warm Trees are wrapped in their stillness Now and then rocks of silence fall into the clearing As does the light before becoming day.

Andreas Embirikos    2 5

The Age of Plants Always amid the lights of high tension Always amid the villa’s winter flowers Bubbling like a tincture of dawn You come and sit at freedom’s table Beyond the narrow walls of encampments With a kiss on your mouth With a diamond on your neck With a lark on the folds of your hopes that are also my hopes With our long journey’s manifest fife On the table of spring flowers Your heart opened to say what I am certain to hear One day like today at crossroads Circles on the surface of your desires Inside the circles of my desires Perpetual passage beneath the telegraph wires The swallows sitting on those wires And the dolphins that leap on the grass of our passing Are in the nature of things like those dreams That we see with eyes open or closed Before the lake reflected in your eyes Before your eyes reflected in mine. Megaberkha Your feathered fingers pet the mane of the animal that flies from the lake of sighs to the dominated country From the roses of sunset to the rose beds of dawn From one house to another From the contemplation of the midnight sun to the cage of mythological beasts From the phantoms of the secret observation of tufts To the pebbles of the poor fishermen’s coast The phenomena of erotic exaltation The kisses of winds fit for caress Live and relive day and night Over and under the navel of noon

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Putting aside the fabrics of dresses Putting aside the blinds and curtains In palaces full of stalactites In perfumed halls with fountains Where fishes circulate among red opals And some of them leap on the kneeling chambermaids And lick their breasts passionately Until their milk comes intended For the white elephant of the forest Ferrets and wildcats are moaning in the trees Yet are consoled by rainwater And by the falls of overseas colonies With the phenomena of dilation and contraction With festive children dressed in oleander leaves Holding in their hands a little gum With which they stick their kisses On the tree-barks. A Maid’s Advantage Is Her Husband’s Joy Even before the vessel’s anchor is dropped into the sea And its cutter drawn by Carthagean horses The dewy lamps of promontories Accept the foam and the cries of gulls Accept the gifts offered to the betrothed Now that the trumpet sounds and its blasts burst like pomegranates For darkness is cracked open And daybreak at the isle’s center Recalls the winds that raise A bride’s veil in tropical lands Tender like mosquito nets in summer camps Tender like lips bubbling on white flesh Tender like fingers dipped in milk Finally the bride undoes her hair And lemon trees drunken the nightingales Insects pick up their wings And the heat casts them down to the ground The pulsing explosion of a massive volcano Traverses the canal’s lips

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By the clamor of two herdsmen Now that the mount’s hems are displaced by lava While the one’s endurance and the other’s impatience Go sidewise before the raising of a bear’s head. Revolving Cranks

For Leonidas A. Embirikos O ocean-steamer you sing and weave White on your body yellow on the smokestacks For you have grown tired of the harbors’ foul waters You who have loved the distant scattered isles You who have raised the highest rebel flags You who weave boldly through the most hazardous squalls I hail you for yielding to the sirens’ charms I hail you for never having feared the symplegades. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave In the sea glittering with gulls And I am in one of your cabins as you are in my heart. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave Breezes that recognize us undo their hair They too are coming forth with their folds clanging Some in white and some in purple Folds of heartbeats folds of joy Of those betrothed and those already wedded. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave Voices here and whales at your passage below From your bilge children derive beatitude From your face their resemblance to you And you are like those that you and I know For we know what a whale means And how fishermen track down their prey. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave Cowards are those who secretly deride you Those who sell your nets and eat fat While you are traversing marine prairies

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And reach the feathery ports With the jewels of the beautiful mermaid Who still bears your kisses on her breast. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave Your smoke is the tentacle of destiny Which unwinds in the air and ascends Like the dark hair of a sensuous celestial virgin Like the muezzin’s lyrical cry When your prow shines on the wave As Allah’s word on the Prophet’s lips As in his hand his bright unerring sword. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave In the orbits of deep-folded furrows Gleaming like orbits of triumph in your wake Ditches of defloration quivering trails of pleasure In the sunshine’s dazzle or underneath the stars When cranks are turning faster and you sow Foam to the right and to the left across the waters’ shudder. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave I think that our journeys coincide I believe that we two are alike Our circles belong to the universe We ancestors of hatched generations Remorseless we weave and proceed We spinning mills and factories Plains seas and resorts Where brave boys meet up with lasses And later write on the sky the words Armala Porana and Velma. O ocean-steamer you sing and weave Apple trees are always blooming in our heart With their sweet juices and the shade That girls visit at noon To taste love in our company And later to behold the ports With their high steeples and towers That mainland maids sometimes climb To have their hair dried.

Andreas Embirikos    2 9

O ocean-steamer you sing and weave The harps of our abundant joy resound With the wind’s whistling from stern to prow With birds on the masts’ wires With the echo of memories like spyglasses Which I hold up to my eyes and see The approach of islands and seas The retreat of dolphins and quails We hunters of dream enchantment Of the destination that moves on but never stops As daybreak never stops Shudders never stop Waves never stop Ships’ foam never stops Nor do our songs to the women that we love. Altamira’s Tentacle

1 .   Arbute berries heavy like voluptuous eyelids drip honey on silence. The crash endures, and from your eyes to my chest and mouth attraction spreads the tide.

2 .   Few jewels on the grass. Few diamonds in the dark. Yet the night-born butterfly announces the dawn, quivering on the break of day.

3 .   Poetry is the development of a shiny bicycle. Within it we all grow. Roads are

white. Flowers talk. From their petals often emerge diminutive maids. This excursion has no end.

4 .   Moment suspended like the florin that shines momentarily then falls. Funny

that it vanishes upon falling. Yet there remain the birds, their voice, and wherever they sit, on naked branches or glasses of daisies, a feather grows, or a rose-pointed wing, like a libation to the wind.

5 .   The coagulation of a nebula is a breast inside a crucible. 6 .   Silence is swinging on the sand. Her feet touch on the azure beach that sleeps without a ballast.

7 .   My footsteps resound on the velvet paving of my shadow.

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8 .   My secret mountain-hope, I hail your echo. 9 .   O dewy daughter hiding into the cottons of avalanches! Their crystals are singing behind you, and the trenches of ferrets dig deeper approaching the cup of your dress. It is thus that stars strain their chords. It is thus that the milky way is poured inside your mind.

1 0 .   Night-tint on her lips, light-dose on my chest, and the spring’s baskets open, where the fruits’ colored papers are waving.

1 1 .   The symplegades of vicinity are a girl’s breasts caressed by the seafarer. 1 2 .   A little more sea, a little more salt. Later I would like to roll in the sand with you.

1 3 .   The attraction of distances determines every step. The traveling lady unbuttons her coat. From her bosom little birds fly to town. On the high mountain the summer dormitory is being prepared and her hair is already turning green.

1 4 .   Deep wound. On the crater’s hill you shake the memory, and, slowly, like

dusk absorbing a withering day, you, beloved and falsely forgotten, leave the whirl of oblivion to the five winds—for always, when riots whiz and the grass is sprinkled, you forget, and again you remember, and even though you bear no obligation, you are sometimes saddened and sometimes delighted. You are, I think, a frigate visiting all ports, with no baskets and plenty of beautiful soft gunwales.

1 5 .   A button in light, a tarantula in darkness and, in between, a plaintive cry at nightfall.

1 6 .   Walls, they say, have ears—yet whispers also live and die on leaves. 1 7 .   I desert inside the foliages. I discern from afar the slight valley. This day is like a flood of light. In her veins and leaves flows the blood that enlivens her and keeps those upstart slings away. Her dome is so transparent that the neighboring villa’s water pot cracks and the boulevard’s pomegranates burst. Each of their grains is a moment falling in a voluptuous well.

1 8 .   Take my word. Give me your hand.

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1 9 .   I contemplate. A bell is melting before me. 2 0 .   I a beak. You, a whole night of vibrations and of medusa’s phosphor. Then

you fell asleep and upon awakening you stared at me again, as a child stares at a column.

2 1 .   The spring’s bitterness is a kiss that I have in my mouth. 2 2 .   Men sometimes baptize their hands in copper fonts. At such moments infants rejoice and play with red fishes of the slightest buoyancy.

2 3 .   Acts of elephants. Precious revolvers of ivory. A woman between two stacks is

picking up poppies. Finally someone shoots a pistol and all the animals take flight. The trampling of their feet advances like a wave that covers everything.

2 4 .   That which sounds bugles does not roar and neither does it wind itself up like a snake.

2 5 .   Impulse is the cohesion of springtime gushes. Blessed are those who fall into her waters. Her breasts are so beautiful that all fabrics pale before them. If impulse exists, nothing can restrain her. When charging, her mane is a flaming forest of myrrh.

2 6 .   Madness resembles joy or sorrow. Yet it is not a Danaids’ sieve, but a group of

maids dancing at an Orchomenus orchestra. No voice stirred the crowds so deeply. No dusk spread a deeper sorrow. O, hysterical daughter! Your frisk is an avenue leading to the bridge of your condition and your cry a sharp whinnying piercing the sky’s eye.

2 7 .   The farm has been wrapped in oblivion. Inside the empty chambers stalactites

drip and count in silence the years of inexplicable abandonment. Before the door a thief weeps bitterly. Amidst the fig leaves the chameleon changes colors.

2 8 .   Now that the town has emigrated, the procession’s memory sits and sighs before the empty sunburned tramways.

2 9 .   The drama of the beach hotel has not been extinguished. Still the sob is submerged and the whaleboat keeps panting. Ah, how merciless divers beat on the cymbals! Ah, how pained are those crawling on sand!

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3 0 .   Summer camps of awakened dreams—the hours of destinations like dawn-lizards.

3 1 .   Infant in gentle silence. Only the breeze is singing and the daydreaming wet

nurse offers her teat to the happy babe. Time for pleasure and milk. Time for the milky way.

3 2 .   Masts stuck on sandhills, joys of children, of men and of women as the ship

approaches, clouds, white and light, in the sky, a thousand objects, bright and beloved like lips bleeding or dewy, or like awakened teats, and suddenly you, warm and cool at once, and never small-minded, although your feet and hands are indeed small. Maybe that is why I love you so much. Maybe that is why, asleep, I cry your name.

3 3 .   When the wind blows, stubbles are peopled by flute girls. 3 4 .   Pulleys dominate the mountaintop. On the plain olive mills are rotating and the permanent productivity of quarries is compared to the cutting of slate rock. In the burning heat larks are flying and those who stare at the melting of steel resemble riders suddenly dismounting before a fountain.

3 5 .   Among the plums a spark is lurking. Cawing is heard under the leaves tearing

the night’s stainless calico. Yet even before dawn legends have reached their zenith and the spark reveals itself in shining. Then all at once it vanishes—but is replaced by the rooster’s sudden crowing.

III. From Writings or Personal Mythology (1960; written 1934–1946)1 Amour-Amour (excerpt)

For Vivika Once, many years ago, during an excursion to Switzerland, I stopped to marvel at a gigantic waterfall, flowing rapidly over granite rocks, amidst the thick vegetation. At that time, which I might call a period of intensive researches, urged by an almost organic inner necessity, I was attempting (by means of the poems I was then writing) to discover a more direct and complete way of expression. Suddenly, the image of the waterfall gave rise to an idea. Watching the waters fall from above, and continue

Andreas Embirikos    33

their gargling course, I thought how interesting it would be if I could use, in the sphere of poetic creation, the same process that renders the flowing and falling of waters such a rich, alluring, and indubitable reality, rather than describing this flow, or some other appearance or fact, an emotion, or an idea, on the basis of a plan or mode determined a priori. I wanted, in other words, to include in my poems all those elements which are, willingly or not, excluded, or eluded, in academic poetry. And I wanted to include them in such a way, that a poem would not consist solely of one or more, subjective or objective, topics, logically arranged and developing only within conscious limits, but of whichever elements, presenting themselves within the flow of its becoming, independently of any conventional or standardized aesthetic, moral or rational construction. In that case, I thought, we would have a dynamic and complete poem, an autonomous poem, a poem-fact, rather than a chain of static descriptions of certain facts, or of emotions expressed by means of whichever artistic style. Ever since this idea occurred to me, I wished to put it into practice; thus I began to write new poems, striving to achieve my goal. It is true that those poems displayed a significant development, a very palpable difference to what had preceded them; yet even they, although much preferable to me than my older poems, did not satisfy my original aspirations. While being quite different from the others in form, they were not different enough in essence. It became obvious to me that what I lacked was a means analogous to the desired end. I thought, however, that the only way to meet all these difficulties was to continue rather than abandon my pursuit; so I kept writing, in the certainty that my idea was good and that, sooner or later, I would find a way of reaping its fruit. And, who knows, I might still be searching, if my astonishing encounter with surrealism had not opened my eyes. From that day on, I may say that, almost all at once, I discerned the right direction, and, full of enthusiasm, replete with delight, I dived straight into the current of this historical movement. I had heard its voice, that voice which, as Breton so aptly put it in his first manifesto, continues to preach, on the eve of death and above the storms. By what I have just said, I do not mean that my personal presurrealist theories were wholly identical, or equivalent, to the content of surrealism; nor am I willing to pose here as one of its precursors. Those theories certainly display a contiguity to surrealist ones, yet, as a whole, surrealism far exceeds my initial aspirations; what is more, it gives us the means for a practical application of its content, opening much vaster horizons than those I could discern in my personal contemplation. And at this point, I must take the opportunity to express all my admiration and gratitude to André Breton and the other surrealists, who, after Sigmund Freud and psychoanalysis, are those that, in our time, threw the most dazzling and abundant light upon the thick darkness that surrounds us.

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And so, a new world was opened before me, like a sudden flowering of inexhaustible miracles, an immense, truly enchanting world, whose manifest keys surrealism has given us once and for all. And thus it is that a sentence becomes a corvette, with a friendly breeze on its sails, like a cloud blown by a north or northwest wind. A reflection echoes, a drop overflows, and a voice blooms. A child stands at the clearing of a silent grove and suddenly grows before a woman. A dress turns into an aurora borealis. A photograph lives, with its own activity, entangled with the life of its spectator, like a florin, a crystal, a glove. Here is a newspaper that turns into a fragrant forest, or a plateau with snow-covered cordilleras. Poetry is transfused into life and vice versa. Our participation in any appearance or fact is no more impossible. An emotion, an urge, a word can become palpable substances, brilliant objects with their own form and living pulse. With this discovery, and with my adherence to the surrealist movement which directly followed it, I put aside, not merely my old techniques, but also all false pride, all self-importance of the kind that may be found so often in certain poets and artists, who accept nothing in the world other than themselves, and no contribution to life and poetry, other than that which derives from their selfish narrow-mindedness and unspeakable narcissism. Here I must say that I was much aided in rapidly understanding and assimilating surrealism by, on the one hand, my psychoanalytic knowledge, and, on the other hand, the philosophy of Hegel. From that day on, I started employing automatic writing, producing at a feverish pace, and with the authentic passion of a novice, poems and other texts. Later (in 1935), I collected some of my earliest surrealist writings and published them under the title Blast Furnace. That book constitutes the first real manifestation, the first act, of surrealism in Greece, not counting a lecture on the movement and its aspirations, which I gave in the spring of that year.2 At the time, several critics spoke and wrote in a derogatory manner, both of the book and of the movement it represented. Today, some of them are approaching the surrealists, speaking of a “well-meant” surrealism—meant to be what exactly?3—, which they wish, comically, to evaluate, while not long ago they were declaring surrealism dead and buried. Of course, they have numerous misgivings, quite typical of their cowardice, regarding precisely what constitutes the spinal column, the very essence of the theory, thus showing—most of them at least—either that they have understood nothing or that they hope to restore their injured authority, before the public and the young poets, whose interest in surrealism is daily growing. It is obvious that they have adopted this stance so that they will not be excluded from a cause that they never really loved, nor had the courage to lead, “spiritual leaders” that they are, when the public was raging against all that these gentlemen wish today4 to

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present as things of which, to some extent (. . . if you are good children, you will get a fair grade in our paper or journal), they approved, now that the public begins to understand, even faintly. Forms of Serenity (selections)

For Odysseus Elytis Livid shells in the footsteps of hot-blooded Laplanders surround Alkmene. Her house is illuminated by tufts of floating light. Body against body, like a herd of white buffaloes, the clouds traverse the space and appear to travel inside as well as outside time. Suddenly the window opens and, from the valley, comes the increasingly loud clamor of an avalanche, falling and tumbling like a waterfall. A blast draws the curtain. Alkmene is standing erect in the room. The Laplanders sigh, and, as total serenity reigns once more, on the opposite mountaintop a crater is born and raised. The becoming of each myth is a child that grows. E.g., a man sees a young woman with a bird in her hand. This young woman is holding a mirror in her other hand, into which she sees the man watching her with the bird in her hand. The young woman’s hair is blond, yet it becomes red while she looks at the mirror, and the hairs shine so bright in the sun that the street noises are not heard distinctly, unlike the words pronounced by the young woman, as though she was standing upon the bridge of a steam corvette flowing calmly up Oregon or Orinoko. The natives remain silent before her beauty, but not for long. One movement made by the young woman pushes the passion of the natives beyond all limits of endurance or control, and those people (inhabitants of forests, or red-skinned nomads of the prairie) begin to shout: “Iou! Iou! Meha! Laha!”—and other such words, hot and frenzied, performing dances of war, which are essentially nothing but erotic dances of an exquisite charm. On the very next day, the man married the young woman. Their son now grows, molding myths of birds that resemble Brazilian plants. Everyone called her Oklahoma. Ever since she was a little girl, she had a taste for fast rhythms and for those immense songs that resemble expanses of flatlands traversed by bisons and herds of horses from Texas or Arkansas. That may be why she became, at so young an age, a dancer at the Green Ireland bar. That may be why she sings, so beautifully, amid the medley of patrons, that “Brothers, let’s go west” and “Ah! to be always near you, Adelaide!” That may be why, unlike the majority of her girlfriends, she never follows the highest bidders, but, rather, the lovers, those who

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are well-versed in the art of mounting horses and fair girls alike. That may be why she never picked a stage name, but instead always gives, in life as on stage, one name alone, her real one: Oklahoma. And now I say Mercedes, now I say Ariadne, for I am propelled by the lyricism of my soul—vigilant metal-sheet. When, in time, the inhabitants of Pindos arrive, despite being engaged in mortal combat with the elderly Sarakatzans, the mature women of the Thessalian plains and the girls of Drapetsona5 shall perform dances around me, and all the choruses shall memorize the waves of Destiny and the little stepchildren, called by some “Alasvir” and by others “young Cherries,” and which, inevitably, for it cannot be otherwise, shall one day ripen. I feel, however, that the question shall arise: “But how? Why the word Mercedes? What is Ariadne doing here? What is the reason for those village elders, the Alasvirs, the girls and the young yet so certain cherries?” My answer is this: The Sarakatzans are the equivalent of the increased water level in a reservoir. The mature women of the Thessalian plain are the mothers of the children who equate the greatest sorrows with the open seas swaying the dreams of a thousand peoples and a thousand demagogues. Mercedes is a joint-stock company, in Hanover perhaps, or maybe in Mecklenburg, and the girls of Drapetsona are a type of fruit that grows everywhere, in toys as well as tin cans, even beneath the branches of trees, in whose shadow play the faultless little children, those called by some “Alasvir” and by others “Young yet certain cherries,” especially each time that their lips seize the teats and suckle on the milk of the breasts of whichever Alkmene, Corinna, or Ariadne. Nerone Everyone was saying whatever came into their heads. Someone repeated endlessly the word “cluster.” Another ejaculated emphatically: “O Athenian men!” Another still, insisted upon the sentence: “The stevedores and gladiators have mutinied . . . The stevedores and gladiators have mutinied . . .” A group of enraged men were shouting: “Poplius Cornelius Scipion! Scipion the African!” The lectors turned and cried: “Shut it!” The public answered:

Andreas Embirikos    3 7

“Shit!” The tumult that ensued was great. Suddenly, something happened, which greatly surprised the big crowd that had been flooding the Coliseum all day. Naked, her hair intricately combed and decorated with hyacinths, erect, genial and beautiful, the empress Poppaea entered the arena on a chariot drawn by twelve virgins from the eastern provinces. Her lips and the teats of her breasts were painted with blood, and orange buds whitened her pubic hair. The people yelled and cried. I, erect upon my seat, shouted: “Hail Poppaea!” At that exact instant, the gate opened, and a second chariot, greater and heavier than the first, rushed into the arena. This chariot was drawn by six lions of Atlas and Nubia, whose reins were held by Nero, rose-crowned, serene, and divine, in the midst of laments and wails, in the midst of Christians burning in the arena. The people cheered and cried fervently: “Hail August! Hail Emperor!” I, always erect upon my seat, was now shouting: “Hail Caesar! Hail Christian-Fighter!” Then Nero turned toward me and raised his right hand. At that moment, I almost went mad. The emperor Nero was I! Neoptolemus/A King of Greeks

( J ournal L eaves ) .   Today is the third anniversary of my leaving the lunatic asylum, and once more I reminisce, with great emotion, of the time when I was mad. What an adventure! If I live a hundred years, I shall still remember that period, and that excellent man who supported me with such affection, such devotion and courage, for the entire duration of my illness. Fortunately, all this belongs to the past, and, upon celebrating once more the full restoration of my mental health, I praise God and thank the man who, in saving me, became an agent of the divine will. How can I not recall, now, certain events from that time! What I used to find most remarkable, most profoundly impressive, was the realization that people not only adopt but also worship reason. For my part, I did my best to persuade them that they were wrong, by my everyday behavior, as well as by lectures, talks, articles in magazines and newspapers, and, on certain occasions (three in all), by violent attacks against a statue of exquisite loveliness, whose sculptor (an acquaintance of

3 8    The Founders

mine) had the unfortunate idea of naming his beauteous work “Reason.” Yet all of my efforts were in vain. Finally, I was arrested and enclosed in an asylum, where, for the following years (four in all), I continued my fruitless pursuits. In that establishment, the doctors were, with few exceptions, rational albeit stupid—that is, their position on the mental scale was considerably inferior to that of many lunatics. The most striking exception among them was the man who saved me—who, in fact, was not a mere psychiatrist, but a psychoanalyst, and indeed a very imaginative one, as is proven by all of his interpretations as well as by his literary works. At the time when I was brought to the asylum, I wore a samovar (my mother’s) as a helmet. I had fixed it under my chin with a strap and was roaming the streets, a spear in my right hand, at times shouting, as loudly as I possibly could: “Dioscuros! Woe to the others and to us!” (I had come across this sentence in a text by my psychoanalyst, whose work I admired and knew by heart.) For this reason, and because, without fully knowing why, I always added in my writings, under my signature, the beautiful pseudonym “Neoptolemus” (that by which both I and, through me, modern Greek letters, saw such moments of glory), the doctors of the asylum named me “Neoptolemus.” I am of the opinion that this was the sole intelligent act of those poor gentlemen, in the entire duration of my sojourn in their establishment. Four years! Four years of confinement, for a pure genius, who came to the world with the purpose of serving wretched humanity. (I am using this expression, as a Peloponnesian patriot, under Turkish rule, might cry: “O, wretched Moreas!”) Yet here I am, healthy, completely healthy, and, once more, I wish to thank you, almighty God, and you, my most excellent doctor, who extended your strong and generous hands, affectionate and protective, over my head, over my very soul. . . . Man is the world’s greatest mystery. One day he is like clay, on which his will molds whatever he wishes; the next day he is like clay again, on which, however, not his will, but his yawning, bottomless, abyssal unconscious attains full control, gives man his expression and form, and forces him to do this or that, without his even being aware of it. Only genius may provide truly profitable solutions. O how great and wondrous this “e n t e l e c h y” is! And God has blessed me with this entelechy, causing  g e n i u s  to be realized within me! For I truly feel myself to be a genius. So long as a tile does not fall upon my head. So long as I am not killed treacherously, with a stab in the back, by this or that enemy of mine, or by one of those secret or manifest organizations which pursue their criminal activities, supposedly in the name of suffering humanity. O, my limpid blood! O, my rich and warm sperm! You who have raised me, like a tropical hurricane, to the highest tops of the Universe! To you I owe everything. For

Andreas Embirikos    39

it is you, my priceless porphyry, my exquisite Galaxy, it is you who are God within me, and I, through You, extend Him to others, both great and small, happy, unhappy, and desperate people. O, my pulsating carotid, o my perpetually vibrating penis, to you I owe everything, for you are God, autonomous, organic, he who always comes to true believers. My spear, my golden spear, and you, scarlet pot, my heart, with you I write this “ταν ή επί τας”6 of the convulsing and quivering pleasure, that is, the “ταν ή επί τας” of life itself, from the Acrokeraunia to the turreted Tolyma, from Mecca, my love, Allah, to the plateaus of Asia, from Mississippi and Missouri to Amazon and Zambeze, from the depths of the Pacific to the highest tops of the snow-covered Cordilleras. Yes, indeed, I am a genius. How can I pass over in silence the fact that the sole actual progress ever to be achieved will emanate from the geniuses of this world, amidst which I occupy a prominent place (I thank you again, my God, my doctor), I, once mad, today completely sane, yet then as now ingenious, I, Neoptolemus, son of the celebrated Achilles, glory of Hellenism and Islam, presence of yesterday, today, tomorrow, for ever and ever amen. My dear, my glorious father Achilles, the hour is coming fast when I shall avenge each of your enemies, at the Oracle of Delphi. My dear, sweet mother, O Greece, the hour is fast approaching when I shall impregnate you, whether you want it or not, I, Neoptolemus, your beautiful scion, banishing unholy intrigue once and for all, founding a new era, for the good of the Universe, for the glory of Hellenes. My dear brothers and sisters, I am finally a man! Listen to me . . . All of you . . . Young and old. I just said that I am finally a man. Indeed, I am three thousand years old. I enclose within me the entire history of Hellenism and the heritage of Greece. In my youth I entered Troy inside the Wooden Horse. It was I who killed Priam and Astyanax. Brothers and sisters . . . follow me . . . I am healthy and strong. I shall lead you toward the ultimate Hellenic spiritual and material greatness. Great God! Now I see it. I see it clearly, bright as crystal. I behold my fate and destination. A profound shiver is shaking me. O, what a great mystery, the Becoming of things! When, only two hours ago, I sat down to write, here, in my journal, a few words on today’s third anniversary of my leaving the asylum, I had not yet discerned my true vocation. Yet, while writing, I saw it, only now, a few moments ago, and, still writing, without for a moment stopping, obviously pushed by the hand of God, I took my decision . . . O Joy! Brothers and sisters, I am laying claim to the throne of Greece. Brothers and sisters, I say it to you, plain and clear, without mincing words—I am your King! Brothers and sisters, my new activity starts as of today. Long live the Nation!

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One hour later After writing the above, I thought I should say a couple of words to the man who helped me recover from my ancient illness and display by an official act the extent of my gratitude. I thus copy this letter, here, in my journal, so that it shall, when time is due, be registered in the archives of the State. From the temporary royal residence My doctor and benefactor, Today I am celebrating the third anniversary of the day when, thanks to you and to the almighty God, I was cured of my grave illness. That day to me is sacred, for not only does it symbolize my complete cure, but also, on the same day—that is, today—I saw, without the slightest trace of delirium, what my true destination is, and I took my decision, accountably and irrevocably. Doctor, my thought is clear and my reason faultless. Please, my dear, see how much . . . Since I am Neoptolemus, it follows that I am Achilles’ son. And, since I am Achilles’ son, I am Neoptolemus. My decision is the natural consequence of the above. My doctor, my dear friend, today I succeed my father on the throne of Greece, that I may forge its new glory, that I may consolidate its greatness and prosperity, with my very own hands. As I have already said, my decision is definite and irrevocable. Tomorrow morning, I am catching the first bus, to go and blow up with dynamite the Oracle of Delphi. Thus shall I take my revenge on Apollo for the death of my dear father. Afterward, I shall return to Athens to arrange the last details of my coronation. My doctor, you see that, in my thoughts as in my acts, reason reigns supreme, that very reason which you aided me so much in retrieving. As a token of gratitude for all you did for me, I name you, my dearest, you, who stand vigilant, always defending frontiers, at the most far-reaching watchtowers of the Spirit as of the Empire, I name you, I say, First Sword-Bearer of Greek poets and psychoanalysts, and I concede Andromache to you, if you are interested. Athens, 23 February 1946 Neoptolemus Αʹ King of Greeks by the Grace of God

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IV. From Today as Tomorrow and as Yesterday (published 1984)

Wheat The black amber of discharge Is mirrored on glittering shells Like the echo that resounds before shattering Vigilant bubbles and percussion caps On a range of appearances that do not stop At the wavering of coming generations But at the upright launching of insults Of the world’s plethoric shading Of new stirrings that tend To become representations In the timid prolongation of silence That will yet sometime be broken. The Lands of Impulses The high windows of Colombia Beyond the Amazon lament the amazons Who lost their horses’ bridles And now run almost naked like clouds Stepping on the grass of their freedom Eternal ships of their own voyage Before unbuttoning their dresses Before uncovering their breasts Before falling asleep in their cousins’ arms With the echo of Santa-Fe in their memory And the flow of Rio Bogota on their bodies Applying between their breasts A new distribution of nightly loves Despite the hisses of serpents Of the river Amazon who baptized them Despite the multitude of alligators Of the river Amazon who worshiped them Despite the buzz of fearful insects Of the river Amazon who caressed them Amid the thickest plantations of fragrant plants

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Of the river Amazon who marked them Emitting the wish of a virgin land As a springtime gift as a high noon While opposite them now stand Rational giants sweet and mild Staring at them dazzled pulsating Their hands are almighty strong And sometimes while staring expectantly The giants place them inside their pockets. Summer Maneuvers The seahorse-flowers are sown in the sand For the wires of the giant dam are cut And in the sand lies passionately pregnant The lizard that did not crawl in vain To the border of the beach With the old lighthouse on top Which stands and observes The western stars and the lovers At the time of lovemaking on fields That feed the young crop of oxen Of redeemed people with spouses Of the truly carefree life Of true collaboration On acts and works greater Than the tail of an enormous whale When beating the sea and whipping The waves opposite the lighthouse Rather than feeding overweight birds That once ate mice up on the tiles Of a formidable cat whose claws Were painted red by a young peasant girl Full of vigor and of joyous ornaments Whose lineage is of a springtime blue And ardent goldfinches are in her heart.

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The Memory of Remembrances The raising of your hand Has the grace of a roebuck running On grass that is blue like the leaves of your heart The wreath that you threw on the horse’s neck Is made of flowers thinner than the wings of insects This flower collection is precious It is not a collection of coleopters It is not a collection of ivory statues It is a collection of souvenirs Whose transparence exceeds the end of the world The universal populations worship you Your thoughts are transparent like yourself Upon their surface little bubbles flow Containing the essence of your tender heart Each of its pulses increases my life Each of its pulses increases our life I am at the edge of the forest bridling the whispers of yesterday Before me the meadow spreads just like yesterday To its green came the horse that you loved Yet you did not come The horse’s steps are the march of our dream They are the seas that we crossed The fishing boats that we painted together This horse keeps a half-moon in its mouth And neighs without letting it out This horse and I along with it Are standing at the edge of the forest expecting you This horse and I Are one indivisible being We are a centaur who loves you We are a centaur who knows It is not possible that you will come no more.

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Stature The spiral of the cordillera’s ascendance Over the bugle calls of the plains Is the fleece of a horned tiger Climbing the mountains of the ravine With neither lanterns nor trees But with canes and tentacles Rising like the torsos of silent people As they stand mute before talking The rose of dawn awaits them And the mutes await to say The first word that always means The beginning of the circular articulation Of an epic or nonepic creation With shining spasms with fountains That fill us all and extend us From the color of night to the color of day. The Breeding of Legends The particulars The dream funds The channel’s fast boats The immigrations of poor folk The dock works of apparent progress The strong impulse of an enigmatic sleepwalker Who rapes his daughters one after the other By the lake of white buffaloes That drink water and pee All these are things that may be related and narrated The tropical burns render the sleepwalker Nostalgic of the cool seaports On the last days before a war’s outbreak The changed anchorage of a quarantine ship Troubles the bathers’ waters Troubles the swinging of many dreams Of dreamers who dream of happiness As something born out of feathers

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Or as a sound produced by chords Made of numerous virginal hymens Suddenly the war breaks The waves of its lava cover Ultimatums and wineglasses Brothels churches and bells While a ballerina is dancing In a desert theater full of whispers Of ancient times and ancient people Before a single spectator—that is The breathless sleepwalker Who watches her pirouettes Her splendor and heart Like a giant clock Or a giant rose perpetually dilating and contracting The war continues Over rooftops and poles Over eagles and moustaches Over utensils and finches An airplane bomb is the equal Of several fireworks shot off at fairs Two hands two breasts one buttock Three eyes one handkerchief two children Explode and bloom up in the air Then fall on a garden where A lamb hides bearing carefully on its back Like a small sacred elephant The sins of the world And while the ballerina dances still The sleepwalker watches her in agony As someone hanging by a single word In case the ballerina who will say it vanishes In case she does not say “yes” does not raise The blinds of her dress Whereas if she says “yes” he will directly take her As wife with a victorious laurel wreath Of an army disembarking with cutters

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Into the bays of capes Before noon even appears In the clatter of rocks that suddenly roll To the sea spread with dolphins To the sea spread with seabirds To the sea where the zephyr blows Its breeze over the wave. Symplegades Dust Then headless rocks Then eyeless dragons And stalks of fresh lotuses In the dragons’ mouths Good moment Procession of tinder For the calming of poor Skinless passionless Larks Stay naked The clothes of the day Are heavier than destiny’s nests Stay with us Upon morning’s apertures Night’s murders will vanish Upon the town criers’ sounds Boats will be drawn by dragnets And sailors will knit for you the finest The fabric-less your own prodigal proverb.

V. From Oktana (published 1980, but actually meant to follow Today . . .)

The Isle of Robinsons Many years have gone by, and so have, in all that time, only three or four ships, at a distance. Yet those ships did not stop, did not notice, did not see the flag of solitude,

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the flag of faraway truth, which waves vainly, day and night, on the extreme high point of the isle, did not see the white cloth, the remnants of the ship Promised Land that went down men and all (for no apparent reason), far away on the South Seas, with the sole exception of one passenger. The isle is fertile and covered with vegetation. It is full of coconuts and fruits. It has birds (birds of Paradise) and brutes. Yet it has but a sole inhabitant—the castaway. This man is intelligent and strong. He has invented numerous things. With no help at all, he has produced works of which an entire community of industrious artisans would be proud. Oh, yes, were it not for his solitude, this man might resemble the king of a blessed land. Yet what does “kingdom” or “king” mean, even if the dominion you rule is Eden itself, when, in the most absolute wilderness, you exercise your power as one who pours water in a bottomless well, as one who opens and closes a heavy door, leading nowhere. What does king or ruler mean, when you do not even have the right to say: “My name is Adam”? Many, many years have gone by, and the castaway is still waiting. His hands have become callous, his skin has been burned by the hot, obdurate rays, which swell the fruits and whiten the bones of the carcasses, wherever they have been bared by the flesh-eating vultures. Many, many years have gone by, and so have three or four ships, which did not approach, did not stop, did not see . . . From the coasts to the thickets, from the shores to the thick bindweeds, time has nailed its seashells everywhere. Here and there, on the sands, the dark corpses of long-dead turtles are slowly being petrified under the sun. Yet the sea has brought nothing to the island, other than the bubbling of foams, the rippling of waves that spread, knowing nothing but their own secrets. Oh, if only, out of the dark depths, even at a great distance, a large whale were to emerge, to appear! Maybe, then, it would be possible for Jonah’s miracle to recur, in the fragrance of just sanctity, in the humidity of sweet saltiness. Oh, yes, if only the glory of oceans, the sea-conquering whale, the great blowhole, were to pass from the isle! Even if the seafaring mount only appeared at the open sea, even if the great whirlwind was only visible from afar, even if it did not approach like a blessed boat, even that would have been a good omen. Yet, to this day, the whale has never passed, and her waving liquid crest has not appeared. Only the pebbles on the beach, the smooth sand and the wide sea beyond still extend, and so they always will, around the isle, like a cruel, merciless eternity— until the whale someday comes (which she certainly will, but when?), rippling, crying, her enormous head out of the water, like the shining prow of a ship.

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Yet, when that will be no one can know, and so the castaway continues to wait. Memories, while retaining their emotional reflection, have lost the clarity of their form. Words have also lost their sonic outlines and now resemble clay, of which the hermit creates new words (new vessels for the same old concepts), words of his own invention, words pronounced by the hermit when communicating with the eager confluence of all elements around him, when, amid thickets or coasts, he now and then stands and cries: Ahar, lamir, ischar, manik, numa, rapada, ada! adding more words to these, all pronounced with such passion that they seem to emerge, not from the lips of a mortal, but from the great mouth of the sky covering this isle: Pathe, sigga, allasoni, pegge, kimme, boda, unora! pronounced in such a shrill tone that, from coast to coast, and in the midst of its thick hinterland, the isle resounds with the titanic echo: “PATHE SIGGA ALLASONI PEGGE KIMME BODA UNORA!” And so, each day, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at noon, or even at night, especially at the time when monkeys copulate under the trees, in celebration of the universe, the hermit, himself in a state of full erection and full solidarity with the fauna in heat surrounding him, cries: “KAME LAMA HANI ACHMAR PANHE ABOR ELMANA!” And his voice always contains such unquenchable passion, that the entire isle ruled by the hermit alone seems to be shouting with him, for a long time, either: “KAME LAMA HANI ACHMAR PANHE ABOR ELMANA!” or: “PANHE OOOH-OOO AAAH-AAA OOA-OOA ELMANA!” And this happens every day, for hard work does not suffice, nor does repose, nor, indeed, reverie and the plethoric lust of nocturnal pollution, this happens always, always, day and night, until the coming of the Whale, the great creature of the sea, the Whale, the Whale, the much-longed-for Messiah, that which shall bring delight to visionaries, happiness to humanity, justice to anchorites, hermits, and precursors.

VI. From Nikos Engonopoulos or the Miracle of Elbassan and Bosporus (1999) Nikos Engonopoulos or the Miracle of Elbassan and Bosporus (abridged version) (First published in Τετράδιο [Tetradio], no. 3, December 1945) I am not going to speak as an art critic, for I am not one, nor do I have much liking for criticism. I am not going to speak as an aesthetician, because aesthetics is antipoetic and because, deriving as it does from the rationalizing elements of the intellect, rather than sharpening the senses, it actually dulls them. I am not going to

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speak as a philosopher or a sociologist, as is fashionable today amidst people who are complete strangers to those specialized sciences, for philosophy and sociology, like politics, are unrelated to poetry and painting, unless their operation is itself a poetic act. I shall only speak as an admirer of Nikolaos Engonopoulos, our great poet and painter, to sing his praises and repay him by projections of an emotional nature the profoundly disturbing emotions that his poetry always arouses within me. Just look at him. This poet of the ever-escalating passion remains pondering for one moment or two, then attacks, once and for all, takes a dive and grabs with his nails any she-dove whatsoever, and there he is, turning her snow-white color into red, like an eagle that pecks on his freshly caught prey, and that, replete with desire and impatience, tears it apart in the air, always high-flying, always laurel-crowned in his hunt and his life alike. Beneath him, and all around, the space is traced, not by objective limits, but by purely subjective ones, whose vastness renders them capable of containing elements of an essential existential substance, expressed with incomparable plasticity, and, I might say, finally objectified to an unimaginable degree. And there he is, the poet, pleasing because he is himself pleased, there he is, scaring because he is scared, there he is, delighting for he is himself delighted. In this palindromic exchange and succession there spring incredible multicolored fireworks, like the feathers and jewels of Montezuma, or of another tribe’s leader, of the Oneigas, for instance, or of the Algonquins. Inside this immense space, filling it—there it is, always the vigilant passion. Sleepless, wriggling, and inflamed, it sheds light on the emotional space where emerge and evolve—evolve, I emphatically repeat—the images (“themes,” as I believe they are called by art critics) which constitute the individual and authentic mythology of a bubbling, intense experience, completely its own. And so it is that this individual space, by its projection, becomes a catholic space . . . O the rich, naked beauty of emotion, extremely plastic even when the figures wear precious, or merely heavy clothes, from the tunic and overcoat to the crinoline! O the vigorous, simultaneous strength of vision and identification! This massacre of statues; this foaming caress of a voluptuous body or object; this virgin penetrated by erotically nostalgic eyes; this dumbfounded hole in the wall, this ecstatic hole, the hole of a [vagina],7 entry to paradise; this beautiful [penis] of a young and inflamed man; this silken fleece, of the profound, smooth mystery of a pubis; these breasts swollen with desire or grief, with their launched, red arrows; this frantic parade of passionate demons; this restoration, in the middle of a street in Piraeus or anywhere else, of a lividly whitewashed statue, while the moon plunges

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into the light of an ineffable dream the surrounding buildings, where dwell evidently, like magnates of the east and occidental knights, the densest legends of a world perpetually brought to life. And there we are, standing stupefied and still. Process and accomplishment coexist. And the accomplishment continues to give birth to the infinite process, which accelerates the pulse of all sensitive humans. How does Engonopoulos manage to accomplish this miracle? I believe that only the psychoanalyst and the surrealist are capable of comprehending and explaining this. Nikolaos Engonopoulos, the time of your glory has come, and those who still do not see it are either blind or perfidious. How small and worthless are they next to you, those who use their saliva to turn the pages of manuals, guides, and various theories, to find weapons and arguments that they may use against you. How funny, how comical, those speaking with ironic laughter, and judging, like legislators and supreme judges, the seismic birth and volcanic bubble of a work such as yours, while they, in reality, are but eunuchs and castratos. Nikolaos Engonopoulos, in this world, two are the greatest and most precious things: Love and the Sword. All else comes later, and criticism comes last of all. Truly great poetry is made, first and foremost, by those primordial and uppermost things. You are a truly great poet—so let the others say what they will. Nikolaos Engonopoulos, in this world there are but two kinds of men, in all classes and all vocations: those who can launch their sperm through penetration, and those who can launch nothing but [shit]. You belong with the former. Nikolaos Engonopoulos, rough rock of Elbassan and soft green lace of Bosporus, I salute you the Albanian way, with my right hand placed before my heart, and my warm palm extended parallel to whichever soil I am standing upon.

VII. Around The Great Eastern (1945–mid-1960s; published 1990–1992)

Chapter 53 (excerpts, first published in Πάλι [Pali], no. 6, December 1966; these, along with some more excerpts from the same chapter included in that issue, were the only ones Embirikos lived to see printed) Some of those reveries were unintelligible, enigmatic, deprived of all rational order, while others were totally comprehensible, constituted with a fully logical coherence and corresponding to obvious objective terms. Yet they all presented themselves to the Greek poet’s mind with such vividness that they resembled scenes unfolding in actual reality.

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Thus, a young maid walking in a vast salt mine was terrified upon discovering a bottle, inside which a diminutive wildcat was wriggling, vainly attempting to get out through the exceedingly narrow mouth, while, surrounding the girl, five dwarves— including a one-eyed one—were guffawing and thereby increasing the maid’s great anxiety. In another image, a corvette, completely abandoned by her crew, was resisting the attack of furious waves in the middle of the ocean, under a sky completely covered by thick, heavy clouds. At the helm of the abandoned ship stood a female captain, wearing a black robe and a mask, now wailing, now screaming unintelligible words of wild lust, while, upon a spar of the foremast, a disheveled, naked young woman was swinging dead, like an otherworldly pendulum, upon each tossing of the boat, as it rolled vertiginously on the enormous waves. In the third image, Otto, the king of Greece, wearing an antique helmet and a frock coat, sitting upon a throne that lay in ruins, was weeping bitterly in Bamberg.8 At his feet, a winged lion was devouring an eleven-year-old girl. Diagonally behind the beast, Queen Amalia was sitting before a small table, with an aged owl on her left shoulder, pensively engaged in a game of patience and dressed in full national costume, albeit with a hat made after the latest Parisian fashion on her head. Andreas Sperchis made a sudden movement, about to leave the divan. But, before having fully arisen, he realized that the image he was now contemplating was yet another figment of his inflamed imagination, and, once more lain down, he again fell into gloomy and dark reflections. In a short while, however, new images appeared in his mind, to chase away and replace his previous thoughts. Before him, upon an extremely narrow strip of land, which stood between two yawning abysses, there extended toward the horizon a railway track, glittering under the sun. Upon it, a barefoot girl (the salt mine maid of the first image) was running frantically, anxiously taking care to step right on the wooden beams of the track, so that the already bleeding soles of her feet would not be further lacerated by the pebbles strewn in the intervals; while, behind her, at a distance of roughly seventy meters, furiously snorting and fiercely reveling, the locomotive of a morning express train was approaching her fast. The train’s passengers, with their heads popping out of the windows and doors of the wagons, were crying for the driver to stop and save the girl. But there was no driver. Alone, like an iron giant, the locomotive was reducing the space that separated it from the girl, while the conic funnel—one might say a massive crucible—emitted flakes of smoke, now white, now pitch-black, and the already protruding gridiron of the locomotive appeared to be even further extended and stretched forward, ready to bisect the unfortunate girl. Suddenly a

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cry was heard, a heartrendingly shrill and plaintive cry, which would seem to tear the sky apart. Yet the sky was not torn. Only the girl was torn apart—bisected, with utmost precision, along the deep fissure between her vigorous buttocks, and divided in two perfectly equal parts, with the exception of her blond head, which was separated integrally from her body. And, while the child’s blood was sprinkling the faces of the passengers watching in agony the repulsive dismemberment from the train’s windows, and as the two equal parts of her body were crumbling to the left and to the right, into the abysses yawning on either side of the railway track, the girl’s head, thrust upon the light before the locomotive’s funnel, was still staring, with an expression of indescribable terror, her eyes wide open, her blond hair waving behind, still staring with eternal horror at the most piercing light of that merciless day. [Letters Concerning The Great Eastern] (excerpts) (first published in Ουτοπία [Utopia], no. 49, March–April 2002)

[ L etter from N anos Valaoritis :

Paris, 27 November 1957 Dear Andreas, You don’t know how happy your letter made me this morning. Our warmest congratulations, mine and Marie’s, to you and Vivika.9 (. . .) I gave your regards to the Bretons this afternoon. Elisa will write to you. Breton was very curious to know whether this was your first child, and asked me how old you were. He seemed quite intrigued. (. . .) My news so far is very good, but I waited until I knew a bit more before writing. As soon as I got here, I gave Breton your news; I told him about The Great Eastern, with my usual enthusiasm.10 He showed immense interest. This is what he said: He wants to see a couple of chapters, for publication in the magazine [Le Surréalisme, Même]. He asked me about the length. (. . .) He would like something in the vicinity of 12–15 pages. Then I asked him some questions on the possibility of publication by a house proposed by Breton himself (J. J. Pauvert). He said that it is certainly possible. And that this is exactly what Paris needs today. He also said there is no reason for your name not to appear openly. Finally we discussed the details and this is how he put it: According to him, “sont poursuivis, seulement les ouvrages où les denominations communes ou vulgaires des actes et organes du sexe apparaissent. Si les termes utilisés sont ceux de la science ou même du vocabulaire du 18 siècle,” 11 then there is no danger. See the book I recommended, Wisdom of the Lash12 by P. Réage, or printings of Sade; the terms used, even in English, are of that sort. The only exception in English seems to be Miller—Sexus, Rosy, Crucifixion (. . .). After this preliminary discussion (. . .), I went

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straightaway to [Jacques] Lacarrière, gave him the pages and he is translating at this very moment. (. . .)13 Now, and this also concerns Elytis—here is Breton’s proposition. Having read the “Prophetikos” translated by me, he told me that with a few changes in the translation he will publish this text from Axion Esti,14 as well as a couple of others (. . .). (. . .) I told him what you said about his work in relation to Hegel; he was very impressed. He said, so there are people living so far away who understand me better than I understand myself. I would like you to repeat it to me: why did Freud not understand him, whereas he understood Freud? (. . .) (. . .) On this point, [Breton] told me that at least he won [Freud’s] love, which gave him a great deal of satisfaction, in the absence of other factors. It has to do with Hegelian dialectics. I have completely forgotten it. The interpretation of Breton’s work via Hegel, that is, as an application of his dialectics on the level of emotions—it threw light on [Breton’s] entire work for me.15 He was greatly impressed himself. Nobody has pointed this out so far, despite the philosophical associations that have been made. I repeat, nobody. Perhaps you should write something about that and send it to me as a message to [Breton], cosigned by Elytis—because I think that [Breton] needs that kind of gesture today. I will translate it and probably use it as an introduction to your [and Elytis’s] writings, along with a little note of my own. (. . .) As you understand, your official and friendly recognition within a movement to which you have both belonged for almost 30 years now is a matter of a few months. As I had predicted, the Elytis text was straightaway accepted. Indeed, [Breton] proposed that we do the corrections in the translation together. You realize that in a way Breton becomes Elytis’s translator. I hope all this gives [Elytis] the courage and faith that he needs and deserves in order to continue. (. . .) I also remember that, during the discussion, Breton said about you that you were a person d’une richesse inouie—those were his words to his wife à propos of you. I add that your idea about the Dictionary,16 which I have not announced to anyone, not even to Breton, [and will not do so] unless I have your permission, seems to me “géniale.” I want to encourage you to continue it, at a steady and fast pace. We are on the verge of a systematic reconsideration of language, from a radical emotional viewpoint. Your work attains an extreme importance in this context. (. . .)] Athens, 1/24/58 Dear Nanos, I am only now answering your first letter. I am sorry and embarrassed about this, but, besides having had a lot to do, besides a great damage (of a financial nature) that I suffered, I suddenly faced a big problem concerning The Great Eastern. I thought, that is, whether this work, which I consider as the most important I have written to this day, should see the light in a nonclandestine version. Not because my

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ideas or convictions have changed, but because I thought that an open publication of this novel might render my family’s life difficult, socially speaking. In particular, I thought whether this might someday soon damage my dear son, whom I love too much, from a social standpoint. I say “social,” because otherwise I am certain, not only that he will not be damaged, but, on the contrary, that he will be greatly benefited one day, when he realizes his father’s ideas on the matters that constitute the topic of this book, that is, my ideas on the questions of love, in their full implications and importance. (. . .) So, I shall publish The Great Eastern, in Greek or in whatever foreign-language translations the interested readers and publishers may want. However, I pose two conditions. No change whatsoever in the words, to moderate or restrict the outspokenness that characterizes this work, and which is one of its fundamental qualities and its important virtues. The second condition is that the book should be published under a pseudonym. I am very sorry to set this second condition, because I have always maintained that we should assume responsibility for our writings and sign with our own names rather than pseudonyms. I continue to believe what I once said, yet because the publication of a work such as The Great Eastern may have grave consequences for my family, although I am not at all a conformist myself, I have made the painful decision of this compromise, which will be the only one. (. . .) Unfortunately, I do not recall exactly what it was that I said last October concerning Breton in relation to Hegel. Yet I might now say that there is a dialectical element in Breton’s everyday life and activity, besides his thought, which is strongly reminiscent of the German philosopher’s dialectics. I might also say that whereas Hegel applied his dialectics systematically to the intellectual field alone, Breton also applies it, whether consciously or unconsciously, to the emotional one. Now, in relation to Breton and Freud, I might say that, whereas Breton understood Freud, Freud neither understood nor sufficiently appreciated Breton’s work, for, despite his exceptional intellectual abilities, Freud was not a rebel, save in research and therapeutics. In all other sectors (art, pleasure, morality), Freud the individual was a conservative bourgeois, incapable of admitting, beyond a certain point (especially in therapeutics), the effectiveness of his own ideas, and of his immensely important discoveries, perhaps fearing the extent and profundity of the changes that his beliefs and theories might effect upon human life. In my view, the realization that one might develop, not merely a therapeutics, but precisely those psychic elements that, once liberated, rearranged, and organized, would render the man of conventions (heretofore a slave, both before and after Marxism) free, fully free at last, invested with powers analogous to the nuclear ones, on the psychic level—such a realization may, I think, cause long- or short-term anxiety, even to an exceptional mind. Perhaps it was that kind of anxiety which occupied our great and so lovable

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Freud at some points in his life, one of which, I think, was the crucial moment of his encounter with André Breton, when the ingenuous yet conformist (as an individual) Hebrew scientist met the nonconformist and thirsty for real freedom, explosive and inflamed by love of all of life’s transcendental beauties, great French poet André Breton. (. . .) The use of 18th-century expressions concealing the beautiful and eloquent literal terms, is something that I not only do not accept, but actually detest. It would be like dressing a beautiful head of blond or dark hair with a powdered wig—the wig of a miserable grivoiserie, which I want nothing to do with. Concerning the way in which the Wisdom of the Lash lady treats the problem, I shall tell you this: It is of course neither tricky 17 nor cowardly, as in the authors of écrits grivois, yet this manner of avoiding “risky” or “rude” words may befit to a certain extent (although I do not agree with that either) a rather “aesthetic” and sophisticated 18 literary genre, but not the pure poetry of love and its pleasures. The Great Eastern belongs to the purest poetry of love, as does the majority of my works; the way of the Wisdom of the Lash lady is thus rejected as inferior and wholly unrelated to mine. (. . .) I want you to know that Vivika did everything she could to convince me that there is no reason to worry about an open publication of The Great Eastern.

Nicolas Calas (1907–1989)

​T w o

​B

orn in Lausanne to an upper-class Athenian family, Nikolaos Calamaris soon chose the path of radical left-wing politics. The first published Greek surrealist (albeit in his presurrealist period), he was skeptical about the movement before being “initiated” by Embirikos; after leaving Greece he became an important figure of international surrealism, maintaining little contact with Greek activity until the 1960s, when he reemerged via Nanos Valaoritis’s journal Pali. In the seventies and eighties he published his Greek poems and early essays in book form, while remaining an undesirable in the eyes of the Greek academic establishment. Translator of Benjamin Péret and Gisèle Prassinos. “He arose, full of dreams, inflamed like a forest by his strong desire, or like a decision arises and traces its orbit in the firmament” (Andreas Embirikos).

I. From Texts on Poetics and Aesthetics (1982) (collection of articles and essays written between 1929 and 1938, either under the pseudonym M. Spieros—after Robespierre—or under the author’s real name Nikos Calamaris; ed. Alexandros Argyriou)

Problems of Proletarian Art (abridged version)1 (First published in Νέοι Πρωτοπόροι [Neoi Protoporoi], no. 9, August 1932, signed Spieros) Objections: “No use dealing with art—you are of bourgeois descent—today the proletarian

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alone is in a position to create art, he alone understands and feels deeply the desires and needs of the oppressed.” Another communist: “Art?—a useless thing to us today—other problems preoccupy us now, the proletarian has no time for artistic education, he is fighting—tell him how to overthrow the existing establishment—do not tell him that power will be seized by reading novels, however revolutionary these may be—do not paint proletarian pictures— useless too—as for music, tell me, if you may, when its essence is or is not revolutionary.—If you create art leave the proletariat alone—you are a bourgeois—you write for the bourgeois public, they are the ones who read most these days—they have the time and the inclination to produce works of artistic ambitions—for you the struggle of the proletariat is a book topic—you are but a modern Nero thrilled by the burning of Rome.” Let me answer the first objection: Complete ignorance of the temperament of the intellectual fighting on the proletariat’s side. Disregard of the real reasons that make him fight against the bourgeois class. Man—as opposed to animals—, better to fight unpleasant objective conditions, seeks their causes—not the tile that falls but the roof itself: that is the cause which must be corrected. The discovery of the cause is often difficult, the contemporary form of social life being so complex. The opponents’ arguments are wise, their intellectual weapons many. The mental struggle for the correct path is hard. And the mechanism is in the hands of our opponents. They have the money to buy the years of their intellectual preparation. The worker lacks the capital for such time-consuming occupations. It is there that the intellectual is most needed: to study the cause, to draw up the plans for fight. The difference between workers and intellectuals does not lie in their aspirations, but in their intellectual and emotional formation—a result of the abhorred financial inequality. The latter is, I fully agree, terrible, unfair—socialism will abolish it—there, I again agree—still, do not be blind, acknowledge that it does exist. By realizing, not ignoring, this truth, we shall be better prepared to avoid in our struggle the paradoxes it creates. This does not always happen, in Greece at least. I discern, in our intellectuals, a tendency— deriving from their fear of being isolated from the workers—to regard the cultural position of the Greek worker as the ultimate criterion of their artistic production. This ludicrous exaggeration conceals an immense cowardice. “Whatever the worker likes,” I often hear friends from N. Protoporoi tell me. And what if the worker likes musical reviews, or films about life in Hollywood? —A sophism, they answer. “Not what any worker likes, but what is favored by the vanguard, by the conscious fighter.” Yet, in order to become a conscious fighter,

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in order to appropriate the Marxist line, one must first react to many tendencies that one may find more attractive emotionally. Many a “whatever one likes” is thus annulled, many innate tendencies are destroyed by Marxism, e.g., trade unionism or anarchist syndicalism. The same happens in art. “Whatever the worker likes” is, in other words, a repetition of the bourgeois aesthetic slogan “art for art’s sake.” Art, as much as any other human expression involving the work of the mind, is acquired by toils, both on the part of its creator and on that of others. Realism, naturalism, which constitute copies of life, are “easy” forms—one may just as easily comprehend the poor content of a photocopy, but that still does not render it into art. As we shall see below, art and realism are incompatible. Perhaps now the role of the left-wing intellectual becomes discernible. He, too, has anxieties, unsatisfied desires—and is supposed to be able to think. Anxiety! As this word spreads on the paper it seems romantic to me, too. Yet let us move forward in our analysis. Anxiety? That is, a number of unsatisfied emotions. Unsatisfied—though not necessarily for fully material reasons. The pretexts created by contemporary life for what we call “psychological traumas” are countless. And it is those traumas that often drive intellectuals to the left. So, let us take advantage of this anxiety—let us reveal the wounds of the bourgeoisie’s victims. Its many victims—that army of people who revolt rather than endure—those victims, hungry, or perhaps not hungry but still suffering from injustices—those wounded on body—and soul. Such wounds contaminate the entire body, the entire being: consumption, syphilis, alcoholism, manias, madness, all the psychic illnesses. And as for love, all the difficulties in its fulfilment—the psychic conditions it gives rise to . . . The world of emotions is enormous—of those very emotions that are disjointed at times of intense crises. To say that in the socialist society of tomorrow this psychic disorder will not exist, does not mean that we must ignore it today. Psychological wounds are often most visible in intellectuals; for others, there are further sufferings, such as hunger. Yet those wounds, which usually constitute the first psychic contact between the intellectual and the proletariat, create a bond of pain between them. And pain—so much less selfish than joy—remains open to other miseries— hence the word sympathy. Fraternity was born out of misery—it is up to the mind to take advantage of this situation—to tighten the bonds. In that river, where we shall drown our enemies, we must pour the blood of all wounds. Let no drop be wasted. Let those who get sick by the smell of contaminated flesh leave at once! Petty bourgeois intellectuals who do not know how to breathe in the thick atmosphere of mines that crack the earth. Only when we step on this earth—on the mud, on the

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stone that covers it—can our gaze discern the world. If your shoulders are strong enough, lift it up—(Atlas bends no more); your heartthrobs will twirl it around a sun that will lighten it with rays of hate, joy, and pain. Now to the second objection: According to it, all the forces that abhor the present status quo must be utilized in the struggle for the immediate seizure of power. That alone matters. Of all else— books, theater, music—we shall talk later, after the revolution. Of course, there are times when the scientist must abandon his study, the painter his brushes. But when will that be?—when the streets are blocked by barricades, and even before that, when we are on the eve of direct revolutionary action. In those times the smallest force sometimes suffices to change the balance in favor of the party to which it is added. And the victory of one party—that of the proletariat—is to us infinitely more important than all the scientific discoveries, all the feats of art. Mobilization of all forces for direct action! Yet this is not necessarily our watchword today. It may be one for the German proletariat. I find it hard to imagine that today (I am writing these lines three days after the declaration of dictatorship) a German intellectual may sit down and paint or write verses when his comrades are being mass-murdered in the streets. But this is not yet the case in Greece. The front is not so narrow yet, we are fighting on a wide scale. We are opposing our forces to the bourgeoisie on all levels, science, art, sport. Any other perspective is a misunderstanding of the objective conditions peculiar to this country. Life is complicated, not only when examined under the prism of contrasting financial interests—between as well as within classes—, but also insofar as the different abilities that characterize individuals cannot be distributed rationally in a society of class struggle. The drive of things pushes man here or there, indifferent to his qualities. Today, what we must do is direct and utilize those following our flag, with regard to both their abilities and our needs. Yet these latter are infinite. The proletariat has nothing—it wants all.—And today it wants a part of this “all.” That is the minimum program: Better working conditions, better political conditions to this end, more hours of leisure—so the question emerges automatically: what are the best books, plays, music for these hours? The problem of art poses itself. And as long as we are not deprived of our elementary rights, we shall concern ourselves with art, too—as we may also do if we are deprived of these rights that we now maintain. We may do so, for we are convinced that we shall soon regain our rights. So the problem of art concerns the proletariat. What, then, are its demands from the work of art? Immediately the temptation arises within us to provide a definition of art.

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Bukharin attempted to give a Marxist one [which] has been synoptically expressed by Eisenstein: “Art is a dialectic of forms.” I am afraid that this slightly illegitimate child is not saved by its Hegelian origin. It merely replaces the word “art” by the word “form,” or, by recourse to a similar definition, the word “emotion” by the word “form.” But the problem is: when do we have form, that is, art? So we have made no progress. I do not think that a definition of art is possible today. Art is profoundly connected to expressions of irrational factors inherent in the human being, and which the mind can hardly conceive. It is difficult even to define science. I believe that there is in science an element of repetition and verification, not only in mathematics and mechanics, but also in the evolutionary sciences, such as sociology. This element of repetition is lacking in art. I may copy the Gioconda expertly, yet a trained eye will always tell the difference. Euclid’s theorems may be rediscovered—this, in fact, seems to have been what Pascal did. Were it not for Euclid, someone else would have arrived at the same conclusions. Were it not for Lenin, the Russian Revolution might have failed, but that would not mean that the fight would have been wasted once and for all. Yet, were it not for Leonardo, would the Gioconda ever have been painted? We may, of course, determine why Leonardo did not paint like the Byzantine hagiographers, why his women differ from the ladies of cubist painters. But a study of the social conditions in which the painter lived cannot tell us why Gioconda came about in that exact form. As we can see, an objective study of artworks necessitates the study of the work produced—that is, of the creator—of the artist. The myths and dreams that have fed the imagination of people seem to prove that man, for some indeterminate reason, yearns for, or aspires toward, a paradise. In other words, man feels the need to experience a harmony not provided by actual life, and, according to their development, the people as much as the individual create a form for this dream of theirs. Forms change, yet the essence remains: the lost Eden. The beautiful is that which replaces the sense of injustice—of the psychic trauma; its replacement, as well as its sublimation. Art is thus an unconscious expression of desires that cannot find a norm by which they may be expressed in everyday life. They lead people to neuroses—and these, in turn, to the madhouse, or else to art. We are here interested in the latter case. The disturbance caused to classes and individuals by finances is such that it influences their most essential expressions. When the individual attains a certain degree of order and discipline over its expressions, then we have art. We have, in other words, something that may, under certain objective conditions, awaken the sleeping subconscious desires of others—an awakening that pleases them, making them, if for one moment, feel themselves to be artists.

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The constant danger in which the artist finds himself, that of losing the equilibrium between his subconscious expressions and his logic, renders him sensitive enough to feel all the instability of his surroundings. I think that by now it becomes obvious how the social importance of the work of art is socially situated. The more intense this ability of the artist to conceive his own conditions and that of others, the more important his work, its artistic significance increasing with his facility in expressing it. I repeat that the artists of all ages have, at bottom, expressed the same things: love, pain, hate, joy, death.—Eternal themes for man up to now. Yet form changes under the pressure of the social conditions that finally determine the ways in which the subconscious is expressed, and also arrange (albeit more directly) the intellectual discipline of these expressions. As life becomes more complicated, as its contrasts become greater, more complex, so the subconscious seems to select more difficult routes in expressing itself. And the intellect also multiplies its demands. Art becomes difficult. Indeed, art becomes completely incomprehensible when it comes to certain bourgeois artists, for the public they address—a decadent public—is not in a position to resist and test them. The public: the spectator, the auditor, the reader is neglected in the studies of Freudian art theorists. These great psychologists cannot comprehend the social aspect of art. The dialectical schema: Artist, public, artwork (synthesis) escapes them. Which is the public that does, or can, regulate the artist today? In my opinion, it is the proletariat. For it is the proletariat alone that is today in a position to offer new spiritual gifts to humanity. It is the ideals of that class alone that the artist may express. I believe that, in Greece, almost all who situate themselves on the left support the theory that proletarian art=realism. I could not agree less with this view; realism or neorealism today, verism or naturalism yesterday, are false artistic concepts. Naturalism has certainly given us works of some importance, especially those of Zola, but their value is not to be found where it is thought to be (although that would demand a special study). Realism destroys symbols, artistic sublimation, escape. Without symbolic potential, the artistic element is missing. On the other hand, there is a lot to recommend today in certain efforts by expressionists and surrealists. Although I have certain misgivings regarding both of these schools, I find the way in which they treat symbols to be both novel and important. It is contemporary, betraying the influence of cinema, of acceleration, of the microscope, telescope, spectroscope. This technique is the only one that has managed so far to express the intense mechanical life of cities. But all these aspects increase the difficulties facing the artist who fights on the side of the proletariat. On the one hand, he means them, feels them, lives them, they

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satisfy his intellectual needs; on the other, these same aspects pose difficulties to his reader. The latter works within our mechanical civilization, and does not master the satisfactions yielded by the great mechanical progress, nor does he possess the intellectual wealth of his era. Capitalism keeps him imprisoned, in the dark. Yet this fact should help increase the impulse of our artistic expressions; we feel all too well that it is only out of the proletarian class that something new may emanate. We are impatient! We want this class to have soon at its disposal all means of creating, of overcoming what we are doing today; we want our voice, chaotic by necessity, to be drowned within the grand symphonies of collectivist life. [On Greek Surrealism]

a . F rom Ν έ α Φ ύλ λ α [ N ea P hylla ] , no . 3 , M arch 1 9 3 7 , signed C alamaris ( slightly abridged )

Dear Mr. Rhetoridis,2 In the last issue of your journal Mr. Thrakiotis opposes the view according to which Andreas Embirikos is the first Greek who became a surrealist. I do not wish to pose as a specialist on the subject of the history of surrealism, nor do I wish to imply that my ideas on it faithfully reflect those of its leading theorist, André Breton. Yet because I am heavily indebted to surrealism regarding the formation of my thought and emotions, I do want to discourage any misunderstandings, especially insofar as they seem to me damaging to surrealist affairs. And it is damaging, in my opinion, to misinform readers by evoking nonsurrealist texts as typical examples of surrealist writing. No, Mr. Thrakiotis, the Poems [Poiemata] of Nikitas Randos [aka Nicolas Calas] are not surrealist; I would never wish their reader to infer, upon reading them, “So that is surrealism!” No, that is not surrealism, any more than the pentametric fourteen liners and other voluminous books by Mr. Palamas3 are poetry! Surrealism has ended up being the “X” factor in the field of art. All that we do not know, all that we do not comprehend, is taken to be surrealism. Thus the false critic is content in believing himself enlightened. In the glory days of Palamas, young poets thought it would suffice to rhyme “barbarian” with “Bavarian” for the poem to occur. Today, they believe that two striking images make up a surrealist poem. There is some progress in this notion, but that is not enough. Before awarding oneself and others with degrees in surrealism, one must first learn what surrealism is. In any case, it is not a gum that one may chew all the time. To those who do not speak foreign languages and who wish to know what sur-

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realism is, I would recommend Mentzelos’s4 study, printed in Logos, issues 7–9 (1931). In it, some of surrealism’s basic attributes are expressed very clearly, if briefly. Of course, for purportedly serious students of surrealism, Mentzelos’s work does not suffice, and I would therefore wish that the two lectures on surrealism given a couple of years ago by Embirikos be published as soon as possible.5 I am certain that a book on surrealism would fill a considerable gap. Numerous symptoms have convinced me that, were a surrealist group to be formed here, several young people would come to join. I have many reservations concerning those articles on surrealism printed in Kathimerini.6 In collecting his material, their author has relied mostly on Gascoyne’s book,7 which, despite its great success in England, is fairly mediocre. Let us not forget that before last year there was no surrealist activity as such in England; it is only now that certain moves have been made in that direction, and the English surrealist production does not yet seem particularly interesting, being at any rate less important than that of Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Japan, Spain, Belgium, and Cuba. On the mediocrity of Gascoyne’s book, suffice it to note that the publisher had to withdraw its first printing, due to the many inaccuracies it contained. It is difficult, at this stage, to write a history of surrealism. Those disputes and fights that mark the beginnings of all lively movements blur the picture, and the historian, deprived of temporal perspective, inevitably exaggerates or underplays the importance of individual persons and facts. For surrealism to become better known, I would like, after the publication of Embirikos’s study, to see Breton’s theoretical works and other surrealist books translated into Greek.8 But for this purpose I think that, it still being too early to talk of a surrealist journal, the works of surrealists should be hosted in other periodicals. I would consider it ideal to effect a certain division of works, so that translations from Valéry or Gide—authors that young readers may ignore with no loss whatever—were served to us by Mr. Tsatsos’s Nea Hestia and Mr. Haris’s Nea Grammata,9 and that surrealist texts were not printed at all in journals of that sort. Yet surrealism is more than theory, it is also act, and it is impossible to comprehend by studies alone. Without act there is no theory; they are two sides of the same coin. Without surrealist activity there can be neither surrealism nor a correct appreciation of art’s past. In a 1933 lecture, I pointed out the necessity to turn toward surrealism, but this conclusion I had reached was purely exterior, that is, it came about in a way that did allow me to appreciate theoretically the importance of surrealist innovations but did not suffice to give me the joy inspired by amazement, without which art remains a dead letter. Today, this amazement may be freely supplied only by surrealism, which is why surrealism alone produces works of art, but surrealist art needs a surrealist atmosphere, a surrealist activity.

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Perhaps it has become apparent by now why Randos’s poems are not surrealist, and how bad the services of those who claim the opposite are. Of course, works related to surrealism, presurrealist works in which we may come across an interruption in rational continuity, may be found in Greek letters, as elsewhere. One precursor of surrealism is, as Mentzelos had pointed out, Dorrou [sic],10 with his collection Stou Glytomou to Hazi, one of the most important postwar Greek books, which nevertheless is not purely surrealist, insofar as it is clearly inspired by certain postwar American poets, as well as by Apollinaire; yet Dorrou was perhaps the first in postwar Greece who managed to break somewhat the conscious flow and replace it with unconscious association. Of the poets whom Mr. Thrakiotis regards as surrealists, the one closest to surrealism is Drivas,11 as already pointed out by Mentzelos. Indeed, Drivas might be the one that would find the least difficulty in becoming a pure surrealist, were it not for his weakness, revealed in poems and essays, for certain aesthetic prejudices of pure art (a love of plainness, of form), which limit him and suppress the spontaneous overflow of his unconscious language. Of the other poets mentioned by Mr. Thrakiotis, the only one whose work I am vaguely familiar with is Mr. Sarandaris.12 But that work is purely impressionist, a faithful rendition of certain Italian poets, especially Ungaretti, who is as far removed from surrealism as day is from night. Was Mentzelos himself a surrealist? Certainly not—I think that he understood a lot from surrealism, but that he was not a surrealist; this was also the opinion of the man who introduced him to this movement, René Crevel. Besides, if I am not mistaken, Mentzelos was preparing a translation of Gide, which alone suffices to exclude him from surrealism once and for all. Other than that, I do not know of either an article or an act by Mentzelos that might attract surrealist interest. Not having met him, I have the impression that he was a kind, likable man, albeit a rather mediocre one. Let us not overrate him merely because he was the first [Greek] to have written on surrealism and because he is no more. The first consciously surrealist work presented to the Greek public was Blast Furnace by Andreas Embirikos. I am not willing to provide here a critical account of these texts of automatic writing; I am merely pointing out that those criticisms that have been made, negative as well as positive, have not at all considered what the surrealist criterion for the objective value of automatic writing would be. After Embirikos, we have Odysseus Elytis, who has written poems that must be undisputedly considered surrealist. To Elytis we are also indebted for some excellent translations from a great surrealist poet, Paul Éluard, who, beside Péret and Tzara, is one of the three foremost poets of contemporary France. Yet, sadly, Elytis is not a surrealist; he has understood a surrealist poet who exerted a brilliant influence on

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him, and whose pseudonym is a lot like his own, but Elytis himself does not accept being considered a surrealist, and some poems he has published recently, his study on Éluard, and especially his review of Canellis’s painting13 prove that he is a long way from facing the world of art with a surrealist fervor. We have no surrealist painters as yet;14 Steris15 leans, or used to lean (I have not seen any works of his for awhile), toward abstract art. The same goes for Ghikas;16 Canellis is close to the new humanists and to all kinds of psychological painters; as for Gounaropoulos,17 he might become a surrealist if he first learned how to be a realist, that is, to conceive of a reality, but instead he avoids the thing, the object is not outdone in his work, merely rendered immaterial; in other words, it is situated at the very antipodes of the surrealist work. Gounaropoulos replaces dream with its corpse, that is, with the dreamlike. Of course I would not rule out that a Canellis in painting, an Elytis in poetry, might become surrealists, but, to this end, they must cease being poets and painters and become surrealists who will perhaps paint and write. The form assumed by the expression of the surrealist disposition is of secondary importance. Surrealists paint and write, yet surrealism is more than writing and painting, more than art; only upon feeling this fact one becomes a surrealist. In any case, I do know that, from the day when I realized that surrealism was the only solution to the day when I became a surrealist, a long period intervened. Prejudices, biases, deep-rooted intellectual habits are layers of spiritual filth, which we can shed only after being fundamentally disturbed. And this disturbance must not happen only once, but continue perpetually. Woe to him who is never emoted. Nikos Calamaris

b . F rom N ea P hylla , no . 4 , A pril 1 9 3 7 , signed C alamaris ( slightly abridged )

Dear Editor, Regarding Mr. Terzakis’18 letter, the sole addition I have to make is that I very much appreciate his eagerness to defend a deceased friend and that I bear the utmost respect toward Mr. Terzakis’ feelings about Mentzelos. I hope that his admiration for that man will make him decide to write all that he thinks worth knowing about Mentzelos. Excellent people are so few—would they be excellent otherwise?—that what we know of them must not be wasted. Until Mr. Terzakis writes more extensively and concisely on his friend, I hope he will permit me to continue regarding Mentzelos as rather mediocre. This opinion of mine is based not only on his article about surrealism, but also on the judgment of a mutual friend, whose name I shall

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refrain from mentioning, for he too is dead, and his judgment referred to a personal matter.19 Since Mentzelos is the first [Greek] to have written on surrealism, and since Mr. Terzakis admires him so much, I suggest that, in the next issue of your journal, he write everything he knows about Mentzelos. Nothing that concerns surrealism, both abroad and in Greece, is indifferent to us, and no one will be happier than I to read an accurate and laudatory account concerning a friend of the surrealists. Nikos Calamaris Dear Editor, I did not expect Mr. Sarandaris to become upset because I wrote that his poetry echoes Ungaretti’s style so well. Were I to write a study on Mr. Sarandaris’s poetry, I would certainly be able to show where I find the influence of Ungaretti and of other Italian poets, for it is indeed Italian poetry that has influenced him. Unfortunately, for the time being I have more serious matters than the undertaking of that study to attend to. As for translating Ungaretti, I am afraid that I shall not; one may translate only what one empathizes with, and word-for-word translation—as I would expect Mr. Sarandaris to be poet enough to understand—is totally worthless. I do not translate what influences others, but only what influences me, for I believe, otherwise I would not write, that I have enough strength to transform the influence of others into something new and my own. Nikos Calamaris P.S.—It seems that Mr. Sarandaris was so annoyed by what I wrote on the spiritual kinship between Ungaretti’s impressionist poems and his own verses that he has now returned to the same topic, in a letter directed to another journal, where he was kind enough to address at greater length what I wrote in the last issue of Nea Phylla. I am particularly moved by this interest in my ideas and literary preferences shown by young people. I am well aware that some may be taken aback by my opinions, yet my aim is precisely to trouble the waters. I am a poet, and I confound expectations, for what I love is at variance with the reality that others have been taught to love! But even though I can understand Mr. Sarandaris’s impatience to know why I prefer Péret to Valéry, why I like Stou Glytomou To Hazi, why I consider surrealism to be more than an aesthetic tendency,20 I imagine that he must realize that it is neither possible nor reasonable to examine the vast field of triumphant surrealist

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conquests within the confines of a letter that merely aims to correct another young poet’s grave errors. I hereby announce, with all the seriousness proper to a poet’s word, that I am writing a book on surrealism,21 which I hope will not be long in seeing the light and increasing it. There, Mr. Sarandaris will find an answer to his questions, provided he reads me carefully. Until then, Mr. Sarandaris must have some patience and stop reading me, otherwise he is bound to have too many questions, seeing as our literary tastes are anything but alike. Mr. Sarandaris asks, and I am so touched by his question, how responsible I feel over writing what I write. Simple—as responsible as the sun is when shining: personally responsible. It is, I believe, because I write on topic A or B that the reader gets interested. The proof of my being right is that my views are taken seriously, otherwise Mr. Sarandaris would not now be asking me to justify them. Nikos Calamaris asks of others to justify their views only when he finds their writings to be of interest. To Mr. Sarandaris he will recommend only that he stop expressing opinions on Breton and Dalí before reading them, for what he writes proves either that he has not read them or that he has not understood them. And it is a pity to see young people whose efforts, as distant as their direction may be from our own path, we once watched with some affection showing such ignorance of the topics they treat. But Mr. Sarandaris fails to understand, not only others, but also himself. For how can he explain that, while saying that the literary discourse I opened, in the way that I opened it, is of no interest, he is actually devoting so much time to it? How responsible is that? Not even as responsible as a worm passing under a strip of earth lighted by a sunray. N. C. On the Limitless Conquests of Romanticism (First published in Κύκλος (Kyklos), vol. D, no. 1, December 1937, signed Calamaris) (abridged version) Can romanticism be reborn? That is the question posed by Francis de Miomandre in one of his latest chronicles in Nouvelles Littéraires. His pondering was occasioned by the special issue of Cahiers du Sud on romanticism released last summer. This volume finally completes the picture formed by a work undertaken by many and entailing a reconsideration of our ideas on romanticism; a work that began with Monglond on the French preromantics and was continued by the study on dream and romanticism by Béguin in his celebrated book L’Âme romantique et le rêve. Not to mention the commendable diatribes which also testify—a sign of the times—to

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an increased interest, on the part of the young French reading public, in the research of the problems and people associated with Romanticism. I am not going to discuss the answer given by Miomandre to his own question, for I bear him no respect. I only share his pondering, that is, I question my own experience, which came to be so marvelously enlarged by this volume of Cahiers du Sud, for an answer. My own, albeit, as I am going to demonstrate, is also an experience that belongs to me through my acceptance of the success of others, of a Monglond or a Béguin, rather than through a conquest other than that of my own spirit. I became a romantic as one of a different creed may have become a Christian. His arguments for Christianity will be drawn, not from his own history, but from the texts of his new religion. Romanticism, of course, is not a religion, yet the pros of romanticism, as of any idea that yields a practical result, are to be found both in life and in texts. And it is in the body of those texts that this issue of Cahiers du Sud has come to occupy a prominent place. A discovery of the romantics is a matter that extends both in the past and in the present; it is not a throwback to Rousseau or Sade, Arnim or Novalis, but rather their restoration among us, the creation of a common ground, of the preconditions of our coexistence with them. I would like to be able to say that what France has to offer today in the romantic field is linked, in these pages that I am judging and praising, to what France itself owes to German romanticism, which is the focus of the studies comprising this issue. Yet that is not the case. The surrealists shine by their absence, as they shine wherever they are, or are not. And it is André Breton’s work that now, after Gide or Proust,22 has once more subjected the world to a visible, indeed blinding, disturbance. It is this splendor that renders him, in the eyes of his friends, from his own generation and, thankfully, also from mine, so much more important than other contemporaries. Without Breton’s work, I believe that this activity around romanticism, this research on ways of communicating with its animators, would have been condemned from the outset. For we must not, indeed do not, look upon the romantics as their immediate successors and our teachers did, that is, as inventors of themes that have since been overused and exhausted, but in a manner that contains a great deal of amazement, with our permanent psychic ability (reinforced by attacks and censures) to be amazed by all that is not despicably habitual. However, those aware of the surrealists’ vigorous intransigence will guess the reason for their absence. Surrealism does not accept all that shines in romanticism, but only those aspects of it whose lighting terrifies. And it has a lot to reproach romanticism for, just as many who are now close to surrealism are reproached by it. A romantic stance toward romanticism is today conceivable through surrealism alone, as in Mallarmé’s time it was only conceivable through symbolism. Yet today,

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as Julien Green in the novel, Jaloux or Marcel Brion in criticism, live by breathing surrealism, without being surrealists, as Aragon, Queneau, or Caillois live by spitting out the surrealism that poisoned them, so the romantics’ passions are restored to us, not as they were, but as they should be today, that is, according to the contemporary needs of romanticism. The same will happen later, in a postsurrealist era, when romanticism judges our own times according to its postsurrealist romantic needs. This is what is meant by historical criticism; its precondition is an understanding that occurs by alteration, which becomes creative to the extent that it derives from necessity. And, though rarely name-checked, how often does André Breton’s presence become felt in these issues of Cahiers du Sud! He has started entering our lives, as did one of his teachers, Freud, via encomiums, including treacherous ones. Thus always was glory’s path paved. That is precisely where the great importance of this issue of Cahiers du Sud lies. It reveals a certain familiarization with ideas and emotions—but familiarization also means variation, and the one under discussion precisely permits the creation of a new climate, so that, when considered vis-à-vis all that surrounds it, it is deemed new, genuinely more romantic than other contemporary aspects. Something has changed radically! For years I have been hearing that young people are finally escaping the influence of Gide, Proust, or Valéry; yet now there is palpable proof that they have found something else, and the defining point of this change is not the publication, here or there, of a study by whichever promising young writer, but a by now collective expression, not of a diversion from a given route, but of a clearly visible, positive turn toward further horizons. The new romanticism is not the domain of the few (of few words and works) members of a philological troupe, playing at cénacle, and founded in Paris or London; it is an undertaking that characterizes numerous expressions, which, irrespective of where their primal cell is located, apply their mark to an entire era. From this point of view, the stance adopted these last years, and each year with greater clarity, by one influenced to the utmost degree by these processes, is typical: I mean Edmond Jaloux. Both in Cahiers du Sud and elsewhere, he has been committed to a fight for romanticism. And the renewed interest in romanticism, the rejection of realism and psychology for the benefit of the fantastic, the felt necessity for this new vision of the world, are largely the work of Jaloux. Having noted that certain names are missing from this issue of Cahiers du Sud, I must also note that other names are there which should not be. I am thinking of Charles du Bos. Here he writes on Novalis, comparing him to Pascal. Yet this view of romanticism is wholly foreign to our times, for we have learned to distinguish between romanticism and mysticism. And that romantic element which may de-

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rive from mysticism is repulsive to us, appears to constitute a false romanticism. I consider romanticism a guide toward the conquest of life, whereas any mysticism, whether Pascal’s or Kierkegaard’s, is mere escape. Fortunately, Novalis was more than a mystic. I do not know if we may say the same of Pascal. I could never read him without a feeling of disgust, for I never managed to shed the impression that he was all too human in too many things that are unworthy of humans. For that alone I despise him; and thus Pascal is lost on me, for it is highly debatable that a romantic might consider as human an enemy of humanity. The extent to which du Bos’s presence in this issue strikes a false note becomes apparent as soon as we scrutinize the philosophical background from which most of the young collaborators in the issue derive. What gives particular joy to a student of modern ideas is how discredited the Bergsonian worldview seems to be in the minds of the young. I believe that, in 1910 or 1920, it would have been unlikely for a volume on romanticism, such as the one I have before me, to avoid bearing clearly the destructive, to me, influence of Bergson. Sturdier in thought, France’s new generation grows daily more and more distant from a pseudophilosophy that drove elders to so many errors. Expressed on the level of romanticism, such errors lead precisely to that confusion with mysticism, of which we now demand to be rid.

II. Letters to Nanos Valaoritis (excerpts, originally in English; from Nanos Valaoritis’s chronicle Modernism, the “Avant-Garde” and Pali, 1997)

a. 5-14-1960 Dear Nanos: Thanks for your kind words about my Greek poems[,] although I am afraid that because of your warm feelings toward me you read them with too much indulgence. But if Elytis agrees and in the fall you feel like publishing them, I would be very pleased. What makes Elyti [sic] think that I do not like his poetry / [sic] Perhaps the fact that when I was in Greece these last years I never looked him up. This has to do with my whole and [sic] very ambivalent attitude toward Greece. When I left Greece with the plan never to live there again (and that was in the thirties) I was very bitter at the cold reception that my poems had received. To my surprise last year I found out that some critics and poets were rediscovering me. But it’s too late to give me any pleasure. I am no more the same who wrote those poems, nor can I be among those who might read them. . . . I try to develop my poetry around a definite feeling (or mood), and it is not only Greek poetry that suffers from that mumbo jumbo diversity you complain about. . . . If and when you want to publish them then perhaps I could send you another

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copy. . . . Certainly show them to Elytis if he would be interested in seeing them, but I thought that he always disliked my writing. From the way you write I gather he must be in Paris and [sic] tell him that I would be pleased to get his book [Axion Esti], but only if he really feels like sending it to me! . . . The oddity of my idiom comes partly from the fact that I have been influenced by Biblical Greek (a side effect of Bosch!) and enjoy introducing religious references. Actually most of these poems are nothing but footnotes on Bosch. . . . b. 11-19-1964 Dear Nano [sic] My 30 copies of [the 1933 collection] Poems are in my library, I will write to my mother about it. I suggest that you advertise in your next issue [of Pali] that you have a limited number [sic] of this book and sell it at whatever price you think that you can get. . . . I am glad Embirikos likes my new poems. Please thank him; I hope I will, after all these years, manage to see him next summer. . . . [G]ive me news of your collaborators, who I met last summer despite the fact that they rather snubbed me for my age . . .

III. From Nikitas Randos St. (1977) (written between 1933–1936 and 1945–1977; with the exception of the first two poems, first printed in the 1936 hors commerce leaflet Notebook D, the texts included here belong to the second series)

Promyth I continue: By poetic order I name the stages of my redemptive effort Notebooks. I call forth the Tenth and Torch-bearing Muse! May the sparkles of her will give movement to my verses! They shall not be wasted! That is the epoch’s command: may nothing be wasted! Such furious tension, such passion in thought! They are barely discernible, yet each act has its appointed place. Only thus does the new modify the old. Our criterion is that of history: human destination. This is served by substantial, contractual rights—more precisely, closer to poetry—by intellectual property. The appropriation of verses, our own and those of others, is often mandatory. Only Pharisees avoid themselves and others; they adulterate! Effective poems alone are good. Cowards are afraid of effects, they are antipoetic types. Yet art is an arsenal, as proven by the Parthenon!

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In the dark, bearing the weight of what has gone before, with herculean strength we move on to secure the timeliness of our aspirations. The effort has to continue for the entire course of our existence! When continuity is broken, time is reincarnated, the future immigrates. Look at the statues of Mesopotamia, of Cyclades, of the Easter Islands, of the T’ag dynasty! Dedalus leaves Ionia and becomes Brancusi. The endless light of Vermeer van Delft awakes Salvador Dalí—to which point of his landscapes’ terrifying horizon are we directed?—I ask Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Empedocles, the great Ionians of modern times, Hegel, Richter, von Kleist, and the other German romantics, their French brothers, Nerval, Lautréamont, Rimbaud, the Anglo-Saxons Donne, Blake and Poe. Sounds also move, their forgotten beginnings carrying us to the Turkish “amanedes,” to jazz, to Madame Butterfly, to Bolero. There will come a time when Tino Rossi sings Shakespeare’s sonnets. Already the phonograph’s horizon exceeds earthly limits. Let frenzy continue, the hyper-heroic course is always at a distance from both end and beginning without for all that ever missing its cause and goal. Let the spark become flame! So many that loved it betray it with worship. A plague of skeptics and Pharisees advances! Free of adulterations, with our legs of love and hate, we speedily carry our BEING in time! Let the blasphemy: “Prometheus has grown weary” be heard no more! Sleep was made to serve man; its aim is LIFE. We are not alone, we are not mere spectators, and spectators are not always spectators! The space is traversed by THEN THERE WAS FIRE Contract With Demons Hopes have returned  their untrodden path and that lost was named light what has been with what will be return when I reach once more where I am now I shall be able to walk in darkness solitude silence. Unforgotten love once more returns bearing memory and hope to desires offering words of your own unconscious appeal for my will to exit criminal inertia to exit and overflow the great gift with delight the unhesitant sun-spilt decision of many and more.

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I cannot live unless another past is found for me I came to the first years of my existence that is what precipitates struggles extends my dreams beyond night covering all my efforts  I remained alone I came to the first years of my existence I wish not to turn forward  coming days know me so well how can they keep secrets when I do not forget? It is not here it was a dream’s dream now lost between breathing in and out neither I nor my wish resisted horror hopes still fighting desires  kiss of no pleasure leaving my body it was early incredibly early for patience thus what memory gives to our heart does not shed its dew all the interest keeping us busy and draining us. Torch-bearing desires go forth lamps equal in number coupling with past shadows within light invisible end blinds an indefinite form iridescent love and intelligence  awe binding her purple robe on the head falls a sole adornment the odor of oil myrrh and incense and a gaze fixed on the future alone. No one will come nor did ever come  no reason not to wait each day increases the distance between like and unlike no hope always shadows pains desires relics of faiths that return. Past was born today  some of  it is mine it shall come and befall us  nor does it stay behind when I go slow all swiftness resembles vanity naught else exists forms left untouched by flesh become crucial I begin to play a part in my existence following the past that goes forth. Counting neither words nor hopes a desire starts  bearing its orders not saying whence and where it goes that we may never see I follow it  I mimic you  it suffices allows me to forget withstand I think of the obstacles appearing as raised for me alone I struggle to fell them  thus in such contradictions a certain coherence is felt foreign to words acts and hopes  deep forgotten.

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What shall we do with the light covering us the extensions of time from all sides significant things that we alone perceive without really knowing them deliver us from doubt and baseness we arise at the roll call proceed with no clear sense of direction significant things echo inwardly trouble rouse we are shaken. No penalty or remorse suffices one forbidden the other shatters rhythms better all that is loved become a flame and my own sperm pain poison between the legs and their despicable bed and what is destined let it occur time for pleasure again to dominate the young idol of nights day’s anticipatory dream reaches fulfillment  bearing me there pretext becomes cause hymn trumpets sound unhoped-for victory beauty ceases to be expectancy of memories desires contemplate pleasure and if I am again left alone what in myself attends shall see thunders of certainty foreign to waste amid doubts immaterial reins of relations unexpected directions of reciprocity they are not negligible our bodies now ready always delay their own offering. Ungoverned passions bearing us we abandon ourselves naught is lost moments that never existed become in the past with no will or wish for will I roll talk incite believe I now fight against my own words a myriad dreams cry the sea the sea decease decease a gypsy woman leafing the hours  I kiss her hands reverently. I expect to see the dawn of a day with no ruins and worries a dawn when all is as I would have wished joy extending to the sea to your eyes touching the fingertips trodden roads are to me an error an enormous mistake I seek traces shadows proofs isolations exquisite moments when isolation is not.

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Like conviction like conscience like an enemy fully armed all-visible comes like Jews like Sappho like Salome like all persecuted ones we face the smoke that ascends even in this century I call you into the night the speed of voice lost in chaos what shall you be where shall I go? If ache-less I could surrender to pain could be grief and lust and yours with what joy would I give you expanses transformed by your heart into wounds how much pleasure for nights when I shall be alone and for those other nights without dreams. Hopes are dismembered  a cry escapes chaos sinking in waves  the entire width of silence revealed I have no chance  she has been named Calliste vision hallucination idol memory all now belong to oblivion may new pains be welcome in my remembrance I shall traverse oceans of fire far beyond memories to anticipations to untouched lips to sands of a brown islet the image reaching beyond August reaching to past and future acts all lost sorrows indifference my wish I implore and taste delayed feelings become recollections I add notions and qualities to evidence and pleasures guide of what I have been I stumble fall and do not recognize. The sun has set my Lady’s hand withdrawn and what was left to die none hated more than I I penetrate dawn  Calliste hour! Paris-Athens-Santorini 1934–1935–1936

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Jest For Three-handed Mary a thorn bunch. May her bastard live. Tomorrow is the Day of Christopher the Cynocephalus. Christy is called a dogface by his neighboresses. They put the evil eye on him! his godmother sighs. He’s been silenced! says Josephoglou. He gets the hiccups when he hears the holy sermon! was science’s judgment. Yet he was cured by the priest’s wife with words of Rhoidis.23 Not quite. He still barks at our poets’ anthologies florences of critics and calendars. But is appreciated by those preferring anathema to festivals. Inversion Nor way! Fish play at divinity and laryngitis at Axion Esti Action poétique: the A. D. of A. D. Alter S. Mary was overthrown by the post-Oedipal B. C. But consider: the B and C of trigonometry the poetic equation A. B.=1713 of André Breton and Pascal the paschal trees of May may dream pay for insomnia inspiration a goner, we play at no playing matters. Freedom! reveille of a message with light as its wing and image as its eye freedom is besieged! Liberty! representational writing on the walls, extension of a hand or mechanical seal mind-figure. The word does not suffice. Invisible speech appears in verse, in history. Its bearer a magus, the bearer of its banners also a fighter, the triune poetry freedom and love is recognized by the aspect of the word. With daring—future of our own will.

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From “Eleven and Two Poems” Upon the paper that will receive the verse the hand. The ear rejoicing in the aria exquisitely colored by a tenor André Chenier of course, disguised in Italian. Mediocre poet, bourgeois hero the ear envisions guillotine rhythms. The hand is electrified. Delighted it scribbles the sonorous: Robespierre! Words are spider-woven in the sky by Pennsylvania’s windblown branches on their outline I read the unknown. Islander watered by the moonlight of olive trees revolted, immigrant, I profess to be a dream reader. I study the Magi van Eyck and Bosch, Breton and Duchamp. I salute atheist Buddhists of Colorado, anarchists and heretics. I celebrate the solstice and the anniversary of the Commune. I respect the shadow of Athos the pyramids, Aphrodite. I get lost in the crowd, I regain myself in the thoroughfares of Babylon on the palm of the future. Manhattan 1977

IV. From Writing and Light (1983) (includes Poems, Calas’s only published early collection from 1933, as well as a series of poems written between 1977 and 1983, whence the following selections) In the days of Nikitas Randos I was curbed by a Companion’s existence. Now my words are usurped by third parties. The form of my writings is the grace of another thought. There is no solution outside love. Comprehension is presupposed by an equation between Oedipus and the prodigal one for the sake of wisdom and of rage.

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May the ashes of my dreams and flesh be preserved in sarcasm under a stumbling block. The Post-Yesterday Mentally. I was arranging in a new triadic order the seats of the Café de la Place Blanche waiting for Elisa Breton to come. I felt the urgent necessity to evoke the thirties—socialism and surrealism. Later I found Elisa at the soirée of the Adamis. André Breton’s widow was tied up in a gordian knot of cars on the Rive Gauche. Wheels or chairs? dilemmas of our times. Manikins by Masson and Dominguez brightened the opening of the “Paris-Paris” exhibition hard to connect post-yesterday with pre-tomorrow. Place Blanche, on a white backdrop the announcement of those that we lost. Heirless light of icon-worshipers how my past grew distant when I heard that Georges Hénein had withdrawn from our games of ideas “Voice coming from afar,” he answered on the phone. Face that vanished before I caught up. How Ionian this Copt and I a Greek we talked of our ancestors Julian and Trismegistus. Our chairs are emptied and it is still early to burden them anew. I may come by again under the message of another constellation. Manhattan 1982

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V. From Sixteen French Poems and Correspondence with William Carlos Williams (2003) (Bilingual edition focusing on previously unpublished French poems (1937–1940), ed. Spilios Argyropoulos and Vassiliki Colokotroni)24

Song of Oblivion Fill up the silence! We need wind upheaval wishes torrents of pain Naked daggers the gold of their reflection Hardened fears delirious ships Make the iron blades sing Throw fire drops in the tears Weave flames into your hair Snakes into your footsteps The echo of mountains into your voice Waves into your reveries Madness into the mirrors We need monsters to people the crevices And all the seduction of sources All the anger of the suppressed! When love becomes nothing but vertigo Night the embrace of a dream Childhood a cruel game Rivers of blood shall irrigate the deserts Carried by fast horses and veils attached to armored cars turning around themselves Let us mix the hoarse voice of the clothes seller The depressing virtue of girls With the sounds of abandoned bells! We shall overtake the wind and night Leaving far behind us the strident music of atrociously stretched chords And the choked cries underneath the masks The mountains advance under a tempest of drums O seal the orifices of cities Arrest the blind the leprous the jealous Nail the beggars to the door of tyrants Free the prophets

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Cover the sky with poems Frighten the world! When everything occurs The poll tax The divorce The short circuit The cancer Nothing more can stop the news It uproots the shadow of trees The ink of printing presses And all memory It coagulates the blood and the sea Bends the iron Solidifies the sand Mixes urine with fire And renders sperm into a new hateful gaze Full of hope From the rooftops the cats play with the stars From the treetops the toads sing a new hosanna The world is once more filled with promises and delirious objects This week it is the interminable surprises And the victorious clashes that make front-page news Let us imitate centuries to infinity Poems on wheels of fire came along The triangles turn like wheels The violins are like swords Youth is Defiance Space and Violence It is FIRE Our enemies are condemned in advance to build immense pyramids Higher and higher Never tall enough to surpass the level of an enraged sea Tormented disturbed nourished with all our passions Our enemies are victors But upon their defeat a transparent water with no reflection Shall cover their sordid bodies A heavy water mixed with a dreamless sleep. Athens 1937–Méknès 1939

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Oedipus Is Innocent Tomorrow nothing more will remain The skin of hands will again become dusty In the spring there will be no more stars A resinous blood will flow in our veins One will open the earth like doors never again to be closed The entire earth this whole year will be like a wound There will be no more need for compasses There will be no more future no more audacity no more stars No one to pass No head so tall that it must bow Gesticulations will have nothing to say All the faces of dice will be alike The desert will resemble the glaciers O hair happy isle of a mirage! I have no more secrets for anyone I have massacred all All that was violently loved and disposed into my life Was carried along by the current I sleep in a liquid bed A sleep full of noises In a night without end. Paris 1938–Méknès 1939

Nikos Engonopoulos (1907–1985)

​T h r e e

​P

ainter and poet. Born in Athens, he spent much of his early life in Paris; there, he discovered surrealism, which he perceived as a reaction to French “rationalism.” He thus devoted his life to redressing what he saw as an oppressive misconception of the Greek “tradition” (the word for which, in Greek, is the same as for “surrender”—cf. the homonymous poem herein). Introduced to Embirikos by Nicolas Calas, he was the second Greek poet to publish a surrealist book (in 1938), and to this day the best-loved (and most ridiculed) one. Although there is a visible decline in his poetry after The Return of the Birds (1946), his best work, riddled with enigmatic allusions whose deciphering seems to call for a quasi-hermetic process and creating a linguistic landscape in which not only words but also idioms “make love,” surpasses Embirikos’s in terms of aggressiveness, invention, and humor. He translated texts by Lautréamont, Picasso, Tzara, de Chirico, Savinio, Mayakovsky, Lorca and others. “What is so surprising in [Engonopoulos’s] semantic transgressions and hyperboles, is that they are so intelligible. They follow one another with a certain mathematical precision. . . . He taught us risk, in a manner very different from Embirikos’s.” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Do Not Distract the Driver (1938) Do Not Distract the Driver

I .   Dancing Albanians consider directing their energies toward novel ends, so that

children may perceive none of life’s sorrows and disappointments.  T h a t  t h e y 

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m a y  p e r c e i v e  n o t h i n g  b e f o r e  t h e i r  t i m e  c o m e s.  In any case, the contemplations of the said Albanians do not go beyond the window frames. And that is so because a certain Italian, answering to the name of Guiglelmo Tsitzes and professing to be a repairer of wind instruments, attempts to deceive the affianced couple by applying to an old-type Singer sewing machine four funnels, to wit, two made of glass and two of any metal whatsoever. May no one be disturbed: this image is the only one that aided the deceased eyeless lighthouse keeper in discovering the secret of the well.

I I .   (on trifling matters)

Blessed be the memory of that most noble Ottoman, Ali Hadjar effendi, formerly high officer of the Empire and great benefactor of humanity with the aid of a certain Italian by the name of Guiglelmo Tsitzes. This, after all, is also the opinion professed by madam Artemis. The “madam Artemis’s” affirmation calms the restless souls and contributes greatly to the attempt undertaken by French poets of the XVI century to the end of establishing a new school under the name of “Pleiad.” Besides, none of you forgets that the monk Schwartz discovered gunpowder. And so for the rest . . . Polyxene Clamoring vampires and ironbound breezes brought to me yesterday, around midnight, upon the zenith of the sun of justice, the message of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Isidore Ducasse and Panagis Koutalianos.1 My sorrow was great. Until then I believed in the prophetic visions of turners, I expected the oracles of frantic riders, I anticipated the metaphysical interventions of statues. I was calmed by the idea of my corpse. My only joy was the tresses of her hair. I used to bow and kiss reverently the tips of her fingers. Still a child, at sunset I ran madly, in haste, to steal, before nightfall, the forgotten scarecrows from the fields. Yet I lost her, out of my very arms I might say, as if she only ever were but a deceptive vision, but the commonest of hammers. In her place only a mirror was found. And when I leaned to look inside that mirror I saw nothing but two small pebbles. One was named Polyxene, the other, Polyxene also. Osiris Late last night, in the upper part of town, savage and bloodthirsty Albanians, seven in number, slaughtered mercilessly, in his own bed, the dog-headed lover of the forgotten Hippolyte. The despicable villains entered unnoticed the chamber of the heinous crime. After chanting to a flute’s accompaniment two obscure, to me at

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least, hymns to the heath-cocks, they placed with utmost care under a glass containing a light solution of fish glue within an infinitesimal quantity of nitroglycerine, a piece of paper. The latter was but a mere sheet of common correspondence paper, on which were written the sole words: “Gold column.” The dog-headed lover—let us call him thus, for his name Isidore remains undisclosed—exited the tragic bedroom much later. He wore a brown raincoat and a pair of spectacles. The Forest Ship I know that if I had a costume —a frock coat— pea-green colored with big dark red flowers if in place of the invisible Aeolian harp that serves as my head I had a square bar of green soap so that one of its edges would rest lightly between my shoulders if it were possible to replace the sacred shrouds of my voice with the love born by a metaphysical musical maid for the rain’s black umbrellas maybe then only then I might tell the elusive visions of joy

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that I saw once —when I was a child— looking reverently into the round eyes of birds Steamrollers My heart is an object made of solid rubber. It contains two painful worthless glass nails. I pick up this object and, as it resists me with both hands and feet, I just about manage to hide it inside the drawer, where I keep, secretly, words and stories from the village of bicycles. I am not afraid of the phallus-wearing maiden nor of the man with fur eyes walking up and down the dark staircase. Ever since my childhood I have known the mirror of flowers. I sing the glories of steamrollers, I say the chaste psalms of bottles, while the paper owl recites straight into my ear—with her funnel—the word “s t r a n g e r.” Esto Memor now that the nightmare of fans has vanished now that on seashores pederasts are kicking let us direct our gaze to architectural despair only the time has not come —the time has not yet come— there only came the musical sponges the crazed snail there also came a Cappadocian from San Salvador with two salted fishes in the place of eyes Eleonora2

for hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair3

(frontal view) her hair is like cardboard

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and like fish her two eyes are like a dove her mouth is like the civil war (in Spain) her neck is a red horse her hands are like the voice of the thick forest her two breasts are like my painting her belly is the story of Belthandros and Chrysanza4 the story of Tobias the story of the donkey of the wolf and the fox her sex is sharp whistles in the calmness of noon her thighs are the last glimmers of the modest joy of steamrollers her two knees Agamemnon her two adorable little feet

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are the green telephone with red eyes (rear view) her hair is a paraffin lamp that burns in the morning her shoulders are the hammer of my desires her back is the sea’s spectacles the plow of deceptive ideograms whistles sadly on her waist her buttocks are fish glue her thighs are like thunderbolt her tiny heels shed light on bad dreams and ultimately she is a woman

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half hippocampus and half necklace and even may be partly a pine and partly an elevator Amazons The “pretty Marika of Istanbul” was the sole goddaughter of Pope Innocentius VIII. He was then but a mere child, perhaps not even born yet. On her part, she was already married, spouse to the royally descended Artavazos Sphyrictropoulos, Noah’s nephew on his sister’s side. Yet this crime could not remain without severe and exemplary punishment. Indeed, on the very next day, a considerable number of ships were given the order to sail hurriedly toward the Canarian Islands and the Fidjii isles, with the purpose of collecting the highest possible quantity of clouds, winter falsehoods, cast-aside memories, mortal sins, and phonograph needles, possibly manufactured in England. The said ships were in all seven in number, to wit: four jigger sails, twelve brigantines, two royal squadrons, and one deceased fiancée. The fleet passed underneath my windows early in the morning. It chanted an exquisite, if somewhat sorrowful and melancholy, hymn. Even now I recall the tune, if faintly: it was much higher than a bell-ring, yet certainly lower than a broom. Surrender Emplissez de noix la besace du hèros [Fill the hero’s traveling bag with nuts] G. Apollinaire: “Le larron” A wolf is howling mournfully on the corner of the staircase. And it is I myself, or rather my heart, awaiting for so many years the coming of Assurbanipal, in the shape of a dynamite cartridge or a flower of graces. I divert my ennui by reading the chapters “on fish” in the lotus-eaters’ sexual lives-of-saints. Still, I can feel around me the increasing indignation and enmity of the priests’ crowd. I have already been denounced as a “due respect” by a group of inconstant omnivorous red-skinned fishers. Consanguine shipowners and tennis players of both sexes have stigmatized

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me as the “bicyclic brain” of Hittites. The crime of having kicked, in a moment of wrath, the sacred bone of dinosaurs has been shamelessly attributed to me. Yet I remain tranquil. Calm and serenity reign in my heart, in spite of the rain that has not for a moment ceased falling all day. Everyone is shouting at me: surrender! Yet I do not surrender. I am content with offering English language lessons twice, or indeed thrice a week, to the stillborn sewing machines of battlements. Everyone is shouting: surrender! N o. I shall surrender only the hexagonal fireworks of guillotines to the marble king. Everyone is shouting: surrender! Fair enough . . . I will surrender . . . So be it. Yet why? Am I or am I not the participant of nocturnal crime? Am I or am I not the clamoring plow, the gasoline crocodile? Am I or am I not the tanner’s fire helmet, the enemy of lightning? As I realize, however, that my life was the lamp’s fuse, was, in one word, the electric switch of the aramaic clavichords of silence, for this very reason, I surrender! Perhaps It is raining . . . Yet it saddens me to tell: it was, well, it was a house, a big, enormous house. It was empty. There were no windows, only balconies and a big chimney. A girl was sitting there, eyeless, with a flower in place of her voice. She asked: —Shay, what were you hammering today, all day? —Oh, nothing . . . nothing. I was conversing with Homer. —What, with Homer, the poet? —Yes, with Homer the poet, and with another Homer, the one from Voskopojë, who spent all his life on trees, like a bird, and yet was known as “the man of the bridge” in the neighborhoods near the lake.

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Love We are leaving. Yet, before our separation, let us all sing together the chant of the stone automobile. When we say “stone,” however, let us be precise: stones are to be found only on the corners; the rest is made of bricks and planks, as usual, with wheels of iodine tincture. Let us carry the memory of radiant mazes and the halfbrotherly pebbles of arsonist boxes. As always, direction to the right, toward the derelict boat lights of our love. Reminiscence and will of asphalt: Poseidon. To me, a star will sing inside a drawer the song of my joy with a saw.  L e t  n o  o n e  f o l l o w  m e.  Let us all rest, like mythological chandeliers and like lightning-rod plates. With the birds, with one bird, with two birds. The Wooden Idols of the Airport away from us forever run the dawn’s pebbles —nuptial dead crocodiles in palaces painted yellow by sewing machines— and now they stay—and so they will forever—here like air-proof conclusions of the finest Ithaca the secret chisels of parricides to awaken deeply inside me—when I speak— the soiled sheets of sacrifice like the forest that will be consoled by the sperms of the sleep-fish between the lips pursues the systematic petroleum of life and only says the song sung by little children benighted on alleys for the velvet corals of eyes

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Night Maria On the very day after my death, or rather, I should say, of my “being-put-to-death,” I bought and read all the papers, to learn as many details as possible concerning my execution. Apparently, I was led to the scaffold under a strict escort. I was wearing a yellow-colored overcoat, a netted necktie, and a helmet. My hair resembled a brush, that of a painter, or maybe of a pine-bender. Afterward, my body was thrown away, on a swampland that used to be the haunt of Descartes the French, and where also lay for years, prey to vultures and to a prostitute answering to the name of Euterpe, the glorious corpse of the late Caramanlakis.5 And even though much was related with great secrecy concerning my whereabouts at the time, for some in Maracaibo in South America, for others in Piraeus, at the Passa Limani, I was actually in Elbassan (of Albania) pure and simple. And the only thing worth its salt that I happened to read all those days, was an extensive letter from the Italian Guiglelmo Tsitzes, my intimate and only friend, whom I have never met and whose very existence I doubt. Put briefly, the entire content of his epistle was as follows: “You are,” he said, alluding of course to Polyxene, “you are an old phonograph with a bronze funnel under a black cloth.”

II. From The Clavichords of Silence (1939)

Sinbad the Sailor tu autem eras interior intimo meo et superior summo meo St. Augustine “Confessions” Book 3, VI. II my soul is often an alley of Mykonos when it gets dark and women begin to place erotically down on the street in geometrical monotonous shapes only blue glasses —blue cups blue decanters

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desires in blue violins flowers pebbles all in blue glass— far from the sun down on the ground of the street where the sun passed and —what is more— is not to pass again at exactly that time I slide my hand gently to the base of my skull and suddenly dip it —deep— inside my head and pull out my brain and quietly squeeze my brain cells all over my fingers and when all the liquids are spilt —in silence— on the ground there remains in my palm —alive— a small flower that I sought

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as a child caressing my front with its white hands and talking tenderly telling me of the dreams that whistle in the night so soft so compassionate —like fingers like tears— in the ruins of Palmyra in the dead palaces of Babylon telling me also of the life I live quietly gently in the big desert house —of blue glass— where live only birds all alone motionless amid the electric wires of HER belly and while the storm rages all around me and the fierce sea

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with naked feet covers the deck of my poor vessel I climb to the highest mast holding tight in my hands a cup of blue glass —these hands my front that thunders and eagles never burn— and it is precisely that blue glass cup where I have placed my two hands the liquids spilt from my fingers the little white flower and also a long long glass blue or pink —I do not recall— that is plainly SHE ... and voices

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trouble the night like voices like a wild monody of female cries accompanied —of course— by piano violin or even flute Vulture and Garrison Homage à ApolLinaire Myconos Mycenae Mycosis three words yet but two feathers like lime like a woman’s palm that shines in the night like a carnivorous violin and also —perhaps— like the glass drills

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inside the delicate brains of poets The Clavichords of Silence . . . it is all so silent, and silence is only good when it contains joy. Else, I dread it . . . ΛΗ or LI the sperms of werewolves exhaust the horizon’s helms throw flaming flutes into the bloodied dresses hanging from the thick branches of trees beg for the justice and pity of children I —however— place red flowers in her hair stand fully naked in purple gardens get lost inside dark caves whose depth

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conceals sewing machines and yellow fish speaking like flowers and maybe after all I am this werewolf of lightning the one they call —when darkness comes— the “parenthesis man” in the bellows of intrigue in the shrouds of the night journey when a bird like a sulphurated wick dies and thus fall —drop by drop— on the temples of desperate clavichords the disillusioned couples and a heavy cloud of long blond hair —with brown eyes— flies silently inside

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oblong basements where bloom only harbors and vultures and silence is fire a rope-ladder placed carefully on the lips and a white horse that is a tree by the sea and a red horse like a flag and I run on the waters —tirelessly— with the lyrical bicycle and the helmet of love and when I reach the last step of this dark ladder and open the door of the room only then I realize that the room

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was —is— a large garden full of music and paintings —a room full of sheets thrown into the garden— some of those sheets were waving like flags and like windowpanes some were thrown down like mirrors and others spoke inarticulate words like chimneys and others were spread on beds like comets others resembled jugs others were like proboscises and others dressed in dew and tragic cries women naked and lovely

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so that I should —it may even be absolutely essential— compare the entire situation to a glass on which upon placing your eye you see a deep well and at the bottom a bird A Flute in the Courtyard of the Hecatomb The dead man is “on guard” in the dark dining room. To reach it, one has to go through an endless row of chests filled with sealing wax. There, one’s hands are crammed with wreaths of multicolored flowers, destined for the heads of poets. This, after all, is “the poetry of the forest,” with amber and with blind flutes like moons. The dead man is “on guard,” continuously and tirelessly counting: one, two, one, two. His entire effort is a high wall, built with red bricks, with the silent voice of a trumpet. Now and then the sound of laughter may be heard, or, even, a song, like a stab, like an ash pot. Vainly, then, vainly I say, I wander inside his empty eyeholes. If only my desperate cries were accompanied by the Aeolian harp of joy! If, on each of my fingertips, grew a hydrangea! Maybe then I could possibly be exiled deep inside the most musical of lamps, with a heavy roll of cloth, like a child’s laughter. Yet nothing . . . All in vain. The dead man is “on guard”  a l o n e  in the dark dining room. The Life and Death of Poets Sinope is the name —officially— of the “Cloud-City” also called the “City of Conflagrations”

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which lies somewhere around South America this watery and apparently of Hellenistic origin city floats in the skies like a staff and is located with certainty by experts at times upon the exact middle of a straight line traced between Maracaibo and Valparaiso of Chile and at times between Maracaibo again and Elbassan there as the houses are all made of conflagrations the inhabitants live in flames always burning and being perpetually reborn out of their ashes uncannily like the bird phoenix right there was also born—as is well known— the great Greek poet of the antiquity Alector in the course of excavations there was once found among the ruins a curious poem

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—of that very age— written on common paper with alternating iron and brass joints and ink made of tears the said poem went as follows: “L o !  b y  f a i r  L a t i u m’ s  l o f t y  f i r s t h e  d i z z i e d  d i v e r  e d d i e s” due to the presence of the word “diver” the poem was attributed —initially— to the great Isidore Ducasse6 who happened to hail from that region upon—however—further thought it was attributed definitively —and this time irrevocably— to some woman named Fair Lady perhaps better known by her foreign name Bella Donna A Journey to Elbassan

I .   Today I shall relate my traveler’s impressions from Albania. And, to start with, I must declare that nothing is easier, or simpler, than a transition to that particular country. To this end, however, it is essential to wait for the summer feast of St. John. Only then, when darkness falls, those nostalgic of faraway lands may, upon jumping the St. John’s fires, find themselves in just about any town they have ever wished to be in.

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For my part, once, on a day of unbearable loneliness, one day when I had lived away from the birds, I jumped over the fires lit, on that very evening, in whichever common neighborhood of Athens, with the deep desire of Albania in my heart. I jumped once, then twice. Nothing. The third time around, I suddenly found myself in Elbassan.

I I .   Elbassan is a great town, which I might describe in all detail by referring to a song—in an unknown language, of course—based on three single notes repeated endlessly, monotonously, always the same, from morn till night, on the flute played by the blind beggar on the street corner. The lanes—in Elbassan—are narrow to the utmost degree, and on all sides stand naked, enormous walls, which would appear to approach the sky. Not the tiniest door is anywhere to be seen, nor, indeed, are any protruding tree branches. I I I .   I was wandering in that town with great curiosity. Tranquillity reigned in my heart, and I was even singing, between my teeth, a song from my childhood. The people I happened to meet were tall men, wearing long Greek kilts that reached the ground. Their pace was slow, “stately—I said to myself—as always in the Orient.” Some wore white fez caps, and others big tragic women’s feathered hats. Yet, suddenly, an inexpressible agony crushed my heart:  t h o s e  p e o p l e  h a d  n o  e y e s!  Already worried about their glances, I had finally noticed it! Fear overtook me, nailing me there, for long, for quite a while, totally motionless, speechless. And when I finally managed to move, run, comprehend at any rate, I saw with horror, upon following them, that no sooner had they turned around the corner, than they vanished like a dream . . . They vanished, only to reappear, again, on the very corner from which they had emerged, and to continue untroubled their horrid promenade. There was no room left for doubt. An incredible deceit had been woven at my expense. I realized that I had been the guileless victim of an awful and evil plot. Immediately I considered the enormity of my error, sat down, and wept bitterly. Consequence the dredge of dreams functions solely upon the application

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of the words “o proud turtledove” provided —of course— that licence has been obtained from the last Alexandrine sculptor —and philosopher— of the early post-christian era however the results are rather lamentable —and thoroughly despicable— particularly when one considers that the entire lifework of this renowned sculptor hardly amounts to half a dozen toothbrushes when one takes into account that his entire philosophy is summarized in three bunches of keys hung from three different trees between the lips teeth and breasts of Hypatia when finally

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one confesses that there really is no dredge and that by this word one —occasionally— meant the chimneys disheveled by the autumn wind up on the rooftops On the Lyrical Chimneys

 

in holy memory of the great poets lexandros alfoglou ntonios  yriazis7 The bad dream would not, could not dissolve, although the day was passing swiftly, and the yellow-golden and dark blue evening hours had already arrived. Let us confess that the whole drama lay in the French word “odjaktsis.”8 This French word was endowed with the ability of acting directly upon him, of throwing him abruptly into abysses of sorrow and joy, suddenly elevating him to the highest treetops, thrusting him to desert moonscapes, laid with mirrors and phonograph records, very beautiful and quite decorative. Then, tranquil, he bowed and raised her precious dresses to kiss her long white arms. Directly afterward she went out to stand at the window, her head—a red electric bulb—being continuously switched on and off into the night. This sufficed to announce, even to the earth’s distant corners, the shipwreck, and subsequent loss, and of course ascension to heaven, of the muzzleloading cardboard-dynamitized stowaways’ boat Pleiad. As soon as the merry news reached their intended recipients, the names and courses of navigable rivers changed instantly, all women surrendered to the odd, yet how delightful, caresses of birds, and others, at night, left the debris of tailor shops to go naked on the streets. Let us also not forget that, for the entire duration of the drama, fifes were performing the “drawer song,” a song that Nikos Engonopoulos of Constantinople is bound to expound comprehensively in a future edition of his collected works.

A

K

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When Midnight Strikes, Jef the Great Automaton . . . Est-ce quelque dédale où ta raison perdue ne se retrouve pas? [Is it some kind of labyrinth where your lost reason is not regained?] Fr. De Malherbe When midnight strikes, Jef, the great automaton, proudly and slowly recites the eternal and deceptive words, so vain yet so profitable, on the satin eyes of the maid that we loved, remember? Remember, or are you, rather, attempting to tame into siren voices the nets of hair, those nets that were plowing—painfully—the knit extinguished lanterns of the ravine? . . . the voice-vine? . . . the fancy? . . . the big wide beds of love? None of these things? None. Then let us aspire to heights. Like a nihilist, when launched into the air, living flower. And since, alas, one must always return from up there, then let us return. Only, then also, with flowers, like flowers, with palaces, with springtime tunes, with words of love, eyes of love. Do put aside, if you please, those big eyelashes and open the giant lids of the sky. Look: on carpets of dew, canonically arranged, in lines, the metallic fifes. See, this is what we used to call: “joy.” There, this is the so-called “loved woman’s soft caress.” This is what they call “life clause,” “sun’s apron,” “sun of silence.” Heed well these words. They have as many overt as covert meanings. They are words replete with metaphysical significance, they are the abysses of bitterness and the mounts of joy. They are the words spoken by life, the words spoken by the tinkling cymbal of love, the resounding copper of love, me, Jef, the great midnight automaton.

III. Bolívar, A Greek Poem (written 1942–1943; published 1944) ΦΑΣΜΑ ΘΗΣΕΩΣ ΕΝ ΟΠΛΟΙΣ ΚΑΘΟΡΑΝ, ΠΡΟ ΑΥΤΩΝ ΕΠΙ ΤΟΥΣ ΒΑΡΒΑΡΟΥΣ ΦΕΡΟΜΕΝΟΝ Le cuer d’un home vaut tout l’or d’un pais9 To the great, the free, the brave, the strong, Those words that are great, and free, and brave, and strong, To them the complete submission of each element, the silence, to them the tears, to them the lighthouses, and the olive branches, and the lanterns Which leap at the rocking of ships and write on the dark horizons of ports, To them the empty barrels that collapsed on the narrowest alley of the said port, To them the rolls of white ropes, and the chains, the anchors, all the other manometers,

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Amid the irritating smell of petroleum, Equipping a ship, to set sail, to go, Resembling a tram that starts, empty and luminous, in the nocturnal serenity of gardens, With a sole destination:  t o  t h e  s t a r s. To them I shall devote these beautiful words, dictated to me by Inspiration, As it nestled in the innermost depths of my mind replete with emotion For the figures, austere and magnificent, of Odysseus Androutsos10 and Simón Bolívar. Yet for now I shall only sing of Simón, leaving the other one for a more appropriate time, Waiting for when the time comes, to dedicate to him, perhaps the fairest song that I have ever sung, Perhaps the fairest song that anyone in the entire world has ever sung, And all that, not because of what they both have been for the homelands, the nations, the masses, and all those hardly inspirational things, But only because they have both stood, throughout the centuries, always alone, and free, great, brave, and strong. And now to be so distressed for to this day nobody has ever understood, nor ever wanted to understand, what it is that I am saying? And is the same fortune certain to befall what I am now saying of Bolívar, what I shall say tomorrow of Androutsos? It is not easy, of course, to render so readily comprehensible figures of such importance as Androutsos and Bolívar, Of such symbolic significance. Yet let us proceed quickly: for Heaven’s sake, no agitation, exaggeration, exasperation. It is all the same, my voice was only destined for the centuries. (In the future, near or distant, in years, few, many, perhaps starting the day after tomorrow, or the one after that, Until the day when the earth begins to roll empty, and useless, and dead, in the firmament, Young people shall rise, with mathematical precision, in the wild nights, upon their beds, Wetting their pillows with tears, reflecting on who I was, considering That I once was, what words I said, what hymns I sang. And the enormous waves, bursting each evening on the seven shores of Hydra,

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And the wild rocks, and the high mountains that bring down the storms, Perpetually, tirelessly, shall thunder my name.) Let us, however, return to Simón Bolívar. Bolívar! Name of metal and wood, you were a flower in the gardens of South America. You had all the gentleness of flowers in your heart, in your hair, in your gaze. Your hand, wide like your heart, scattered good and evil. You roamed on the mountains and the stars trembled, you descended to the plains, with the gold, the epaulettes, all the ensigns of your rank, With your gun hanging from your shoulder, with your chest uncovered, with your body full of wounds, And you sat fully naked on a low rock, by the edge of the sea, And they came to paint you after the habits of Indian warriors, With lime, half white and half blue, giving you the appearance of a desert chapel on an Attican shore, Like a church in the neighborhoods of Tataula,11 like a palace in a desolate Macedonian town. Bolívar! You were a reality, and you are, even now, you are no dream. When savage hunters nail the savage eagles, and all the other savage birds and beasts, Over the wooden doors in savage forests You live again, you shout and beat yourself And it is you yourself, the hammer, the nail, the eagle. If in the isles of corals winds blow, turning the desolate caiques upside down, And the parrots revel with their cries when the day sets, and the orchards are becalmed drowned in moisture, And on the high trees the ravens roost, Only consider, by the wave, the iron tables of the coffeehouse, How the hoarfrost corrodes them in the dark, and at a distance the light turned on, then off, on again, then moving to and fro, And dawn comes—what dreadful agony—after a sleepless night, And the water tells none of its secrets. Such is life. And the sun comes, and the houses by the quay, with their insular arches, Painted pink, and green, with white window sills (Naxos, Chios), How they live! How they tremble like transparent fairies! He Bolívar!

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Bolívar! I cry your name while lying on top of the mount Erre, The highest peak of the Hydra island. From here the view extends, enchanting, to the islands of Saronicos,12 to Thebes, All the way down, beyond Monemvasia,13 the great Missiri,14 But also up to Panama, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, Haiti, San Domingo, Bolivia, Columbia, Peru, Venezuela, Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay, Paraguay, Ecuador, And even Mexico. With a sharp pebble I carve your name on stone, that people may later come to pay their homage. Sparks spring as I carve—thus was, they say, Bolívar—and I observe My hand as it writes, brilliant beneath the sun. You first saw the light in Caracas. Your very own light, Bolívar, for until you came the whole of South America was plunged in the bitter abysses. Your name is now a lit torch, that illuminates America, North and South, and the entire universe The rivers Amazon and Orinoko flow straight from your eyes. The high mountains have their roots in your chest, The cordillera of the Andes is your spinal column. On the top of your head, o brave one, run the untamed horses and wild oxen, The riches of Argentina. Upon your belly there extend the immense coffee plantations. When you speak, terrible earthquakes ravage the lot. From the imperious deserts of Patagonia to the isles of many colors, Volcanoes erupt in Peru and vomit their wrath to the skies, The grounds shake everywhere and the icons creak in Castoria,15 The silent town by the lake. Bolívar, you are beauteous as a Greek!16 I first met you, when I was a child, on an uphill paved alley in Phanar,17 A church lamp in the Mongol district18 shedded light on your gentle face. Might you be, I wonder, one of the myriad successive figures assumed and abandoned by Constantine Paleologos?19 Boyaka, Ayacucho. Concepts, resplendent and eternal. I was there. We had long left behind the old frontier: behind us, far away, in Lescovic,20 fires were started.

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And the army ascended in the night, toward the battle, whose familiar sounds were already audible. Beside it, somber Procession, descended an endless row of omnibuses carrying the wounded. May no one be disturbed. Down there, there it is, the lake. From here they shall pass, beyond the stubble. The roads are mined: work and glory of Kormovitis,21 the renowned one, peerless in such tricks. At your places, all. The whistle sounds! Gun drivers, come, dismount. Let the cannons be mounted, wipe the muzzles clean, lighted wicks in hands, Balls to the right. Vrass!22 Vrass, fire in Albanian. Bolívar! Each grenade, launched and exploded, Was a rose for the glory of the great general, Hard, unmoved, standing amid the dust and uproar, His gaze directed upward, his forehead in the clouds, And his sight horrible: source of awe, road of justice, door of redemption. And yet how numerous those who contrived against you, Bolívar, How many traps they set for you to fall into, to vanish therein, One in particular, a despicable wretch, a worm of Philippopolis.23 But you, unshaken, unmoved like a tower you stood, erect, before the terror of Aconcagua,24 Holding a frightful wooden stick, and brandishing it over your head. The bald condors, indifferent to the noise and smoke of the battle, were scared, and fled away in fierce swarms, And the llamas crumbled over the slopes, raising, in their fall, a cloud of dust and stones. And your enemies hid, cowered, in the black Tartars. (When the best marble arrives, from Alavanda,25 I shall soak my head in holy water of Vlaherna,26 I shall employ all my art, to sculpt this pose of yours, and erect the statue of a young Kouros on the mounts of Sikinos,27 Not forgetting, of course, to carve on the base that celebrated “H a i l  p a s s e n g e r.”) And at this point it must be particularly extolled that Bolívar was never scared, never “took fright,” as they say,

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Neither in the most lethal times of battle, nor in the bitterest gloom of the inevitable treason. They say that he knew beforehand, with astonishing accuracy, the day, the hour, even the very second: the exact moment, Of the great Battle that was meant for  h i m  a l o n e, And in which he would himself be the army and the enemy, both vanquished and victor, hero bearing trophies and propitiatory victim. (And as the magnificent spirit of Cyrillos Loukaris28 remained within him, How serenely he evaded the awful plots of Jesuits and of that deplorable Phillippopolite!) And if he was lost, if ever there may be lost a Bolívar! who like Apollonius29 ascended to the skies, Bright like a sun he set, in unimaginable glory, behind the gentle mounts of Attica and Moreas. invocation Bolívar! You are the child of Rigas Ferraios, Brother of Antonios Economou30—so unjustly slaughtered—and of Pasvantzoglou31 The dream of the great Maximilien de Robespierre is revived on your forehead. You are the liberator of South America. I know not what kinship linked you, if he was your descendant, to the other great American, the one from Montevideo,32 One thing alone is known, that I am your son. CHORUS strophe (entrée des guitares) If the night takes a long time to pass, She sends the old moons to console us, If ghostly abysses on expanses of plains Burden disheveled virgins with chains, The time of victory, of triumph, is at hand. The empty skeletons of generalissimos Shall be dressed with cocked hats soaked in blood And the red color they had ’fore the sacrifice Shall cover with rays the flag’s splendor.

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antistrophe (the love of liberty brought us here)33 the plows on the roots of palm trees and the sun brilliantly rising amid trophies and birds and pikes shall announce up to where the tear flows and the wind takes it down to the depths of the sea the most awful oath the more awful abyss the awful fairy tale: Libertad refrain (dance of freemasons) Curses, go away, come near us no more, corazón, From the cradles to the stars, from the wombs to the eyes, corazón, Where precipitous rocks, and volcanoes and seals, corazón, Where a dark-colored face, and thick lips, and white teeth, corazón, Let the phallus be erected, and a feast begin, with human sacrifices, with dances, corazón, In an orgy of flesh, in the glory of ancestors, corazón, To sow the seed of the young generation, corazón. CONCLUSION After the establishment of the South American revolutionary regime, a bronze statue of Bolívar was erected in Anapli34 and Monemvasia, up on a desert hill overseeing the town. Because, however, the violent blowing of the nocturnal wind brutally stirred the hero’s redingote, the resulting noise was so great, so deafening, that it became impossible to shut one’s eyes, indeed there was no question of sleep whatsoever. Thus, the inhabitants demanded, and, by way of certain appropriate moves, effected the monument’s demolition.35

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FAREWELL HYMN TO BOLÍVAR (At this point are heard distant instruments playing, with incomparable melancholy, nostalgic folk songs and dances of South America, preferably in the rhythm of sardane). general w h a t  w e r e  y o u  d o i n g  i n  L a r i s s a you a  m a n  o f H y d r a?

IV. From The Return of the Birds (1946) The Voices

For André Breton from within the shut grilles in the yellow flame of noon —when statues are silent and myths consent— the voices vibrate faint slow at first then thunderous and fast in the alley and suddenly reveal the eternal secrets at times —of course— they are terrible and fearsome like tombs then at

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times tender like tombs again and like the caress of long thin fingers and they call every thing by its name they call tap water mouth the dark tall trees oblivion the night in ravines Omphale they call the cried-out eyes “lady friend” the cool scarlet lips leaves the erotic teeth nightmare love’s crimson beds abysses the harbor’s dark waters lamp and they call the rusty anchors of dream lament they place colored feathers on Orpheus’s

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sad gaze on Orpheus’s hands they place fans they lacerate his flaming skirts they decorate his head with laces v e r y  t h i n (on Orpheus’s top they nail flags) they throw into the chaos of oracles blood and once more call the palm trees torches they stand and weep at the word hammer they named silence the word gate death they have called music between the temples and they call my heart a forest in the night

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Sentimental and Civil Dance C’est le bal de l’abîme où l’amour est sans fin; Et la danse vous noie en sa houleuse alcôve [’Tis the ball of the abyss where love is endless / And dance drowns you in its stormy alcove] Alfred Jarry: “Les Minutes de Sable Mémorial” The great poet Kalfoglou was not only the incomparable teacher of words and dreams that we are all familiar with. He was, and this is one of the many obscure and secret aspects in the lives of poets, he was, I say, also a great, a very great musician. Always, of course, in his own fantastical rhythm, that of flowers. It is, in fact, he himself who, before anyone else, used the piano as a wind instrument. In order to perform any piece, even the most demanding, by this particular method, he would start by disguising himself as a statue, which was then preferably erected in deserted, abandoned gardens. Then, as soon as the scarlet shades of sunset spread over the sky, a small hiding place was discreetly dug on the back of the statue, so that a little child could fit inside it and speak, as though it was actually the poet speaking. At that point, the poet, already dead, took a big blacksmith’s hammer into his strong hands, and, urgently, breathlessly, struck the piano with it, blowing it to smithereens. Immediately, the deep, sighing sounds of the ships’ iron sides were heard. Birds cried in terror. Tinplates whistled in the air, carried off by that violent wind over the roofs of warehouses. Everything was swept away by this fearsome wrath of God: from the proudest vaulted palaces to the humblest prayers of diggers. And only fine laces fell automatically, at half-hour intervals, half-covering the warm nudity of lovely women. Lovers continued to commit suicide, all day. Springs gushed where once had been written the three single words: “in name only,” or even “by order of,” or indeed “born to be.” One night, in the region of Boeotia, all lanterns were extinguished, they, too, lured by the sea. And when the poet, at the very peak of lyrical fury, quietly laid down the terrible hammer, peace and calm covered the world and green shiny shells adorned her long golden tresses. The piano had accomplished its mission and was transformed, by the same automatism, into a row of copper candlesticks, and then again into a row of alternately white and red Doric columns, and a row of large painted women’s eyes, very beautiful, their colors varying with pairs. Needless to add, as a perhaps essential supplement, out of respect for truth, and of desire for its restoration, that in reality the great poet Kalfoglous only served here as a pretext, as the merest of pretexts. For the aforementioned poet, and the statue, and the little child and the gallows, were only I, me, myself, in olden, or maybe even in recent, very recent indeed, times.

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Melancholy’s Fellow Traveler Knowing the size assumed daily within my heart by my tragic love for her, she invited me to the ruins of London Tower, to offer me a cup of tea, with those same hands that used to be called, by her lovers’ murderers, sometimes “spade” and sometimes “smoothing stone.” Her offer was accompanied by the sole word reserved for me, over many years, inside her, as something, she said, more precious than her very life, as a secret offering of her breasts to the tempests of my desire. I raised my eyes and glanced at her, a sudden chill covering my entire body: she was fully naked, amidst the year’s fountains, the dahlias from a night of conflagration flowing from her belly, the wall bloodstained. I sensed that the celebrated “better tomorrow” was already there, had become reality, present. It was evident that all things past had been erased, that the nightmare of tropics and harbors had vanished forever. I was the enormous red eagle that she used to behold, as a child, when shutting her eyes against the sun. She was the great dark forest spreading among the chandeliers, the commode, and the large mirror of the palace’s great hall. Her thought was a wreath. Renaissance was her gaze, beak, her gaze again. Her name was Rodamne. She had lived for years in distant places, whence she had arrived with the sole purpose of meeting me. I told her I was shuddering at the thought that it was possible for us to never have been united. How could she, in the intervening time, and out of a beautiful woman’s caprice, have replaced her eyes with two green Egyptian scarabs, so that she would not see me when I was passing near her. Had she uprooted her abundant hair, so that the words of adoration that escaped my lips would be but a cathedral built for the sole purpose of hosting the execution, at a prearranged moment, of an unknown polymetric metropolite by an irregular Mexican squad. She neither spoke nor stirred, only took by armfuls the flowers adorning the room and scattered them all over the dewy gorges, over the orchards with their tarrying hunter, the feet of the cordillera “of Memories.” Candles were burning joyfully on the majestic bronze candlesticks, and the song she sung amidst her sobs, had exactly the same meaning assumed in the Jewish quarters of the towns of Thessaly by that renowned phrase: “Time for Shampá.” Theano the great Initiators with the warm fair bodies underneath

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their linen dresses with the harmonious folds appeared to me on the window of the Parisian café asking me by nods to meet them outside on the street the pavement was glittering after last night’s shower with shiny reflections of luminous shapes and cars’ headlights I forgot to mention that this scene took place in Constantinople somewhere in Xerocrene—by the old wall— and actually on that very evening the local cinema happened to be screening the celebrated movie Pax tibi Marce Evangelista meus Early Dawn the aspect of my person that people —then as now— found most affecting was my uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln indeed when my bronze statue was erected on whichever square of Piraeus they laid silently at my feet something

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recalling —from the pedestal I could not see clearly— a relic a bronze brazier with burning coals I waited until late in the evening and when I drew near to look I discovered —with what joy— that it was nothing but the black eyes of the woman I love that shone in the dark The Birds’ Hydra Distant concerts, opal sparkles, of our very first home in the heat of the summer In the endless hunt for the Land of Fire, on the plains, in the woods, in the skies, I shall kiss tenderly the lips of the icon, I shall give hopes to castles and shells That silently assist those touched by the Fates, and when idols’ skylights are setting on pines Furrow cedar shrub caresses with horses of timber Venerable theories of mystical dinosaurs, in the water plots circled by swans, Black swans, blue, replete with idea, and passion that seems almost extinguished yet suddenly seeks To ascend higher, so that it shatters, demolishes, breaks windows open, I shout, and it cries, I destroy, it settles, is torn, I carve on the copper, so deep, oh, so deep,

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Doves, lions, the night of her hair, the soldier’s weapon, the Albanian soil, Where and if it arrives, fantasy of metal, words that I said Pythia in arid expanses, Traversing tropics and wells, as seductress dawn shines with debauchery of immaterial Kurds To purchase guitars drowning my eyes, as I draw the veils held by the moon, Bind to my visage that of the birds. Let Us Say . . . Fishers dragged the enormous sea-beast out to the beach. It was writhing on the sand, the white eyes of its belly turned toward the sun. The wind exuded a smell reminiscent of slime, which increased with the animal’s desperate jerking of its wide, viscous feet. People gathered round to study the monster’s repulsive face. I, too, wished to approach and take a look, yet what with the crowd that had assembled I found it impossible. A lady wearing only her hat, laden with enigmatic feathers, whispered to me in a soft, tender tone: “—It is blind.” Ah, so it is blind, is it! If it is blind, then what was Seurat on about when he spoke of the red halo surrounding green foliages, in bright-lit Parisian avenues? What on earth is this sound of children’s voices that the tramway prevents us from distinguishing clearly? What are those red velvet gloves you’ve worn on your hands? Do not remove your shoes, dear, wait for the night to come. And the night did come. The monster was forgotten, the fishers gone, the crowd scattered. The moon was made of zinc and carried on the firmament by a string. The curtain slowly started falling. Eleonora II night went mad at the window are these—as they say—Diocletianus’s palaces? I follow the trail of your gaze over the sea the hidden charms of your body lain on the beach rocks within the eyes the sun has bound its highest cypresses let us adhere to the music of tropics immaterial words of desire and faith are vigilant Amalekites are vigilant the horses galloping the car has now left the road and proceeds to the heart of the forest velocity and inertia

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beautific daughter of Alasia arrogant insolent impious lovers —yet lovers— hydraulic saws already installed between red soil and pine-green there Wisdom’s temple farther on the bridge the castle the cave where we live our bodies will be lost effaced until the end of times there will remain of us that “I love you” I whispered to you in our most secret hours Chromatic Hero-Worship

For N. Calamaris a voice is the veil of tide under my teeth on the falsehood of dream’s anthill with the arches’ row in the shade of the wisdom of Bible whites now an arches’ row and a language of soul blood in the body’s reality reveal world-folds shattered in a rumbling of blue celestial fans smooth surfaces like antediluvian solitude black shadow fire eye-tops force-lightning frenzied horses at the myriad’s center the earth of three eyelashes ideal moon’s waning

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I govern arise forget recall define Arab! Arab! I paddle I plunder vows of wrath on the tower where you painted the two girlfriends object of metal and lava remainder of the secret wall weighing of words of names the big night’s bridge like a spouse of opiates ODDLY BEAUTIFUL sin of love sperms pure ardent enduring inconstant constant philosophic tormenting what musical futile vacuums of thirst automatic pyramid tempest of love Fairytale of Beauty and the Big Birds He wore the gypsy zinc armour, and then lay down, on the young, brilliantly green grass, in the fine warmth of the springtime noon. Yet certain whispers, coming from the outside, did not allow him to enter deep into the pleasure of the sweetly blue sky, to rejoice in the two small white clouds traveling away, on the horizon’s end. Nearby, there were two very tall and beautiful poplars. Indeed, on the northern wall there was a heavy curtain concealing a door (this was hardly a secret, after all). Soon, the door was opened, the curtain raised, and in the opening appeared a man wearing a toga. “Where are we?” he asked. The poet stood up, approached the porthole, and, while stroking the lion’s mane with his right hand, took a look outside. “We

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are approaching,” were his exact words, “we are approaching Beirut,” and all of a sudden he jerks, turns on the tap, and all springs are released, water begins to flow, flooding everything, rising alarmingly. Then he rushes, grabs her breasts, and kisses her passionately on the mouth. He suddenly felt a flame spreading over his entrails, a fire wreath circling his kidneys, as the merciless erection of the penis began. THAT VERY PHALLUS, made of marble, was erected on the beach, where girls’ choruses came at all times of the day, wreathed with flowers, dancing entwined. Others held hands and formed circles around the idol, their paces slow, as was the entire song: slow, serious, and civil. One girl moved away from the chorus, knelt down, and started winding up the phonograph. There again, the poet: “Paler than the moon,” he told her. Stateless Man Violently Banished As he was standing erect, his beautiful long blond hair spread in waves over his shoulders, handsome, helmeted, necrophiliac, and Aristotelian, with the mace of young Hermes in his right hand, he looked exactly like the statue of an ancient god. Whenever it was a town square, there was always beside him a totally naked fair maid, whose body was golden and soft as amber, her hair long, touching the earth, the sun and moon painted on her breasts, a small effigy of a nightingale on her sex, and two, three, red roses skillfully knit, one on each knee. When it was a narrow passage, beside him sat a maid, also naked, but blonde, with a harmonica and an ox’s head. On a pier, the maid: red-haired, proud, her skin fine and white as snow, her name  P i p e r  written on several parts of her body with a variety of oil paints. Near a forest: the maid with a shawl. Night at an inn: the maid beauteous, imperious and almost half-dead, luxuriously dressed in green silk, with a fan in the shape of a ravine or a 7, performing furious and symbolical dances. At daytime, he and the maid engaged in the struggle of life. At nighttime, they engaged in the struggle of love. He would pull out an enormous knife, thrust it deep into her breast, and push it all the way down. He would then dip his hands slowly inside—the maid still lain upon the bed—and pull out ribbons of green, red, yellow, blue, spotted ribbons, pell-mell, and raise them high, in the beautiful shape of an offering. Out of that mess there emerged doves, whose flight, at first uncertain, scared, soon became an upward stroke, straight to the sky. Now, the boat. Descent to the boat. He descended, entered, picked up the oars and, still erect, rowed hurriedly. The maid, naked, ah yes: always naked, was standing behind him, placing caressingly her fair arms around his neck.

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V. From Eleusis (1948) (depending on the accented vowel, the word means either “advent” or the town of Eleusinian mysteries lore)

The Golden Plateaus in Gabon by the banks of Ogwe they’ve made a mask whoever wears it renders the moon and sun when dancing for eyes they’ve put on it a she-dove for eyelashes the she-dove’s complaint for mouth the name of Bolívar a hole of burning coals tears and martyrs’ sacred relics are its beard and the river Ogwe is its comb and love now our boat is sailing gently on the river from the banks trees are waving hello and I keep on my chest the mask I recite the prayers of Vithynia dipping my hand softly in the lukewarm water at the river’s mouth sharks look at us askance and go their way —caresses are not meant for sharks— flying fishes flutter round us at our command the palms according to their shape are either the fan or the parasol

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of Friday when dancing my bird is my bird and always Euthalia Athanasia Thamar Calliope I love you

VI. From In Blooming Greek Speech (1957) Mercourios Bouas36 He kneels down, opens the chest, and, while holding the lid with one hand, he feels and steers something inside with the other. —What have you got in there? I ask. He turns to me. —Lettere d’amore, he goes. And then: —Are you not interested? —But of course, you know, when it comes to love . . . , I answer. Then, slowly, with movements of extreme caution, he starts pulling out, one by one, a variety of objects, and displaying them to me. First, he dragged out, and showed me, several clothes of velvet, pell-mell, some variegated, others monochrome. Then, a rotten mattress, and, finally, he put the lid away, took out the well-preserved corpse of a young man, and placed it on the floor. What was most impressive about that corpse was the smooth, dazzlingly white skin, as well as the shaggy hair and the long bellicose moustache.

VII. Notes from the one-volume edition of Do Not Distract the Driver and The Clavichords of Silence (1965) (abridged version) As I am a painter by profession, and I consider poetry a purely personal matter, I never felt the slightest wish to see my poems published. I was content with merely writing them. Afterward, of course, I did not object to sharing them with a friend or, occasionally, with a small audience of two or three people at most, who might request a reading.

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When the charming poet Apostolos Melachrinos,37 in the summer of 1938, asked me for some poems to include in an issue of his journal Kyklos, I gave him quite a few from my most recent production, allowing him to select as many as he wanted. He liked them so much that, not only did he publish several in the very next issue of Kyklos, but also offered and indeed insisted to publish in book form all that I had given him. The book appeared one or, at most, two months after the journal issue. We already had certain premonitory signs from the journal’s circulation. Yet, upon the publication of the book, the ensuing “scandal” surpassed not only any comparable case that had ever occurred in Greek letters, but also the foresight of the boldest imagination. In the twinkling of an eye, it assumed such tension, such proportions, that my very “sponsor,” Melachrinos, was taken aback. He, who cannot by any means be said to have ever lacked courage, did not publicize the volume, nor did he include it in the catalogues of the Kyklos editions, which he printed regularly on the back of the journal’s cover. The scandal created and the resulting outrage against me did, I must say, offend me deeply. Journals, newspapers, le premier chien coiffé venu, were parodying and reprinting, mockingly, my poems. I was never interested in fame and glory. Yet I even came across this phrase, launched against me by an outraged “literary” collaborator of one paper, I do not recall which: “Engonopoulos, stop tormenting yourself and us!” If my life is devoted to painting and poetry, this is because painting and poetry console and amuse me. It was thus that, despite my disappointment, I continued to paint, to “write”38 poems. And when, in mid-1939, the late Tasos Vakalopoulos offered to print a collection of mine, I delivered the poems of The Clavichords of Silence, which was published at the end of that year. My new collection met with the same, if not more severe, reactions from the “intellectual” circles of my fellow citizens. To give a precise picture of the situation, I shall quote from an article by a wellknown critic, referring to the period in question: “At that time of aesthetically and critically indefinite terms and shades of modern poetry, Engonopoulos’s two collections were decisive in the conceptual crystallization of  s u r r e a l i s m,  in the minds of many, as an intellectual scandal, with no precedent in our literary history. Engonopoulos has become, ever since, the target of a passionate attack, ultimately directed against intellect itself, by columnists, comedy writers, scholars, critics and poets, one which soon evolved into a general, blind assault against our new poetry and literature. Yet even though the works of others became ‘gradually’ accepted as authentic modern poetry, no pardon has yet been granted to Engonopoulos, whose name, erected on the most inaccessible area of our literature as a categorical prohibition, . . .” etc. Indeed, our critic must be fully believed, for his information comes

Nikos Engonopoulos, On the ships’ deck ( far left, Giacomo Casanova; far right, Isidore Ducasse, Comte de Lautréamont, with a birdlike face)

Nikos Engonopoulos, Composition

Nikos Engonopoulos, Adelais, High Priestess of Fetishism

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from a reliable source. Although today I have the honor of including him among my most charming friends, friends both of my person and of my work, I have to say that in those days he was counted among the most merciless, the most relentless of my censurers and criticizers.39 Mrs. Mimika Cranaki,40 after the publication of Domaine Grec,41 describes this “heroic period” of our country, in the Parisian journal Critique: “. . . la réaction du public fut beaucoup plus violente qu’ailleurs. Le seul titre assez peu provocant de “Clavecins du Silence,” recueil de vers d’Engonopoulos, souleva des vagues d’hystérie.”42 Let us note that, by that time, the war had reached us. I was mobilized and sent to the front line, the “line of fire,” where I was kept stubbornly until the end of the operations. After a most lethal battle on April 13, 1941, I was taken prisoner, and, along with my fellow fighters, was held illegally by the Nazis at a “prisoners’ work camp”; I escaped, walked my way through half of Greece, and finally returned to more of the same. The enmity and the “rires jaunes” remained as before, and they did remain so until the time of Bolívar. The youth of the time appreciated the poem, and the situation gradually changed. To the point that, in 1958, I was awarded the 1st “Poetry Prize” by the Ministry of Education, for my collection published the year before, but also for my “previous poetic achievement.” It is the sole honor ever bestowed upon me by the official state. I was doubly surprised, first, because, as is my habit, I had made no application and taken no steps to this end, but also because most members of the committee were not friends of my work and are not to this day. At any rate, the most painful aspect of that prewar adventure of mine, was the stance of “men of letters” and “colleagues” toward me. Abuses and attacks directed from those indifferent to poetry, or, rather, openly hostile to it, against one of its authentic representatives. They were glad to lambaste him, to attempt to annihilate him—including those who were in a position to understand what I was saying and to try and soften, appease this unfair treatment, yet did not do so, motivated either by personal interest or by pure envy. An incredible, repulsive panorama of human frailty and cowardice. In my presence, some would pretend to be friendly or lenient, yet behind my back they all united their voices with those of the rabble. So that they might not miss the opportunity to take revenge, in their own manner, upon him who had done what they themselves would like to have done but could not. I owe thanks to Embirikos for having been the first who, in the midst of all this commotion, raised his voice courageously and protested against my unfair persecution. And silence did ensue. For he never could withstand falsehood and injustice. Incredibly unselfish, he never condescended to adopt petty interests and policies, as is the habit both here and elsewhere.

Odysseus Elytis (1911–1996)

​F o u r

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orn in Crete. One of surrealism’s earliest champions in Greece, he later kept his distance from the surrealist movement, although his mature work is still marked by it (this selection includes excerpts from only one late text, “The Dreams,” one of his best and least discussed). Most, if not all, of his poetry has been translated into English, repeatedly in some cases, especially after he won the Nobel Prize in 1979. His numerous books not represented here include Sun the First (1943), Axion Esti (1959), Six and One Qualms for the Sky (1960), The Light-tree and the Fourteenth Beauty (1971), The Monogram (1972), Mary Cloud (1979), Diary of an Unseen April (1985), Little Nautilus (1986), The Elegies of Oxopetra (1991). Translator of Éluard, Rimbaud, Lautréamont, Lorca, Mayakovsky, and others. “Elytis wishes to make [language] sound as in ancient Greek poetry—with pieces of pure gold” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Cards on the Table (1974) (collection of essays and letters, 1936–1974)

Contemporary Problems in Poetry and Art (excerpt) (1944 speech) Before we say anything about surrealism, it is necessary to dispel three great and fundamental errors, which have so far resulted in its complete misunderstanding on the part of its Greek analysts.

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(1) Surrealism is not a mere School, like any other; it is not a group of people acting at a particular time and place, and which is consequently condemned to pass away and into history as soon as the times pose novel demands; much more than that, it is a certain perception of life, the world and its objects, one that always did, and always will, exist, more or less consciously apparent in people’s acts and poetic expressions, one that Breton’s “School” merely systematized, organized, and invested with a distinctive name. This perception is endowed with the quality of observing closely life’s demands at each stage of its development, and avoiding death, operating as it does with an admirable adaptability, at the very point where the human heart always appears to throb more ardently. Surrealism is a spirit that believes in life, believes in the perpetual transformation of life within its own eternity; its ambition for itself is to undergo an equal number of transformations in order to observe life incessantly. From that perspective, and as a general theoretical outlook, we may say that it is very close to the spirit of the Ionian pre-Socratics; it is for this reason that it attaches special importance to the works of the preclassical Greek era, which are marked by a physiocratic disposition and a constant tendency toward change. (2) Surrealism is more than just a new romantic School, as some have wished to suggest, thereby oversimplifying things. It is an entire world in movement, which opposes itself to all static phenomena, and which may have its own classical and romantic, Apollonian and Dionysian, materialist and idealist poets. Perhaps this expression, which I am using to present things more schematically, is not entirely correct. To be more precise, we might say that surrealist poets may, according to their respective temperaments, be more or less romantic or classical, Apollonian or Dionysian etc. Yet they can never be this or that alone. For surrealism’s most profound ambition—as well as its supreme ideal—is to perform a synthetic, conciliatory role over the apparent, as it argues, antitheses of earthly life; in other words, to stand at the very point where man continues to be integral and undivided, with his body, nature, and dreams inseparably condensed to form a superior reality. I place particular emphasis on this aspect, for it constitutes a fine distinction, upon whose comprehension one perceives the extent to which normal criteria are rendered useless; and also the reason why this theory finds points of interest in Orphism or in the Pythagoreans. (3) The term “surrealism” does not signify the poet’s wish to overcome objects, to create immaterial worlds, unrelated to earthly things, and stand above what certain fools name “humble reality.” On the contrary—and I am saying this based on surrealism’s most celebrated texts—its greatest desire, its most profound and at the same time most distressing ambition, is to delve straight into what we call “real,” to attain a more and more clear consciousness of the sensible world. Yet at this point,

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in subjecting our perception of what is and what must be called “real” to revision, it finds itself in agreement primarily with the poets and philosophers of German romanticism, those who first raised the problem of interior reality, and suggested that thoughts, emotions, and dreams are equally entitled to share and influence life. “Poetry is the absolute real,” Novalis wrote. “The painter must not paint merely what he sees in front of him, but also what he sees within him,” the painter Friedrich declared. And the story writer Achim von Arnim: “I can hardly tell what I see with my eyes from what I see with my imagination.” Today, centuries later, the poet Paul Éluard writes, “The phenomena of nature are also phenomena of the spirit”; the professor Sigmund Freud says, “The dream is always the realization of a desire”; and Dr. Pierre Mabille: “There is no fundamental difference between the elements of thought and the worldly appearances, between the visible and the intelligible, between the tangible and the imaginary.” By thus expanding the concept of reality, surrealism is not content with all that the romantics said in their own time, but instead attempts to detach it from the pedestals of pietism and invest it with new dialectical foundations. It also attempts to place equal weight on the side of internal, as on that of external reality; what is more, it states that one of its basic goals is not the “consecutive” coexistence, as we might say, of those two worlds, but their mutual penetration and final amalgamation into one alone, true, complete, real world: the surreal world. Surrealism, in other words, has wished to claim that the root of all evils of our time is this incurable division of the concept of the “real” inherent in our society, and that man will be in fundamental contact with the complete meaning of his existence only when he is liberated from the rationalist chains that oblige him to estimate a mere portion of his profound truth. Those who have formed their concept of surrealism on the sole basis of André Breton’s First Manifesto may have difficulties in following me. Yet, from 1923 [sic] when that book was written, to 1934, when its author gave a most important lecture in Brussels, and from the latter period to the eve of the war, when he spoke at the International Surrealist Exhibition in London, many frictions intervened, many obscure points were clarified, and today the road remains open to the new contributions that may be conveyed in the future by its worldwide adherents in good faith. A little while after the dissolution of dadaism, André Breton, who belonged to its nucleus, understood that the era of demolition was over and that a positive action had to begin. Beside him stood Éluard, Aragon, Péret, Soupault, Max Ernst, René Crevel and Man Ray. That group, under the inspired guidance of its leader, plunged

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into action and appropriated more and more new and precious gains, e.g., the three most important painters of our time, the Greco-Italian Giorgio de Chirico and the Spaniards Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dalí. The years that intervened between the publication of the first poetic book of automatic texts (The Magnetic Fields, 1919) and the Surrealist Manifesto (1924) have been described as a prescient period, solely directed by a concern for research and experimentation around the problems of inspiration and will, of the conscious and the unconscious, of dream and reality. The First Manifesto does nothing but amass the conclusions of that experimental stage and propose them in an absolute manner. Rational methods are effective only when applied to life’s secondary matters. The most essential and profound part of human truth lies far beyond these, and the poet must refrain from using the tricks devised by his talent; he must confine, indeed eliminate, his individual existence, in order to come in contact with the secret, chilling current of unnamed existence itself. What is most valuable down here, what constitutes the best cognitive method, is Love and Poetry, taken simultaneously and inseparably, in their free function, far exceeding the conventional limits of the present society. “Automatic writing,” an instrument of the most disinterested externalization that lets the world of the unconscious and of secret desires ascend to the surface; the “collages” and “frottages” in painting, which give flesh to the representations of objective chance; and the “dream,” which, after the revelation by Freud of its marvelous evolution, explains so clearly man’s tendency toward the symbol and may thereby become a model for Poetry—all these constitute the first systematic instruments that will persuade the artist to abandon commonplaces and breathe freely in the midst of an as yet unjustifiably forbidden zone of the spirit. The omnipotence of imagination, now expressed with no regard for aesthetic or moral control—that was the emblem of the newly formed group. Yet as the years go by, historical conditions impose on surrealism the expansion of its concerns beyond artistic problems. It takes a stance toward the social matters pertinent to the era, lays its philosophical foundations and embraces all branches of human activity. From that moment on, it also undertakes a war on two fronts: on the one hand, against its right wing, which seeks to keep it within the field of aesthetics; on the other, against its left wing,1 which seeks to subject it to purely political causes. Yet for all that it emerges victorious from this crisis, standing fanatically on the very point that synthesizes into another—a third—reality the conflicting worlds of idealism and materialism, of the aesthetic and social viewpoints, of action and dream, of life and death. During its rational period, as it has been called, surrealism did not insist with a

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childish stubbornness upon overrating its previously proposed methods; rather, it moved, along with its works, from world-interpretation to world-transformation. The experience resulting from their long involvement with automatic writing and dreams allows surrealist poets to restore the vision of the world with all the sacred joy of its material substance, but also with the thrill of its “purely” poetic essence. This poetic essence can be conceived very easily by anyone who possesses, not so much a prestigious academic education, as a great sensibility and an ability to face the world with eyes wide open, deprived of all prejudice. A magnetic current carries things away and recomposes them within the world of Poetry, according to the demands of desires and emotions. All doors heed the magic knock, ready to open. The concept of prison, of all bondage, has been abolished. Anything attains substance, therefore it is. Truth is quickly told and, having been told, “exists.” Finally, after abandoning the indirect route of the simile (:this like that), the poet opts for direct expression (:this is that). This directness, which found in surrealism the proper way to satisfy even the most complex of demands, is interlaced with another principle, to which critics do not seem to have paid enough attention: love of the concrete. However irrational the images of surrealism may appear, however peculiar to a world that seems to have distanced itself from its constant and ancient axes, they always highlight concrete, clear objects, in contrast to the quite rational expressions of several old poets, which nevertheless get lost in the region of the abstract and the inconceivable. This desire for vividness and perceptibility made surrealism attach special importance to images and often base upon them the entire allure of the poetic spirit. Yet surrealist images, products of the school of automatic experience, where reason could not intervene and thereby blunt their creative freshness, are endowed with the quality of attaining a profound and unexpected impact on the reader, a shock that will facilitate emotion and allow it to observe the Spirit upon its most intricate movements, its most marvelous points of transformation. After this account, one may well understand how vain it is to talk of surrealism as of a fashion and to wonder whether its cycle has been completed or not. It is also of little importance whether the group that represents it will continue to exist. Surrealism itself, as a general spirit, however closely bound it might appear to its particular era, tends at each moment to surpass this latter, and it is up to all future poets of merit to renew it and drive it even further. I am aware of the misgivings expressed by many on this point. How is it possible, they say, in our time, to accept a movement that essentially represents nothing but an escape from reality? How can contemporary poetry meet with a wider audience if it presupposes a special education on the reader’s part, and how can this lyricism

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be transmitted when it in fact represents nothing but the interior experiment of an isolated individual, of a subject? I find it at once comical and painful to see surrealism being the target of the same accusation that it was the first to direct against others. And it makes me think how lamentable the consequences of an initial misunderstanding can be, if the latter remains unanswered for too long. This age-old habit of considering real only what we touch, of calling subjective only what we see, expressed as a rule in the first person singular, has created confusion, throwing a deceptive veil over the truth. While those who touch upon the social aspects of intellectual manifestations rightly stress the necessity of our contact with reality, they cannot comprehend that we are on their side, or rather ahead of them; because, to us, surreality means total reality, where not only the soil and the spade, but also dreams, shadows, shudders, and lovers’ vows have their equal places, for these also exist, constituting our world and claiming their rights to poetic expression. They cannot comprehend us, for they do not know that to us, as to the German romantics, as to the Ionian Greeks, dream is a reality, mystery a condition that always accompanies us. Born in extreme subjectivity, surrealism managed—by leading it to its ultimate consequences—to surpass it and reach the opposite shore. What it signifies—excessively, at times violently—is no more escape, but, on the contrary, the erotic turn toward the object. The surrealists attempt to display this fact symbolically, by their very actions. They create the “objet surréaliste,” which will stand outside of them, providing them with the constant assurance that the conversion of the irrationalist vision into being is feasible. Painters will be instrumental in this undertaking, most prominently Max Ernst, who seeks to capture the spirit of objective chance by the method of “collage,” and Salvador Dalí, who, by a reevaluation of the “natural,” drawing directly from the teachings of Pre-Raphaelites, wishes to render sensible the reality of dream. In the poems of an Éluard or a Péret interior analysis has been abolished, leaving the voice of the real world in its place. Finally, there is not a single page in Breton’s novel [sic] Nadja that does not divert our attention from the subject and its private worries in order to lead it toward the very core of objective chance. This understanding of things reveals at the same time the way in which today’s lyrical poets perceive their communication with their reader. The poems we have known up to now have one predetermined topic each. If that topic refers to the poet’s subjective condition, then we speak of subjective poetry; if it refers to the expression of an external worldly condition, we speak of objective poetry. Yet to us, both these situations are equally subjective. Because in both cases the reader remains a neutral element that does no more than comprehend, more or less accurately, the poet’s individual emotion and interpretation of the surrounding world, in each separate case.

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For the surrealists, by contrast, a poem’s objectivity is proportionate to its ability, expressed differently each time, to live in the reader’s imagination, set the separate worlds of one’s desires and dreams in motion, adjust itself to the reader’s temper, in short, achieve as fully as possible the active participation of this latter in the conquest of the world’s lyrical value. The poet is not only the inspired but also the inspirer. And if readers do not see all that the poet has seen, they at least do see all that the poet has made them see. No longer impassive spectators of a strictly subjective conception of the world, they become—according to their individual sensibility and imagination—living partakers of the poetic function. It is thus that poems, in their contemporary sense, relieved from the weight of history or mythology, as from the metrical summaries of philosophical teachings, and based instead on the vivid, successive images of a world that undergoes a perpetual becoming, may demand anything but special education in order to attract and affect their reader. . . . So, dear friends, you may leave the words of demagogues behind and consider in what way you will be more in accordance with the spirit of your land, your people, and your era, while also being truer to yourselves. And also do not forget that it is entirely up to you, either to join the academic ranks and secure much applause and material gain, or to refuse all that and turn your face in another direction, thus heeding the magic voice, that which “continues to preach on the eve of death and above the storms,” that voice which exists always and resounds for all. Art-Chance-Risk (excerpts) (first published under the title “Cards on the Table T.T.T. 1935” in Νέα Γράμματα [Nea Grammata], period Βʹ, yr. 2, no. 1, January 1944; the present version is expanded by the later addition of more automatic texts. T.T.T., a humorous allusion to the initials of the telecommunications company at the time, stands for Techne-Tyche-Tolme: Art-Chance-Risk)2 There are, in a human life, moments that, by a sole hasty, inconceivable opening and shutting, show the world around us washed in a strange light and revealed in another—could it be its real?—countenance, one seen for the very first time. There are moments when objects and facts abandon their orbit to shine with a different meaning and a different destination; moments when man suddenly sees himself walking on paths he has never chosen, under boulevards he cannot recognize, beside people standing to the full height of his own manifest emotions, people who become the friends, his friends, such as he always wished existed, expecting him there, at a bitter corner of his life. No foreign element, no extrasensual presence comes to justify this strange turn that the world assumes at moments such as these. Simple,

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earthly, human, it is the same things, the same situations, presenting themselves in a second condition, more real than the first, a condition we would have to distinguish by calling it “surreal.” In an era when any intellectual movement necessarily proceeds from a basis of incessant actions and reactions, comparative study alone is in a position to yield significant results. The retrospective view of the pulse pertinent to a historic epoch, the resurrection of a past longing, the pattern assumed by the briefly recurring chilly breeze of a youth in revolt, all the disputes, even the most don-quixotesque ones, restored to the proscenium, all the naive or hateful stances, all the big words, are not the vainest rudiments of a critique; at least of a critique that purports to conceive its topic, not solely by intellectual exercise, but also by emotional contact, by a biological, almost bodily, assertion. Nothing could uncover more completely the causes of surrealism’s success with our generation, justifying our adherence to that movement despite and beyond personal misgivings, than the careful recounting of all—even the most minute—pulsations undergone by our bodily and psychic organism during the long, dictatorial imposition of a disastrous state of affairs: mechanization, petty bourgeois-ism, self-satisfaction, distortion of all moral concepts, rationalization. Yet it is now time to deal with that which remained in the history of poetry under the heading “automatic writing.” There is no definition that may boast of its selfsufficiency, and action almost always discourages verbal precision; it deforms, forsakes, exceeds the framework that tends to immobilize it. In theory, the unhindered recording of psychic associations is up to everyone, for everyone contains a hollow flow of image-bearing words when awake, and administers a disinterested action of the world when asleep. However, the question remains: to what extent is such a peculiar incarnation really feasible? And, if it is, why should it also be desirable? How could beauty and human emancipation, these twin aspirations of Lyricism, be served by it? Proud rebels as they were, those present at the birth of surrealism took care to reinforce it with dictums that would exclude inconsistency effectively and unfailingly. They said: —Beauty does not seem necessary to us. —There is in the mind a point at which all contradictions are resolved. —The poet does not impose his own voice but conveys the voice that exists always and resounds for all. —A deepest understanding of dream and of its meaning imposes the transformation of the world.

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—Aesthetics is not the viewpoint of our critique. —Poetry must be made by all, not by one. After all that, would not the defense of certain ideals that represent nothing to others appear pointless? As for me, I know another path, and I shall take it without caring too much about the commotion I may cause to some. The solitary walker’s whistle in the dark does not always signify fear. At a time when the first bunch of European surrealists met with general disapproval on all sides, I, alone in my modest room in Athens, was accompanying their action with a stubborn admiration that I have never since renounced, nor do I intend to. Behind the rages, exaggerations, blasphemies, and naivetes that so shocked the bourgeois at the time, I saw neither a fashion nor the advertised vanity of a School. I left those clumsy accounts to many critics, both here and abroad, who thereby washed their hands of the whole business, but also turned their backs in relief on everything that might bear to them the painful reminiscence of profound truths, long concealed with special care. Rejection of all illusions, unimpeded knowledge and taste of all the nuclei of life, thirst for a free morality, emotional evaluation of the world, faith in the absolute power of the spirit—those were the most distant, but also the most constant, ridges of the surrealist horizon I contemplated. One day, when those are certified by history, we shall all be able to see who it was that waged war on two fronts, liberating art from suffocating rationalism, infertile and static idealism, and directions from above. Not one surrealist ever thought of immobilizing life. The same mouths from which the above proud phrases emerged also emitted others, whose sole aim was to consolidate the capacity for evolution and readjustment of a theory destined by its very nature to always turn into action—irrespective of whether it will be backed by a faction, a School, a slogan of the day. Careful study of each surrealist teaching may easily uncover the secret of its always dual significance, just as a confrontation in good faith with each of its practical applications will readily grant the researcher the revelation of its two—always two—sides. Absolute expression, as a polemical necessity of a particular historic moment, justifies the one side, the most ephemeral but also most persuasive, whose intransigence conceals another side, destined for a more permanent life. If, on the one hand, automatic writing was revealed under the colors of the unleashed unconscious, realizing itself outside personal will and intolerant of aesthetic judgment, on the other hand it declared the poet’s innermost desire to force inspiration (the latter being at once chance and excessive sensibility) into a ruthless and swift advance beyond all moral, social, or aesthetic obstacles. Nothing but true spirituality is contained in this intention, whereby human, solely human, morality

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overthrows its bourgeois idol. Habit, that which extinguishes the poet’s innate inclination to set foot where no one else has been before, was struck down along with the world’s dullest portion, the one most worn out by the rust of the commonplace. It was a matter of releasing man from the fear that always stopped him before, what a false education had led him to regard as “anti-aesthetic,” “immoral,” “absurd,” “harmful.” For the proportion of human experience that had up to then been excluded from poetry, and which was without a doubt fully entitled to expression, all those passionate human emotions, the most terrible desires, had been waiting impatiently for too long before all kinds of prohibitive signals, those that a specific society, along with its art, had hung over useless and conventional frontiers. Speech, at once a transmitter and a receiver of life, this time marched forward. The public’s surprise upon the sensitive and indeterminate point of transformation was so intense that, even before realizing it, the virgin expression was forced to spell out its first sentence, while automatic writing—repulsing calculation and restoring imagination to its very source—became its best instrument. Now, if not all people were capable of using this instrument as the theory had promised, that was certainly because they did not all possess the same power of repelling calculation by neutralizing the defense of their reason, just as they did not all possess the same psychic overflow and quality of imagination. Something similar happens with the fluctuations of poetic wealth that we may come across in a text written by different people, or by the same person over several distinct moments. Yet, as soon as some begin to outshine others, thanks to their special qualities, the concept “poet” becomes meaningful again. The analyst’s good faith henceforth ought to search and locate that which—from the viewpoint of general art theory—is the sole profit that automatic writing brought to the affairs of lyrical poetry. Philosophically speaking, one could argue, with Roland de Renéville, that thought, in its auspicious ride across fields of such absolute freedom, manages to conceive at an incredible speed all, even the least suspected, relations between things, so convincingly as to signal the revelation of their unity. And also this, which is even more important: that, in order to cover the entire circle of the spirit, the right way is not necessarily to expand, thanks to intensive concentration, the point of the consciousness that lies at its center, as “Pure” poetry would have it; we can also abolish it, which is equivalent to placing it, at any moment, on any point of the psychic circle, as surrealism maintained. Yet the movement of this thought, drunk with itself, has also given us (de facto, as one might say) certain other results, which may show us, if translated into points of our recognizable intellectual function, the role played in the revelation of the perpetual becoming of life by the lightning-like speed of thought,

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as it found a way of being effected in the heat of automatic writing. That heat, which is at bottom an overstrain of the will to life, and which made Professor Gaston Bachelard cry: “L’ardeur est un temps, ce n’est pas un chaleur [Ardor is a time, it is not a warmth],” gives a truly new dimension to the meaning of time. Having instantaneously taken incredible distances in its stride, poetic metaphor ended up expressing the actual physiognomy of things upon their very birth. And as a plant about to bloom never offers, even to the most patient observer, the phenomenon of its growth, while, if filmed and projected at a high speed, it reveals to us, compressed within a few seconds, the history of dozens of its hours, so it is that any secret, a secret of the world that logical surveillance cannot conceive, is set into motion by falling within the space of human emotion, and thus appears, visible, like a new poetic image, within a few seconds. So, even if this instrument is never again put into action, it is enough that it has opened our eyes to three fundamental truths: the absolute reality of the spirit, the incessant transformation of life within its own movement, and the existence of disinterested relations between the elements of the world, relations that not only put an end to a quasi-slavish conception of life, but also offer to lyrical confession the chance of achieving a more accurate and integral formulation. Eventually, it became evident that a different order of the world, one governed by sensibility, reigned in each emotion; and that, in order to express emotion more directly, one was entitled, indeed obliged, to pursue the combinations of words proper to this new order, the images proper to a bliss of fantasy. A new kind of psychic function was born out of the experience of automatic writing. The latter equipped, not only the surrealist, but the poet,3 once and for all, with the possibility of being realized directly and essentially, by means of what I have once named the transparence of emotion. I am referring to the courage of attempting the most improbable marriages between the elements of the world, knowing—and here is where the entire supremacy of Poetry over Science may lie—that two simple things, however humble in their everyday function, may, by exiting their slavish orbit and developing a sudden affinity, approach the dramatic human enigma through the entire weight of our substance. From now on, whatever the youngest poets may do or think, however they may realize themselves, they will naturally possess a new way of interpreting the world and must therefore acknowledge that they operate within fields conquered by surrealism; and also, that it would not be vain if they took the trouble, before putting its orders aside, to turn them around and see their permanent side, to hear, behind the timely, their timeless message. They would then see that behind the declaration “poetry must be made by all, not by one” lay the abolition of the theocratic conception of the poet’s nature and destination; behind the words “beauty does not seem necessary to us” lay the replacement

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of the established notion of beauty by a new one; behind the view that “the dream must announce the transformation of the world” lay the certainty that the artist must impose a new order on the elements offered by the perceptible world; finally, behind the utterance “there is a point of the mind where all contradictions are resolved” lay the faith in surreality and, through it, in the desired unity of all things. It is not a conservative tendency that dictates the above reflections; neither is it my purpose here to soften a rough line or blunt a protruding edge on the curious surrealist edifice. I only wished, even by recourse to exaggeration, to highlight some of the scattered scratches that this modern activity succeeded, without doubt, in carving on the large body of poetry. And if it is best for a poet to give only a personal impression of a long-lasting experience, I shall only say, on the subject of automatic writing, that my first impression of it resembles strongly the expression of gratitude felt by man toward the wealth, both inner and outer, that he was given to take advantage of; in other words, the practical recognition of the adequacy of this world, in the infinite combinations of its goods. I have already had the opportunity to note, à propos of painting, and in particular of artists such as the douanier Rousseau or the fustanella-wearing Theophilos,4 whose work was motivated solely by the passion of plastic expression, and who transubstantiated the spirit and the material object into one and the same artistic event, how deeply imbued they were by that sacred sensation of the infinite natural wealth within their works. By transposing systematically this kind of disposition onto the mind, the modern poets and artists (who attempted to reach by the opposite route that pure psychic condition of primitive man before the spectacle of life and nature) walked along a common path, thereby creating works whose results are more or less as follows: (1) The external and internal world, in their infinite combinations, constitute a reality, whose motherland is the mind. (2) The concept of illegality does not exist in the district of the mind. (3) Poetry expresses directly the mind, whose circumference is incredibly longer than that of consciousness. (4) A considerable part of life is unable to find its expression in that area of consciousness. (5) The cooperation of all the world’s elements is possible, probable, and desirable. (6) Objects must be incorporated in the necessity of human desires. (7) The emotional assessment of the world assigns a different content to the concept of life; in fact, it restores the source of human freedom at the center of humanity.

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In the spring of 1935, with the help of Andreas Embirikos—who also had eagerly placed his large library at my disposal—I slowly, and somewhat awkwardly at first, became the astonished spectator of a strange world that sprang from within me, even without my fully realizing it. How many times, sitting in the cosy apartment on Queen Sophia Avenue, smoking innumerable cigarettes and surrounded by the paintings of Max Ernst, Oscar Dominguez and Yves Tanguy, or, at other times, in some relatives’ villa in Lesbos, facing the sea and the Eastern mountains, we wrote a multitude of poems and other texts within five or ten minutes, poems and texts of which we were later accused by writers and critics of having supposedly spent several days of hard intellectual labor! A few days earlier, with a young painter friend of mine,5 we had tried for the first time to visit the unpredictable in the form of a game, giving each other questions and answers whose content we mutually ignored. The basis of this game concealed, not merely the same mechanism, but also something else that was of particular value to the novice, in helping abolish resistance. I remember that, on a number of cases, the result was spot-on as to the associative cohesion and individual originality of images. Q.—What is the color red? A.—A slap-ful of poppies! Q.—What is glory? A.—A mountain to be watched by the centuries! Q.—What is a chrysanthemum? A.—A good-hearted day in the glass. Q.—What are the Pleiades? A.—The poets’ hiding place. Q.—What is Poetry? A.—Fornication ad infinitum. Q.—What is the eagle? A.—That which we place high above our head. Q.—What are the four seasons of the year? A.—A peacock, a calandra, and two great seas.

Or, again, in a variation of the same game: —When the bows of the day are untied —The arbute berries shout their name out loud. —When the goby muddles its waters —The cat’s flag changes three colours. —When the girl catches a May-bug —The noon’s spinning top shines inside her head.

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—If we had no young children —Our fields would be orphans. —If we were content with the cherry tree’s buzz —The one the two the three would refresh us. —If Chance unloaded carobs —A thousand sailboats would be crossing the oceans. No one will be justified in laughing, in saying that these are not serious things but games. Apart from the fact that there is no harm in playing from time to time, the truth is that the principle concealed in these games is very serious indeed: they knock on the door of the Unknown, entrust the value of Chance, create a new perspective, untie the poet’s fingers, kept for so long apart from the wealth of the world of assimilation. Now, returning to my forgotten notebooks, which contain about a hundred poems, divided into series, I get lost in a multitude of titles, which I enjoy even today, on account of their chromatic quality, or even—why not?—their very prodigality. In some of them, the image attains an objective value: Disappointment below zero. The bay and its pulse. Unhooking of summer hour. The neighboring lighthouse as a lenient dive. Assisted by daffodils. Pastoral ark. In the interior of the shiver. Warm fold construction of woman. Replacement of destiny. Azure waste. Like a foliage beside her. Ms Aprils. Angelousa. On the head of a NW wind. Elsewhere, I discern titles full of humor, with a disposition for irony or caricature: Husbands in chiaroscuro. The proverbial r. On the superfluity of everyday existence. In the refreshments room of illegal delight. Finally, there are other titles in which the unpredictable, the magical reign supreme: 789 B.C. Aerodynamic. The stones of noise. The historical crutches. At the haven of our little desires. Journal of the simplest midday. The twotopped ledger. Color collection. Clever outlet feather of matter. Alsing. Before this kind of orchard, more than a few will halt, overtaken by a sense of comedy or futility. “In the refreshments room of illegal delight”—truly, what a silly title to those who were never granted the pleasure of visiting it and tasting its strong drinks! How stupid these titles are, to all those stupid enough to have never dared enter the interior of the shiver, to pass by the pastoral arks on the head of a NW wind, or in the company of Ms Aprils, to succeed, in an azure waste, or in unhooking the summer hour, in throwing the stones of noise, while writing a journal—the journal of the simplest midday! Well, then, those too shy of entering a world that represents the mystery of their own creation by a poetic, that is, a vital act, had better not proceed to texts from which all aesthetic concern has been exiled and through which all the education heretofore obtained will be subjected to trial and strife. My first texts are very much reminiscent of Embirikos’s. This is not only due to the “literary” language, which should only be expected to expand in an area devoid of will,6 but also to the difficulty

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I had in repelling the introduction of exterior impressions, that is, let myself free to the train of phrasal associations. Here is an example: At the bottom of whimpers beaches grow to be disastrous precipices, where virgins naked from the waist up walk on tiptoe. How we dived into these blue flakes, how we passed through these deep-colored films, how we plucked the heads with their celebratory nods, we do not know, nobody knows, except perhaps the headache of a stork raised by the other seas. Once more silence follows silence. Colossi of trees reduce the vision nestling like a warm animal on the pitchforks of their fairy tales. Flying flashes of lightning and thundering leaps fill our palm with rainy smell. The knots of joys are panting and from each one’s throat unfolds a white-blonde falsehood. (“The neighboring lighthouse as a lenient dive”) There follow just a few sentences from other texts, whose complete transcription here would be tiresome: In the final analysis, roses are nothing but tears. Nothing but the whistle of the leaving train and the breach of a promise. Sorrow, too, is nothing but an evening leaning on April. (“Disappointment below zero”) The sun would be most delighted to offer his seat but a laughter charms him by tracing a curve that entertains foliages. It supervises his route. He melts of immortality and takes into his cradle the whole vegetation that has become a landscape and the whole landscape that was created after the image of his own emotions. (“789 B.C.”) On the 23d kilometer you stopped and inflamed my ears. For a long while afterward I was running (now without you by my side) and hearing your voice that said: me, I love the sun! the sun! (“Aerodynamic”) Yet it is not only the influence of Andreas Embirikos, but also that of Nikitas Randos that becomes apparent in my early attempts. It would not be out of place here to copy some excerpts from the series 14 agile poems: IV The day turned her face immense heliotrope And suddenly I found myself on the rear of so many horizons

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Like her I would like to be the pride of light Not to yield anymore to the cup-bearers of wishes I would especially like each night-reveler to be my opponent Yet his alliance already disarms me Forcing me to imagine phials of many colors In the form of the mouth of liquid girls a wreath Made of the victories and defeats of the imprisoned time. VII In the erotic shadow in the weedy devotion of our two joined hands And beyond the agility of paths that appropriate all steps Beside the fire’s easy prey and the touch of sunrise I anoint emotion with time to render it deathly I fornicate with inspiration to endure for infinity. XII All the butterflies inversely proportionate to the colors of flowers Kidnap my calmness on asymmetric circles Try it on while time flows carelessly Amid its agile osiers Those that have sometimes trained me to adjust to the world To what answers with no When the eyelids of chance liberate silence once and for all. XIV The alarm clocks of pigeon houses amid your despairs And the fountains of chrysanthemums in the raisings of thoughts that take your head So that time is not wrapped in any wish That insects feel the earth And that the sky’s back derives pleasure from vision That falcons baptized by silence clang in magnanimity The diffused meaning of your old small worlds. The second part of this period comes to an end with poems written a little later, at the beginning of 1936. In these, a certain hint of aesthetic care is evident:

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R e p l a c e m e n t o f D e st i n y Sensitive as the leg of a girl Searching for her canaries Time blows amid geraniums in the yard Her eternal interview is an ocean Extracted from ivies From the mounting of dew It enters woman And she caresses the uncombed wind She runs beside it while stripping naked So that it does not fall upon her dawn To bear the fingerprints of destiny The gaze alone lays down the flowerbeds Love holds her hand up high Even above her breast Wet nurse of so many dreams And on that very point her lovers die.

A z u r e W a st e On the twigs of dew that lives out its secrets The peacocks of our rays open Ears of wheat Dreams of many hours And the order of words when traced Like a doves’ orbit gleaming with ignorance. The last automatic texts I wrote, more regular in their linguistic expression and almost thoroughly deprived of foreign influences, are, I believe, those that highlight more clearly my authentic face. The three poems that follow are the only ones I managed to save.

Quarter to Six As the melancholic voice came out of the well The white buzzard and the visible sign of the willow Hours changed the dresses at the garden’s corner The deepest-colored bird asked of berries and ether

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Time quarter to six carnations were pleased One—could not but vanish in the big girl’s breast Another—washed in the water became a nightingale But the poor man who was holding the wire Had now lost his hands—a big insect was trimmed The feast passed by replete with fire It was a village woman living on butterflies A fat shepherd full of snow And a rain-watch with no shadow . . . Those who loved the sky’s depths are still gazing And it is truly worth wondering at these snails Perhaps girls are not visible from the coast The rainbow is the ease of seeing dreams Even two days ago little children saw them The begonias and fruits of the nearby window Ah how beautiful peacocks are They cry—and the day unfolds in bliss You can just about discern the small carriages on the seabed Even when a violet stays open at sunset The world leaves with a complaint like a brook And once again I see my girl I loved so much . . . Inside the grass calmness is visible Only the gardener gets scared and whispers “Quiet, kids—let no clouds perceive us . . .”

P e n ta b r i n e So this year too the wood of swallows smelled Of small talk in churches The day stood at the threshold—her apron swollen by mulberries Even with nothing inside you can feel their sweetness And the sea of sun in the large bedrooms There you see the water bubbles play on the ceiling There you lay your pillow and listen to those weeping . . . Such big eyes how can they have no room for The sky’s mushrooms—they will all leave fast And the hair on rocks and windmills Will begin to blow and clang

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A ship coming from afar—entered the roofed balcony It smells of green soap and mopped floor Where to hide—it is better to scream For people to gather everywhere for one to hang one’s life—thus Like a clean cloth in the sun by two pegs.

I n t h e S o u t h W i n d ’ s M i st The windows were shining with bee’s joy Around the meal children were sitting On the street innocent talk flew from a fountain Finches deafened the highest branches “Why children what is it you want so early in the world” Springtime is not adorned with rains alone A light wind enters from the iron doors On the upper part of town shutters are creaking “Ia . . . iow . . . eeeeh . . .—and the echo: owowow . . . eeeeeh . . .” Passengers opposite a blue peninsula Came from the Pleiades asking for bread So let the river flow some more Let the sea stir some more Let falcons ascend the enormous mountains Outside coaches are passing singing in the south wind’s mist The coachmen stand and shout “Today children today.” At that moment a carnation explodes in the wind Many weep and converse Others go silently and lay grass on the ground So the sun may finally sleep So the sun may finally sleep. Techne-Tyche-Tolme, no others, only those three illustrious words (but are they words?) which, with the deep-green ink of grass, the deep-red ink of love, and the deep-blue ink of the sea, adorned the pages of a year, if not the inauguration of a youth. The reduction of truth to a simple, to a profound birth of a living organism, was its sole philosophy. Truly, nothing concerned me more in mid-35 than a vigorous, healthy existence, which might freely extend to the ultimate extremes of a catholic freedom. All else that was to come, of course, came later . . .

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Old Accounts, New Beginnings (abridged version) (Kallitechnika Nea, 1945) So here we are, still on this same earth. The war has blown wildly amidst our ranks, an unheard-of barbarity has swept the land, and, upon counting, we find ourselves— alas—so fewer than we used to be! Yet we are, at any rate. And life must absolutely continue, at all costs. Astonished people, their hands dipped in blood, watch it proceed mercilessly, passing them by without worrying too much about their theatrical cries and gestures. There. Always the same, in its profoundest essence, its mysterious flow, yet always young, palpitating, new, on the train of representations of phenomena that it draws beneath our very eyes, rendering it the agent of our consciousness, in which it is so flamboyantly placed. I suggest unhesitatingly that we imitate this life, indeed imitate it mostly in its very cruelty, if we do not want to lose sight of that virginal page that the wind of time is now revealing to us. . . . I can still remember that morning of April ’44, when a Greek critic was declaring, while banging his hand with holy indignation on the desk of a bookshop: “I’m going to write an article and say that it is a scandal of our time, it is a disgrace to our fellowmen, to be still talking today about surrealism!” Well, maybe that Greek critic was not so wrong after all. It was, indeed, a scandal of our time, it was a disgrace, to be talking about surrealism, as it had ended up being represented to the public by the stupid heads of journalists, as the one-sidedly excited imaginations of certain, otherwise respectable intellectuals were taking pains (who knows why?) to interpret it to their readers. Yet it was not a disgrace, it was, on the contrary, a point of honor to talk of surrealism as the fresh heart of young people had believed it to be, always identified with the sacred concept of the eternally living poetry. . . . Several months ago, a good weekly journal (one of those that, despite the desperate conditions of the Occupation, sought to keep intellectual interest alive), namely, Kallitechnika Nea, sensing how deeply the necessity for a new aesthetic expression continued to torment the young generation, even after the declaration of war, had the idea to conduct a major inquiry on contemporary poetic and artistic problems. This inquiry was to provide an opportunity for all interested parties to state thoroughly their personal views. I have to confess that, not only did I accept the proposal with great joy, but I also supported it as much as I could, urging both friends and enemies of the newer concepts to answer unhesitatingly. There was one cause for my willingness: I could see great confusion prevail over the profoundest intentions of all those young poets and painters who came one fine day to work beyond the frame of academic art, and I observed with great sadness their intentions being daily mis-

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understood by the Market and exposed either to the accusation of imitating foreign artists and overlooking the wealth of Greek values, or to that of being removed from reality and concealing the popular spirit. I sought to explain that surrealism, with one foot on the anarchic ground of past negations, but with the other foot on the youthful ground of cosmogony and reconstruction, had understood from a very early stage this sound and vivid mental concept of innovation, and, in its dialectic development spanning two decades, had succeeded in marking certain syntheses that it would be neither prudent nor fruitful to ignore, by being attached solely to its inaugural letter. Finally, I argued that it could only be this kind of ignorance that lay behind all that we used to hear around us every day: namely, that surrealism is nothing but unconscious expression, nothing but automatic writing—worse, that it is no more than subjectivity and elitism. I sought to explain that the same factors that had produced this innovating movement in Europe could be found in this country, to an even greater extent, in fact. And that, after all, having reached this stage, it was better not to see in the term “surrealism” only a specific Parisian School but, rather, a general spirit including the entire living and contemporary poetry derived from it; a spirit enriched daily by our personal discoveries, and whose principles could be more or less summarized in the following:







1.—Penetration into, and conquest of, reality. 2.—Elevation of man above the fragmentation that a destructive society has managed to impose upon him; union with nature and inverse projection onto the concepts of national and social totality. 3.—Coincidence and reconciliation of the fantastic and the realistic. Incessant research and revelation of the “marvelous.” 4.—Progress beyond skepticism, talent, individual introspection; return to the sources of the mind, to the aggressive projection of ideals. 5.—Conception and recording of the enchanting or dramatic element of life, by means of the coexistence of two or more things, held apart by our conventional understanding of life. Quest for, and consolidation of, an objective world of art by the creation of common symbols. 6.—Emotional evaluation of the world. Abolition of the despotism of the rational element and restoration, to the right degree, of the “irrational” element, that which may truly permit the generalized communication of all humans, on the common basis of fantasy. 7.—Valorization of the living elements of the indigenous tradition, rebaptized in the free, contemporary, means of expression.7

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It is now time to move on to the answer given by Angelos Sikelianos,8 which, despite constituting at bottom the greatest honor that could ever be bestowed by an older poet upon his young colleagues, as anyone accustomed to reading his texts in the spirit proper to them would agree, nevertheless appears at first sight to be sporting a different facet, one fully opposed to its true significance, thereby giving rise to more than a few misconceptions. For this fact (it is we who, never once having missed a chance to demonstrate our great admiration for his work, are now entitled to this opinion) he alone is responsible, and consciously so. Perhaps—who knows?—his concern to not appear exposed to the eyes of people of his generation, to not disappoint those who might regard any involvement of a veteran poet in the disputes of the young as an unforgivable concession, hindered the impulse that would normally make him embrace a worldview that is hardly foreign to his own healthy constitution. It is, I fear, this very concern that led his pen to those constant detours that mark his article, those which meet alternately the line dictated by his own heart and that imposed by cold calculation and by the tastes of the majority. This, at least, is what his “witty” introduction, by which I confess to having been greatly surprised—for its likes are thankfully well-nigh absent from the pages of his other texts—, essentially reveals. It is thus that, while declaring plainly at some point that “the overall orientation of surrealism, particularly as revealed in its latest conclusions,” remains “a living indicator of a truth that was actually the most urgent and important one at the time when it first came forth,” Sikelianos, on the other hand, despite lacking that experience which would allow him to converse freely with the works as such—given that he refers exclusively to the theoretical texts of André Breton, and the earliest ones at that—, claims to have searched and not found those ideas and realizable principles, which, nevertheless, have been formulated, exercised, and practised by poets who have shown themselves to be anything but “ventriloquists” or “imitators.” And also, while, on the one hand, appearing to accept as a fact of exceptional importance the invitation to a proper appreciation of the worlds of the unconscious, on the other hand, he does not hesitate to even mock the efforts that have been made to shed light on the immense (his word) field of our rationalist oblivion, that which includes, in its inertia, inestimable areas of ancient dynamics, psychic, bodily, universal. . . . Why is that? Is it because those efforts were not made in the exact same way as his own, truly remarkable efforts, the only ones realized by a Greek poet so far (it would be stupid to deny it), albeit to which we do not see why we should grant exclusiveness, and which may after all not be the most appropriate for a human “type” such as the man of today, the one born by a different kind of experience and burdened with numerous further, unprecedented cares?

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I shall repeat it: the points of our convergence with Angelos Sikelianos are as many as those of our divergence. It would thus be impossible for the methods of our respective poetic functions to coincide. But is not the same true of what he writes, when judging, for instance, surrealism’s antirationalist policy and finding that it does not coincide, e.g., with texts by Kierkegaard, Berdiaev, or Heidegger? For how could it ever be otherwise? How could then the consequences of the whole construct of existential philosophy remain on this side of their own limits, how could the inseparable couple of the “révolte métaphysique” and the “révolte sociale,” or, again, the unity of the subjective and the objective, be contained within specific boundaries? I am astonished to see Sikelianos being astonished at our not acknowledging this latter fact, that is, at our not avoiding enough those “distinctions” that “constitute two hostile sides spread along [. . .] the two banks of the same enormous river.” I am, indeed, astonished, and I wonder how he may have reached that conclusion, given that this faith in the unity of the beginnings of apparently antithetical human forces is, on the contrary, not only one of the few central lines that define the surrealist edifice, as we understand it today, but also one of the few cohesive lines that reveal the coincidence, despite the different routes followed, of the intellectual demands of a poet such as He and of certain novices such as we—by which I mean those who are still in the beginning of their endeavors. This incessant going back and forth in the dialectic of his article does, at times, become unforgivable, if I may say so. Thus, for instance, he writes, recalling a foreign passage, that objectivity does not exist for surrealism “que dans la succession, dans l’enchaînement de tous les éléments subjectifs, dont le poète est,  j u s q u’  à  n o u v e l  o r d r e,  non le maître mais l’esclave.”9 And, in conclusion, he adds: “In the meantime, no bridge connects the poet to the world.” Why? How could such a conclusion be deduced from such a sentence? It is my humble opinion that, in fact, quite the opposite should happen, namely, that which Sikelianos seeks and claims not to find. Not to mention that this “jusqu’à nouvel ordre,” which he highlights himself, interpreting it as the expectation of receiving a new (mental) order, is more likely to mean the expectation of creating a new order of things, a fact that is, at bottom, much more significant than it may first appear. Yet why continue this meticulous and dull treatment of certain parts of his answer, when other parts are still capable of moving us? Within these latter, one can feel the pulse of the generous poet. As I reread those happy sentences, I am thinking how much better off all those easily impressed readers of the dogmatic, one-sided, outdated argumentation of surrealism’s prosecutors would be, if only they took the trouble to set prejudices aside and delve lovingly into their innermost selves.

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Yes, the lyrical poet who was worthy of uttering the words my thought is act must not doubt that these are also our feelings and that we have long left behind those “entire eras of incompatibility between mental life and universal life.” 1935–1945! A decade has almost completed its circle, since the time when lyrical poetry in Greece abandoned by a single gesture the limited space in which it had been condemned to remain. A decade whose adherents sought, among the reproaches of an entire era’s skepticism, and, later, among the blasts of wartime barbarity, to contemplate the bas-relief of a world that made a difference, in its morality, its emotion, its art. Of course, the results are still few and unripe. Yet it could not be otherwise. The illustrious period between the two wars bore within it momentarily the utmost dissolution and the new synthesis, suicide and rebirth, so inseparable that it was difficult to all who were not specially trained to divine which word would vanish irrevocably and which would yield its fruits. Today, on the threshold of the peaceful days at hand, I believe that no one would be suspect of partiality who added that those few and unripe works of the young poets are certainly those that, more than all others, contain the potential to help progress toward greater achievements. 1935–1945! A decade, so important for the chronicles of new poetry, is now about to complete its circle, once and for all. The period of combat is almost over. Let no one be surprised if, one day, we are found to be detached from the main body of our previous concerns, pursuing something even more profound, more important, more fully interwoven with the essence of our very life. Whatever we do, we live between the slams of one door that closes and of another that opens. For this reason, it is not without a certain malevolence that we are now directing our gaze backward, as if to bid a hasty farewell to some vanishing aspects of life. So, farewell to the bohemian pose, to “Wilde”-ism, farewell to the petty complaints, farewell to elitism, farewell to sadomasochistic misery, with its wine taverns and its cries of “Ah, wretched we!,” farewell to false revolutionaries and their hollow words, yes, farewell, farewell. . . . For some of us, the morrow already sheds its fully astonishing light. In this light, the same light we keep as our own, as our very own, both in joy and in sadness, in this light it is our belief that neither the worship of Evil nor the Christian’s endurance may last. For this reason we are now dreaming of a Goodness other than that imagined by people up to now; we are dreaming of a fighting Goodness, of a young, healthy woman, holding a sword in one hand and caressing proudly our foreheads with the other.

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The Dreams (abridged version) I have always harbored the hope of discovering a third road between the Freudian Interpretation of Dreams and the popular Dream-readers—a way at once less scientific and less naive that would allow me to handle the material offered by dreams, above and beyond their psychoanalytic or prophetic meaning. Very soon, I realized that the doors were not easy to unlock. Few had attempted to open the way to that direction. And I think that our inability to specify the space in which, despite everything, we do act during a portion of our twenty-four hours, against all natural laws, is an indication of the extremely mediocre sense that we make of the one and only, so we believe, life that is given to us. All the more so because this is the only space where we are allowed to act freely, with no sense of time, no shame. We may walk around unbuttoned, urinate before others, misbehave— sometimes even kill, in spite of all the police forces in the world. . . . Quite unlike that ancient, yet admirable Marquis Hervey de Saint-Denys, who purported to shed light on sleep from the side of his awoken self, I aimed at conceiving everyday life from the side of dream, something that is not that difficult, so long as one manages to imagine it without its utilitary and punctually repeated rituals. There really were moments when I felt dominated by a sensation of that kind; a sense of life and dream slipping into each other. Just as we might regard bays and capes as composites of a landscape, so we might conceive of the probable and improbable acts that compose a whole human being. Αʹ Words and Dreams

T he G irl W ith the V iolet S pot .   1.—A big, completely empty room, in the house of my friend Andreas Embirikos. The only piece of furniture is a large couch, with a white, summery cover. M[atsi], his wife, is sitting on it, leaning over a wooden trunk full of photographs. Once in awhile, she pulls out some, gives them a quick look, then places them on the couch, face down. I am watching her from afar, with the feeling that I am doing something improper, perhaps even offensive; I am literally holding my breath, while feeling my heart beat frenetically. The unsuspecting M. continues her search and finally—at last—seems to have found the photo she was looking for. Now she is holding it in such a way that I, too, can see it clearly: yes, there can be no doubt, it is F., my old girlfriend from Salonika—well, fancy that! how did she get there?

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2.—Without moving from my position I am watching her blond head, which now seems to come alive, smiling, turning to the left and to the right, yet always staying on the photographic paper, which grows steadily in size, until finally it becomes a full-blown cinema screen in M.’s hands. The sun, coming through the window, looks like a projector that follows the girl’s head, rendering its beauty radiant, iridescent, its abundant blond hair endowed with a special glow. I am also contemplating a strange spectacle: a big, violet spot, floating over the photo like a mythical insect and moving about continuously, according to the way in which my friend’s wife is holding the picture. Finally, at some point, this violet spot stops over the right cheek, just below the girl’s eye, and stays there. I am trying to recall whether F. really had such a spot on her cheek, but I do not succeed. Besides, I am very upset; I am overcome by fear in case my friend Andreas gets angry and considers me responsible for the presence of this photograph in his house. I can feel this threat approach and dare not look over my shoulder. Indeed, there it is, I can hear his voice behind my back, not hostile but rather sarcastic; it says, as if addressing his wife while pointing at me, “There he is! The Ivyonic and Inclionic! Ivyonic and Inclionic! Ha, ha, ha!” 3.—I realize that I’ve made a fool of myself. There is no other way out, I must be brave; I step back, raise my hands like I do when I want to dive into the sea from above, then I burst forth with all my strength and plunge into the trunk. Everything falls apart, and I find myself sitting amidst a pile of crumpled papers, vulgar planks, and straws. Βʹ Dreams, People, and Places

D ream of P reciosa .   1.—I am at the entrance to a movie theater which looks like none of those I am familiar with; besides, it seems to be shut. There are neither pictures in the glass cases nor any people outside; as a matter of fact, nothing is moving. Only inside, at the box office, there is a ticket-selling lady who, as I understand, is conversing with a little girl. I stand on the pavement, produce my wallet, and pretend to be searching for something, so that I can watch discreetly the little girl, to whom I have taken a liking. She seems to be around twelve or thirteen, poorly dressed, thin-legged albeit with a prematurely swollen breast, and is holding in her hand something resembling a bunch of lottery tickets or photographs; my impression is that she sells them in the streets. Without my realizing how—and while it is growing dark on the outside—, I find her right next to me, rubbing her body against mine, standing on her tiptoes

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so she can talk to me confidentially. I can feel her breath on my face and her heat covering me from top to bottom; in fact, I pretend to be helping her reach up to me, and I grab the back of her upper thigh, which I can feel as though it was naked—so light and transparent is her cloth. However, I do not understand at all what she is whispering to me. . . . The only thing that becomes clear to me is her name, Preciosa; from her willingness, I conclude that she may be a diminutive whore who wishes to come with me—something that simplifies things as far as I am concerned. I explain to her that I live alone and that she may follow me to my apartment. But no, I have misunderstood her. Without the slightest sign of anger, she shows me the papers she is holding and finally lets me know that she really is selling them and that I had better buy some. I take a look: they are photographs of athletes, soccer stars to be exact, all of whose names she knows and enumerates for me to choose from. Visibly disappointed, I tell her that I am not interested in that sort of thing. 2.—We have walked a while and are now in the corridor of a large building with glass walls. On the first floor we stand and gaze from behind the glass at the indifferent people hurrying along in the street. At that very moment, Preciosa takes out a photograph, places it behind the metallic strip framing the glass, and shouts loudly at me, “Now, pull it out!,” while running away along the corridor. I pull the photograph; it appears to be a color postcard; it shows some green geometrical shapes, like the bars of windows, facing each other over a red background. In the middle, symmetrically placed, there are two women’s heads, also facing each other, one on the upper part pointing downward, one on the lower pointing upward, like the queens of cards. From one mouth to the other there flows a tiny gush of water (or of another liquid; in any case it is a blue, trembling line) which unites them. Holding the card, I start running in the long, endless corridor; somewhere soon, I’ll catch that little imp. Suddenly, I hear a child’s laughter (a girl’s, evidently) coming from some room. I take a few steps and find a half-opened door. I observe carefully: it is a small chamber, a kind of boudoir with many mirrors on the walls and curtains of white tulle on the windows. On the edges of two large armchairs, embroidered with colored flowers, sit a couple of middle-aged ladies. Apparently of bourgeois background, they are both well dressed, and so preoccupied with what they are doing that they are unaware of my presence. And oh, what they are doing! They’re playing with Preciosa! They slap her behind and throw her up in the air, she reaches the ceiling like a feather, then comes down again, in the same light, lingering manner, as if gravity were completely lost on her, full of laughter and charming movement. Even before her feet touch the ground, they send her back to the ceiling by a caressing slap on her posterior, then wonder at her as she falls down and her little dress is turned up, exactly like a balle-

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rina’s. It is a miracle. My heart is beating fast. I put my shame aside and proceed to the center of the room, to have a better view; I even adopt a familiar pose, as though I have been “in the know” for quite some time now, so that the ladies may not get a fright upon seeing me. Yet by now the ladies have been transformed into a couple of Catholic nuns, dressed with enormous veils and carrying heavy crucifixes on their bosoms; they have turned serious and are now looking at me in terror, placing their palms before their mouths, seemingly out of embarrassment at having been caught in the act. “Now, what’s done is done,” I think, and pretend they never existed. 3.—I am standing in the middle of the room, trying to be at the exact spot where the girl is bound to fall, and, stretching my open palm, it is now I who give her the push she needs to get high, applying a lot more force than the ladies did. She seems delighted, her head just about touches the ceiling, then she starts coming down, lifting her skirt with charm. Under it, her legs and thighs appear bigger, more desirable; she wears diminutive blue panties, and, a little higher up, I can see clearly her rosy little belly, up to the navel. This truly is the most beautiful spectacle I could ever hope to see. By now, the nuns have disappeared—although I notice that many Catholic crosses are still hanging on the surrounding walls—and we are alone in the room. The floor beneath our feet has become an immense mirror that reflects the image up high: whether I look up or down, I always see Preciosa, naked from the waist down, coming toward me. By now, a new element has been added: from the edge of her tiny panties, an elastic oblong ribbon in more or less the same blue color is hanging down to the height of my face. Unconsciously, I get hold of the ribbon—while the little girl is still up high—and examine it; it appears to be exceptionally elastic. “Now, pull,” I hear her shout loudly, while she remains floating in the air, making slight movements to the left and right; and I really start pulling, as if it were the string of a kite. At first I feel strong vibrations; then all resistance seems to disappear and, as I pull, the tiny underwear comes unraveled like knitted wear, beginning to reveal her private parts. The ribbon now reaches the mirror-floor, yet, instead of making up a pile, it extends and creates a unifying thread, a kind of umbilical cord, which connects the two images of Preciosa, beginning and ending at the dark space of her opened thighs. Breathlessly, I observe and expect the moment when the gradual revelation will reach the crucial point. I then awake, clearly disappointed.

Odysseus Elytis    1 59

II. From Orientations (1940) Dionysos

a.

b.

c.

With torches that have kept wake amid the orgiastic hillsides of blonde dancers And with blue stalactites raised amid fairy tales of hyenas Together with green villas that open into laughter and know no morning But are maddened by all the boat lights sending out their untouched apparitions With the matins’ jugs marching together in the shade of amber And with the veils of uncombed hopes that contemplate themselves far away on the variable caresses of horizons The hours come that have loved ours Like white indifferences of windmills the hours come that have loved ours At a ritual pace upon the svelte encounter of Marches the hours come that have loved ours!

What aureoles of idylls! Roebucks, go away, away from the gaiety of the cataract That smashes its sound scratching the foreheads of vesperal virgins Rainbows, sail amid the crystals and skies that sent amber boats up to here It is a magic fire that opens the fans of mountaintops amid our astonished voyages It is a mane stung by the fortunate descent of a youth’s ravines Glazing our sharp gazes when all the robes of ecstasy are inflamed When memories explode and hyacinths emerge from their tiny windows Swans and forget-me-nots with small hibiscuses full of charm when fixed Upon the fluid plains that enchant the flutes of drunken desires Upon the great arches of the great victors of an adolescent forest.

Twin sleighs, drag firebrands into the nameless straining of the atmosphere Fast schooners of desire, narrate the sea with roaring and wind Cheeks of nymphs, wash yourselves in spring while respiring it An eternity shall blow this way! In all fountains all sources the fragments of a cry are rejoined

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A life-cry full of windings from the dews to its trumpeting echo On the parapets of stars the brave gathering of immaculate hands Of our hands that molded in heart-light their nonexistent thrill . . . Oh! when the hours dress us in their shiver and this hymn raises the exalted prey Of bodies that gain their blood by leaning all night over the roots of Chimera!

d.

e.

Like the freshly poured visions polishing the polyhedral chance of their pursuits on the lookout And letting their hair intertwine exaltedly with the bourbon palms of luminous arcades Like rare fruits celebrating the down of their most verdant triumph Sparkling on the hands of women who embellished limpidity Like myths that broke the gates of their silent palaces crying a young truth The hours come that have loved ours With springtime lips and chords of birds that exit their vigor Tracing a smooth curve on the void the hours come that have loved ours . . . And their entire ether is a poem that dilates and sets forth As the prow of sleep enters the life that desires another life As gulfs open a secret pulse and from each of their beats a girl emerges singing in myrtle Singing amid the tulles of colored winds, ah! beloved existences . . .

Flame-colored flagellation! Feathers that blind when whirling in the threshing grounds And that the wind ravages with stacks hiding from the sun’s duel When within the blond heads of inexperienced adventures it starts Explosions—when the paces of desires are inflamed shaking the angry bridges And all the labor drips in diamonds And all the labor falls from the glory of a day that has known the insatiable unfolding of youth . . . Blood to this act! Blood to our acts—to the burning touches of the earthly world blood! For we have thrown an armful of tree-barks carved with names to the still hopeful beach

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For we have loosened all our bridles conquering the fresh valleys of the south wind For we have stirred the eyelids of each of our emotions in a pandemonium of buzzes and colorings We believed in our Footsteps—lived in our Footsteps—declared our Footsteps just!

f.

g.

Labor of pigeons the day’s shoulders bend under the calm of their sun The incomparable birds tremble with their entire bodies upon the adored peaches It is the light they have embraced that heightens them to the hearts of an existence diverting All the routes of the zephyrs to where emotions are burning Where all bosoms clasp their images invincible trophies of a pure life And the long wait is a seed that rends the entire soil to discover springtime Deep extension of force all the way to the gazing stars! Ah the naked bodies carved on the gables of time—the circles of hours That found ours and fought one to one until Love shone Love that takes us and gives us back like children on Earth’s apron!

Tomorrow too will be morning—but we shall ride today to the sun’s hiding places With golden brazzeras we shall sail out to danger beyond the cape of good reflection To the swordlike friendships of promises that installed kiosks in the midst of joy Raising their flames like the light bodies of goodness We shall surprise the courageous slings of ocean-faring verve Clapping our palms until Earth listens and opens all the petals of her mysteries Tomorrow too will be morning—but we shall offer our hours today as fuel to the decreed advance So let the wounds of sorrow resort to another dusk—keep silent in the mirror of another lake Let the swans of sensibilities hide in the flora of a whispered oasis The plowings of courage are made for war songs of greenery bent by wind and word!

Nikos Gatsos (1912–1992)

​F i v e

​C

lose to the thirties surrealist nucleus, Gatsos produced but a slim volume in 1943 (the bulk of which is contained herein). His later involvement in writing song lyrics, most notably for Manos Hadjidakis, had mixed results, including some memorable ones (as in his many nonsense songs and his imaginative use of folk motifs, reminiscent of Lorca), the volume and popularity of his commercial work dimming the significance of his self-imposed silence. Yet Amorgos remains a prime indication of a new sensibility brought to Greek writing by surrealism, with its creative-cum-subversive use of folk tradition, immersed in dark humor. His translations of Lorca’s poetry and drama are classic. “He was the second, after Embirikos . . . [O]ne of the five or six people in the whole of Greece (along with Nikitas Randos, Nikos Engonopoulos, and Nanos Valaoritis) who proved to be true possessors of the secret. I mean: of enchantment, of the marvelous” (Odysseus Elytis).

From Amorgos (1943) Amorgos Κακοί μάρτυρες ανθρώποισιν οφθαλμοί και ώτα βαρβάρους ψυχάς εχόντων1 ΗΡΑΚΛΕΙΤΟΣ (1) With their homeland tied to the sails and the oars hung up on the wind The castaways slept calm like dead beasts in the bedsheets of sponges

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Yet the eyes of the algae are turned to the sea In case the south wind carries them back with the wet-painted lateens And a lost elephant is always worth more than two girl’s breasts that stir If only the roofs of desert mountain chapels are lit by the craving of the evening star If the birds wave on the masts of the lemon tree With the firm white blow of the young walk Then winds shall come bodies of swans that remained pure tender immobile With the steamrollers of shops in the cyclones of kitchen gardens When the women’s eyes became coals and the chestnut sellers’ hearts were broken When the harvest stopped and the crickets’ hopes started So that is why my brave lads with the wine kisses and leaves in your mouths I want you to go naked out in the rivers And sing the Barbary Coast like the joiner hunts for lentisks Like the viper passes through the orchards of barley With her proud wrathful eyes And like flashes of lightning thresh the youths And do not laugh do not cry do not rejoice Do not squeeze your shoes vainly as though planting planetrees Do not become DESTINY For the golden eagle is not a closed drawer He is not a plum tree’s tear nor a nenuphar’s smile Nor a dove’s flannel nor a Sultan’s mandolin Nor a silken dress for the head of a whale. He is a marine saw that butchers the gulls He is a carpenter’s pillow he is a beggar’s watch He is fire at a smithy that mocks the priests’ wives and lulls the lilies He is the Turks’ intermarriage the Australians’ fair He is the lair of Hungarians Where in the autumn hazelnut trees hold their secret meetings They see the prudent storks paint their eggs black And they too lament him They burn their nightgowns and wear the duck’s petticoat They lay stars on the ground for the kings to step on With their silver charms with the crown and purple They scatter rosemary over the lawns

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For the mice to pass and reach another cellar To enter other churches and eat the Communion Tables And the owls my children The owls howl And the dead nuns rise and dance With tambourines tympani and violins with pipes and lutes With flags and censers with herbs and veils With the bear’s breeches in the frozen valley They eat the mushrooms of martens They throw a coin for St. John’s ring and for the Negro’s florins They mock the witches They cut a priest’s beard with Colokotronis’s cutlass2 They bathe in the steam of incense And then slowly chanting they enter the earth and fall silent As fall the waves as falls the cuckoo at dawn as falls the lamp in the evening Thus in a deep jar the grape dries and on a fig tree’s steeple the apple yellows Thus with a flamboyant cravat On the tent of a vine the summer is breathing Thus sleeps all naked ’mid the white cherry trees a tender love of mine A girl unwithering like an almond branch With her head leaning over her elbow and her palm on her florin Upon its matinal warmth when quiet like a thief From the window of spring the morning star comes to awaken her! They say that mountains tremble and that firs are enraged When the night crunches the nails of tiles for hobgoblins to enter When hell swallows the foaming toil of torrents Or when the seam of the pepper plant becomes the north wind’s plaything. Only the oxen of Achaeans in the thick prairies of Thessaly Graze vigorous and strong beneath the eternal sun that observes them Eat green grass poplar leaves celery drink clear water from the ditches Smell the sweat of the earth and then fall heavily asleep in the willow’s shade Throw away the dead Heraclitus said and saw the sky turn pale And saw in the mud two tiny cyclamens kissing And he too fell down to kiss his own lifeless body in the hospitable soil Like the wolf descends from the forests to see the dog’s carcass and cry

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What good is it to me that drop which shines on your forehead? I know upon your lips the thunder wrote its name I know upon your eyes an eagle built his nest But here on the humid coast one road only exists One false road alone and you must traverse it You must sink in the blood before time overtakes you And reach the other side to rejoin your companions Flowers birds deer To find another sea another tenderness To hold the bridles of Achilles’ horses Instead of sitting silent scolding the river And throwing stones at it like Kitsos’s mother.3 For you shall be lost and your beauty shall wither. Amid the branches of an osier I watch your childhood shirt dry Make it life’s banner to shroud death with And may your heart not yield May your tear not fall on this inexorable earth As there once fell on the frozen desert the penguin’s tear It is no use complaining Life will be the same everywhere with the fife of snakes in the land of phantoms With the song of thieves in the forests of scents With the knife of a sorrow in the cheeks of hope With the affliction of a spring deep in the owlet’s heart If only a plough is found and a sharp scythe within a joyful hand If only there bloom A little wheat for the feasts a little wine for memory a little water for dust . . . In the grieved one’s yard the sun does not rise Only worms come out to laugh at the stars Only horses grow from the anthills And bats devour birds and piss semen. In the grieved one’s yard the night does not set Only foliages vomit a river of tears When the devil comes to mount the dogs And the crows swim in a well of blood. In the grieved one’s yard the eye is dried up The brain is frozen and the heart petrified

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Frogs’ fleshes hang from the spider’s teeth Fasting locusts yell on the feet of vampires. In the grieved one’s yard only black grass grows Yet a wind went by on a night of May A walk light as the thrill of a plain A kiss from the foam-crested sea. And if you are thirsty for water we shall squeeze a cloud If you are hungry for bread we shall slaughter a nightingale Only wait a moment for the bitter rue to open For the black sky to flash and the mullein to blossom. Yet it was but a wind that blew a lark that flew It was the face of May the whiteness of the moon A walk light as the thrill of the plain A kiss from the foam-crested sea. Awake clear water from the root of the pine to find the eyes of sparrows and revive them by watering the soil with basil scent and lizard hisses. I know it you are a naked vein beneath the terrible gaze of the wind you are a silent sparkle amid the brilliant multitude of stars. You are perceived by nobody nobody stops to listen to your breath but you with your heavy walk in the arrogant nature shall one day reach the leaves of the apricot tree shall ascend the agile bodies of tiny espartos and roll from the eyes of a beloved one like an adolescent moon. There is an immortal stone on which a passing human angel once wrote his name and a song that nobody yet knows not even the maddest of children not even the wisest of nightingales. It is now enclosed in a cave of the mount Devi amid the ravines and gullies of my native land but when one day it opens and this angelic song springs up against destruction and time the rain will suddenly stop and the mud will dry up the swallows will be resurrected the osiers will shiver and the people with the cold eyes and the pale faces will upon hearing the bells ring in the cracked steeples find festive hats to wear and flamboyant bows to tie on their shoes. For then nobody will jest anymore the blood of streams will overflow the animals will cut their bridles in the mangers the grass will grow green at the stables up on the tiles fresh poppies and wreaths of May will rise and red fires will be lit on all crossroads at midnight. Then one by one the frightened girls will come to throw their last garment into the fire and they will dance completely naked all around it exactly as at the time we were young and a window opened at dawn for a flame-colored carnation to grow on their breast. My children the memory of ancestors may be a deeper consolation and a more precious company

Nikos Gatsos    1 6 7

than a handful of rosewater and the drunkenness of beauty may be nothing else but the sleeping rosebush of Eurotas. Goodnight then I see falling stars cradling your dreams yet I hold between my fingers the music for a better day. The voyagers of India have more to tell you than the Byzantine chroniclers. Man in the course of his mysterious life Bequeathed to his descendants signs multiple and worthy of his immortal descent As he also bequeathed traces of the twilight’s ruins snowballs of celestial reptiles diamond kites and hyacinths’ gazes Amid sighs tears hunger lamentations and cinder of subterranean wells. How much I loved you I alone know I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades And with the moon’s mane I embraced you and we danced on the summer plains Upon the reaped stubble and together we ate the picked clover Great black sea so many pebbles around your neck so many colored jewels in your hair. A ship enters the coast a rusty noria groans A tuft of blue smoke in the rosy horizon Resembling the wing of a fluttering crane Armies of swallows await to welcome the brave Naked arms rise with anchors carved on their pits Cries of children merge with the west wind’s twitter Bees go in and out of the nostrils of cows Handkerchiefs of Calamata wave And a distant bell paints the sky with indigo Like the voice of a sounding board traveling amid the stars So many centuries gone From the soul of Goths and from the domes of Baltimore And from the lost Saint-Sophia the great monastery. But up there on the high mountains who are those watching With their untroubled gaze and calm face? Which conflagration’s echo is this dust in the air? Is it Kalyvas gone to war or is it Levendoyannis? Or have the Germans started a fight with the Maniates?4 ’Tis not Kalyvas gone to war ’tis not Levendoyannis Nor have the Germans started a fight with the Maniates.

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Silent towers guard a haunted princess The tops of cypresses accompany a dead anemone Tranquil shepherds with lime-tree canes sing their morning song A foolish hunter fires a rifle-shot ’gainst the turtledoves And an old windmill forgotten by all Sews its rotten sails alone with a dolphin’s needle And descends from the slopes with the fair northwest wind As Adonis used to descend from the paths of Helmos to bid Golfo good evening.5 For years and years I fought with ink and hammer my tormented heart With gold and fire to make you an embroidery An orange-tree hyacinth A blooming quince tree to console you I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades And with the moon’s mane I embraced you and we danced on the summer plains Upon the reaped stubble and together we ate the picked clover Great black solitude so many pebbles around your neck so many colored jewels in your hair.

Matsi Hatzilazarou (1914–1987)

​S i x

​T

reated by Embirikos, who, in a breach of psychoanalytic ethics, married her in 1940, Hatzilazarou combined in her work a remarkably bold sensuality with a constant will toward poetic experimentation, which perhaps yielded its best fruits with her outstanding late poems. Although her marriage to Embirikos lasted only until 1944, this crucial period (which coincided roughly with the Nazi Occupation) gave rise to the second generation of Greek surrealists via the wartime gatherings in the Embirikos/Hatzilazarou household. Hatzilazarou is a very interesting lyrical surrealist, and the relative obscurity to which her work was consigned by critics has more than a little to do with her gender. She translated Paul Éluard’s Facile. “You were like a silence penetrated by the wind” (Andreas Embirikos).

I. From Words Have Fringes (for Javier Vilató) (first published in French, 1954, then in Greek, 1979)

Your Cry Peacock There are certain rose- or ochre-colored houses.  In the space of an afternoon sleep beneath a bee’s flight.  And the peacock’s cry in the abandoned gardens beside our agitation.  This flaying invocation. panting sounds of wings furtive cicadas locusts

Matsi Hatzilazarou    1 7 5

praying mantises upon each step in the grass stir a few harsh creakings beyond me The peacock’s cry.  Despite the arrogance of its feathers  adorned with eyes.  Echo of a marble gunwale and of ancient palm trees by the kiosks.  The hoarse harrowing voice.  It sobs.  Feel our indifferent entrails still leaving the traces of newborns.  How many how many the sun a fat-lipped ring of fire from all of whose colors from all of whose perfumes that disturb the magnolias so white fleshy like the worm beneath the stone the fire hot and radiant not confined to mercy it exercises light rides on regardless a foaming zebra a flame leaping from the rock beating enormous shadows tearing the night apart to make it day yes we live an image and the image is consumed by fire peoples and signs and numbers on which to write HERE present for once.  The peacock’s cry is a butterfly with beautiful heavy wings whose color is always sharp.  The butterfly wounds me with blue shades spotted with anxiety. Cry peacock when oddities like wars like cyclones as soon as the rose found a place beside our whispers it was named red-velvet-black (and at a very low voice feverishly) oh the delicate shadow of petals the petiole so dark with subtleties

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the thorns with piercing reflections no fathomless conviction not even doubt they might name it otherwise the red-velvet-black beside the pale breath of the window pane might raise the dead were there not enough of us alive for execution.  Cry for us you who die wordless.  There are those sick in hospitals who empty more than a skinbag of cries and are given more still—three or four bags of oxygen for curses. Yet nothing suffices anymore. Our agitations crawl closer than a dawn noon in the shade of a straw mat my little girl sits examining the poultices on her knees and the flight of the butterfly how blond it is the beetle’s ink-colored flight strikes everywhere even in children’s necks when the stirring of a diluvian sorrow destroys the night in the morning the sheets the wet hair have this smell of the olive grove embraced by nights.  Acrobatic days walk the streets from a balcony to a window.  The disheveled evenings await await with kisses left to dry in the down of shudders.  The peacock’s cry harness of all oscillations.  To enter a room darker than intestines where two blind women wash and mend their white cloths unblemished by vision.  If ever there were a nuncio of unrest with green or purple calls it is your cry peacock. the moon came to caress for me your words in the ravine you smile the wave of white shingles to dazzle my scattered glances my moistened glances

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reveling in the liveliness of the wind and the rain stretches my summer skin I swallow your smiles counting one by one the heavy drops of rain that fall on the slippery lukewarm earth It is also your cry Aeolian harp vibrating with the horrors of the battle and of the hot sunburned male your cry is the song of a Congolese sorceress it is the very tiny baby and its perfect hands. Cry peacock I hear the love within me as in my childhood I used to forget myself at the sound of the great reddish shell. That road which leads to the coast and my immigrations those building grounds then everyone tonight here in Paris it is oh so summery eleven o’clock at night so much so that Athens buzzes and beats on my temples with cups and spoons and glasses oh that tingling of heat in the coffeehouses the uncontrollable laughter of the sea breeze shakes the electric bulbs jerks the pine needles that cicado-envied one that sings in hot waves beating Athens upon my temples over there pronounces DESIRE you shall lead me there one morning then perhaps I shall kiss the wrinkly and dusty asphalt upon approaching the town.  Temperature of a cry.  Yet only for those  I I I  of the subexceptional fears only for those peacock you keep one of your cymbals which you beat upon the word eternity.  So do raise high and unleash those shrouds we execute mathematical objects anthers of death calices of wastefulness the stems when they fall lightly from a tree or a writing

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to touch the crawling ivy the ivy so green it turns black torn the brilliant leaf eaten by caterpillars and slugs in the forest shade and we used to lie on our backs amid the day’s frays and the scent of moisture on the ivy and twigs and the small hard stems uncannily like those of A or X here inexistence like the pan-eternal electronic memory and the king Assurbanipal’s slabs.  I shall have four boys and four girls and name them all Sireivax.  So that they know how to excite death and its likes with very very lively spasms of eyelids.  Louder Peacock LOUDER nothingness alone is immutable for there even exists a lethal cry. “Hear if it’s raining” you flow in the Seine your drops in legions multiplying up to horror where the number of a hundred and twenty three billions of trillions 123,000,000,000,000,000,000 drops are the submerged and irrational straw game of the same drops of thought but never visible enough to be sucked in one by one to mirror in their limpidity the world’s commotion before those sudden immobilities how oh how can we not meet o thin black line on a map of the suburbs I read your name again “Hear if it’s raining”

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II. From No Doubt. Dedication in ReverseDédicace à Rebours (1985) Dedication in Reverse [Written in two versions: one in Greek with some French sentences, one in French with some English sentences. What follows is an amalgam of the two. The author’s original English expressions, from the second version, are reproduced in italics. The French expressions used in both versions are retained here.] For him with the virile voice-gaze and his hands of big wings that I do not forget  in the afternoon you said  for thirty years I’ve been waiting for you  it was the first time that I felt “le vierge le vivace et le bel aujourd’hui” then a violent wind of love broke a window wide open inside me  and big drops of delight entered as the buzzing south wind turned round the corner of my heart  this body is earth  thirsty for you it learned the inundations of love  such a lot methinks I’m gonna say such a lot that I’d hidden away I’ll lay it here as best I can and I don’t care what happens I’ll dig arcades under over inside the words how can we communicate otherwise  for you see strangers with different languages came to moor at our own buoys  how I thrust my hands under my armpits waiting for you in the nights when I get cold  so this very moment I thrust here as I shall elsewhere words either stolen or my own which you like so that the muzzle of my text may caress you  again when I find something that is yours I’ll eat crunch swallow it until one time in the sun’s heat it will appear as tiny sweat over my mouth  I’d like to put beside you other things of my liking  places scattered with daffodils or great wild daisies and farther away an enormous cypress of Lebanon  at other places sandhills with drums of Doric columns will be lain in lines You shall receive that cubical cage that I have promised you with little red carnations inside flying to and fro and singing ardently  and when my verve leaves me breathless I would then like you to take my words as ornaments resembling partridge feathers  I would like some of the jokes we repeated together (ah those complicities) to smile still with cavities on the lips’ corners  I would like the two of us to have been to town alibi of all clouds  I would like when the beams down on the floor suddenly creak at night at the exact time when the furniture and chest resound I would like the creation of the celebrated work of that specific

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music called “concert for one man alone”  I would like you whose heart extends from the Bering canal by way of the entire Russia and the ravine of London Paris Geneva all the way to the Aegean Sea  I would like the old wind to bring before you right where you stand your desires whichever these may be and your desires to fall like rain like the frogs the snails and other small animals that come to us thus from distant places far beyond the seas  and the people to be taken aback by watching the perpetually blissful man  well had we not agreed that it is our good fortune to know the satisfaction of our desires gives birth to further desires I would like  oh how I would like  yes I would like  at this very moment  right now  I want to dishevel syntax a little bit and sing you as I learned to in Paris you to me are Dinosaur a most amazing one you to me are pebble soft fruit ripened by the sea I belove you I jealousy you I jasmine you I horse’s gallop you in the autumnal forest I wear me negro mask for you to want us you silken-sting me  my white cocoon you look at me  so very carefully tu m’abysses tu m’oasis je me tombeau bientôt you gougouch you ten of Giacometti’s men you to me are condor spreading over the Andes you waves surrounding the Easter Islands you my entrail how you give me birth I stem you I φόρμιγξ you1 you babble me in horn-fish  oh I like it two erect rattlesnakes turn and return sliding one around the other when they stop their embrace forms your initials tu m’es Mallarmé Rimbaud Apollinaire

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I Wellingtonia you I ocarina you I Tsepelovo Papingo Elaphotopo you I Vikos you with its bridges crossed by time I have even lied you to deceive them you my Eros aroma you my black-maned lion I sleepwalked you with me up to the precipice I recall you inconceivable and lose my sleep you battles and starry-eyed horses of Uccello you donor (bottom right of the picture) of that small yellow wild flower you centaur’s verve you entire corporation who work and walk in anonymity je te ouf quelle chaleur tu m’accèdes partout  presque je te glycine you moon where a cloud is turned on and off you why bother with the universe  the way we have arroganced it how can we ever encounter you I tender you word after word  say am I lying you sheet of paper you this pencil  my interpreter I open you drawers how why did you not come so many times I distanced you myself I’m saying it now endlessly saddened in coldness have you ever known my heart in a marvelous year we met I rob you from someone else’s hands I hear you here and there I silence you in infinite tenderness as we are so softly appeased I have still not said it all YOU UPROOT ME 2-7-1985

Miltos Sahtouris (1919–2005)

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articularly close to Engonopoulos, Sahtouris’s poetry is of vital importance in any attempt to distinguish between first- and second-generation Greek surrealism. One of the most celebrated Greek poets of his generation, the evolution of his work (unlike that of Kaknavatos or Valaoritis, whose constant transformations lie at the very antipodes of Sahtouris) does not display any particular acquaintance with, or at any rate influence by, postwar international surrealism; yet it is precisely its stubborn maintenance of a quasi-nightmarish repertory of images that invests it with a rare intensity and efficacy. “He is totally immersed in black humor. He keeps digging into it throughout his work, as a driller digs his well” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Paralogais (1948) [The title refers to a category of narrative demotic songs with a fantastic plot]

The Star Her blond hair her discolored lips her silence and a little saliva flowing from the star the hiss the wild star that blinked

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looking at Heaven and saying: I’ll burn it! The Eagle When she is asleep an eagle falls on her bed dead when she is asleep a dove perches on her right hand The eagle is thrown off the cliff by her bloodied fingers the dove is squeezed and thrown into the basket by her bloodied fingers When she awakes an eagle is standing on her bed erect when she awakes a knife cuts off her right hand The Thief The crash of the stars up above and the green grass below and an electric iron rooster emitting flames the clock stops in the clouds

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at the door the thief the panther with the long lance with the long black hair like an ancient woman with a bleeding egg in his hand all around the iron bars the jasmine the shadow of the moon the shadow of the teeth inside the blood the mud the cross the clock counts the clock does not live and her voice is heard dark her heart bubbles like an old forgotten wine forty steps down the clock counts forty forty days and forty years the clock does not live Sometimes Women Sometimes out of the cloud comes a bird flies over the houses and goes down town once it was locked for years inside the moon which is why it is so embittered so bright with only one beautiful woman’s eye Out of the cloud it goes down in the rain flies like a ghost over the houses in the streets they call it bird bird rainbird it stops at no place for if it does thousands of scattered fingers point at it

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for this is a hardened blood-painted bird it goes downtown frantically in the rain and has but one most beauteous woman’s eye Which is why its view disturbs women though some of them hide it inside their mirrors others conceal it in deep drawers and others still deep inside their bodies so it cannot be seen by the men who caress them at night nor in the morning when they dress before the mirror do they see it for this bird is too bitter too bright too scared Pasiphae The frozen hands search the clouds find the mill wheel in the clouds spinning wingless find the ghost of the headless chimney find the cross of wild menace the punctured cask of rain the spring moon extinguished smoking with lilacs all around it the frozen hands touch Ariadne’s thread then discover smashed in smithereens

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the wooden cow of the queen and also find in the clouds how shall I put it her very eyes wild crazed and thirsty like lightning The Function of White They would first throw the ropes to the four corners where the four faces were becoming white they stroke the hands then proceeded from the four corners and picked the clouds so the floor was left naked then the black roosters would start passing one by one leaving a trail of red blood upon their vanishing clocks started vainly shooting killing at random moons howled offering explosive roses that burst filling the hands with blood agony faces were slowly deprived of their eyes their brows then their mouth teeth and eyelashes became white like their clothes like the white trees like the field like all White

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II. From Face to the Wall (1952) The Scene On the table they had placed a head of clay the walls were decorated with flowers on the bed lay two paper-cut erotic bodies on the floor wandered snakes and butterflies a big dog kept guard at the corner Ropes crossed the room from all sides it would not be prudent to pull them one of the ropes pushed the bodies to love Misery on the outside was skinning the doors The Upside-Down Swallow It is not yet springtime here comes the madman pacing uncertainly happy laurel-crowned with a spoonful of red wine wonders at the clouds cages and leaves that entered deep into his snow-white beard he is pale does not see

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Inside the foliage in the flaming grass between singing wires saddened rejected the erotic corpses rot silently groaning tie their hands and rot groaning silently Does not see stands on a piece of marble the upside-down swallow and sees the erotic corpses tie their hands silently groaning and rot stands and sees the upside-down swallow

III. From The Spectres, or Joy on the Other Road (1958) History When the rusty door opened like a stage curtain it creaked like a rotten ship at a bad port the girl’s face appeared deceived in the perfume of fire and smoke her voice like a dark cinema auditorium appeared deceived and I a shirt hung on the air in the carnage was ready to fly

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the girl a living flower a lit flower a beautiful monster with upside-down mouth eyes brows a beautiful monster ticking like a clock on that magic evening finally the night proceeded the girl broke inside the mirror then again appeared enormous my face her face deformed wild bloody like cinema The Mad Hare Wandered the streets the mad hare wandered the streets escaped the wires the mad hare fell in the mud Daybreak would shine the mad hare night opened up hearts dripping blood the mad hare the world would shine Eyes filled with tears the mad hare tongue getting swollen groaned in black insect the mad hare death in the mouth

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Life Night at a drugstore a kneeling horse is eating the planks a girl with a strange burn is cured while the despairing ghost is crying on the corner The Garden It smelled of fever this was no garden strange couples walked inside wearing shoes on their  h a n d s their feet were big white and naked heads like wild epileptic moons and red roses suddenly grew as mouths that butterfly-dogs rushed to tear apart Underneath Heaven Inside the room a rain of urine

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pure winged maids are flying cadavers with a pink heaven in their heart and people with a heaven full of rotten blood are hanging waving their white feet knives emerge from their eyes enormous black anemones grow on their chests as they fly slaughter and embrace the pure maids the cadavers the rotten people under a pissed-on heaven

IV. From The Promenade (1960) The Bad Picture Bursting eggs brought sick children to the world like broken stars black doves drove the sun away with bad towels with graceless shrieks the sea was boiling her birds were burning the rejected fishes cried on the mountain and an enraged red moon was howling tied up like a slaughtered ox

V. From The Utensil (1971) Six Sudden Homotropic Figures 1.

And suddenly the lie grew dark infants walking the night raise the sick poison ascetic long sun the black cypress

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lightens death twice sleep and wrath bloom together in blood-soaked invisible gardens 2. Inside the magnetic tavern I saw the fish on the wall awaken and write in red dense letters as the lamb ran after it howling the fish and lamb were blown up their pieces blown up above a burning mass tearing the sky 3. The fish studies the cypress the holy rooster and the stupefied question swallow they have been caught around a silver death 4. The dove abounds with terror the lamb’s nails are stars the fish’s scales are stars 5. Cutting small red flames and chewing the lamb suddenly in pieces its teeth feet eyes scattered on the Cross 6. The lamb prepares a trap for the Saint a passing sun bleeds and shines divine corpses of fish are glittering Sir —Sir, it is noon and you are not awake yet

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—Sir, you have not touched your breakfast —Sir, you have had too much coffee —Sir, the sun is shining, thunder and lightning rain and snow —Sir, a red bird is stuck on your window —Sir, a black butterfly appeared on your chest —Sir, how you ride on your bike! —Sir, you are freezing —Sir, you have fever —Sir, are you dead?

VI. From Colorwounds (1980) The Rosebush The baker and the rosebush got two eggs each the rosebush made two breads and the baker’s wife two birds so I keep wandering racking my mind asking it to count the roses one to a hundred but why should bread be so bitter bread bitter water secret bread bitter

VII. From Submersion (1990) The Visit Βʹ or The New-Zealanders That afternoon I woke up with the strong desire to go down to Piraeus and visit the K. family. Once, a long time ago, I was very close to that family. Yet, as often happens in such cases, our meetings became less and less frequent, until we ended up not seeing each other at all. It must have been five or six years since our last meeting.

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Those were my thoughts, as I was ringing their bell on that spring afternoon. A lion opened the door.—You desire? he asked. Behind him appeared something that I would call a human skeleton but for his integral head and some meat crusts hanging from his naked bones. —He made me what I am now! howled the strange creature pointing at the lion. —Where are the others! I shouted. Then the lion began to weep. Then he started shrinking shrinking shrinking. Finally he became a small golden pin. I picked it up and pinned it on my tie. —Quick, back to Athens! I shouted furiously to the first cab that came my way. The Case of the Unfortunate Lady Mrs. E was a beautiful lady who was suddenly struck by this curious illness and started withering away assuming several successive forms finally becoming an egg, its yolk and white poured into a small pan. Then the illustrious Japanese doctor Fu-Mi who happened to be passing by that town undertook her therapy. Under Fu-Mi’s treatment the egg lady started assuming her previous forms little by little . . . so the last time I saw her . . . she was sitting on a rocking chair, her body integral, again beautiful, a little pale and with a wreath of golden leaves on her hair.

Hector Kaknavatos (b. 1920)

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orn in Piraeus. A lifelong contributor to Greek surrealism with poetry, essays, and translations. Yet Kaknavatos’s first collection, in 1943, was followed by two decades of silence, partly owing to political prosecutions which also affected his professional status. A mathematician by training, Kaknavatos brought fresh tools to surrealist poetics. Besides his original work, he is mostly responsible for introducing the writings of Joyce Mansour (first presented by Nanos Valao‑ ritis in the journal Pali) to the Greek public; he has also translated works by René Char, Julien Gracq, and Marcel Schwob. “I call Hectorism the ardent temper of the Homeric Hector, who always wanders ‘outside the walls,’ urging his army to fight; thus, like a new ‘Hector,’ Kaknavatos gathers and moves his flock of words upon a heavenly oilcloth, where they shine like constellations” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Fuga (1943) Study for Decorating a Sea-Bottom of 293 Atmospheres (excerpt) [dedicated to D. P. Papaditsas] (Garlands in the seventh drawing room) Long-standing taste of octahedral crystals so many bushes with badges of luxury sun so many cats, millions of cats seeing off the prow of a flower

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so that Priam took off his gloves in disgust surrendering Troy to the stubborn Achaeans. On a night of fireworks pulled out of the imprinted blouse of the lady with symphonic eyelids I was flying on enormous wings over the agate bell towers. So fluid the river’s touch full of velvets and snake eyes that I squeezed that heart in my palms to fit it inside a star’s calyx. I had been wounded since the time when I was a beautiful icthyosaurus deprived of mackintosh and armpits so that the sun would forget its voice. Ah . . . Where are you Barbarossa with your silken smoking pipe and the castles around your forehead to bandage the leg of an albatross wounded in Spianada of Corfu two and a half hours from the Patriarchate, Good day to you!

II. From Narrative (1974) Saying Stones Apparently it could not be otherwise. In the beginning integral and bison then in a thousand pieces with negation you still existed as fraction continuing as a sign of birds or three fingers tied to the musk engraving spells and vertical lines, then lowering bruises and beams amid numbers until you counted yourself counted until there was no silencing . . . . . . charted the clay that demon the wing inside of you trembling and talking saying stones walking miracles crying: save the irrational

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your other intestine snatched by the dog and lost by the wine-plants of the galaxy . . . All night you were shooting at a crimson moon; in the morning you were found amid cigarette butts. One of Us On the outside, nothing special, like the rest of us. Two hands and two feet. Twenty fingers taming sleep. The index the middle the thumb solid corner when the soul coupled with shadows. Skull stringed like the rest of us. Zygomatic bones in unstable equilibrium indicate a sensitive musicologist. Pace regular. Profession networked exalter of legal personalities. Beliefs slightly spongy football-wise perfect I’m telling you; fully accordant with the prescriptions of the quaternary, our apostolic deaconry, our very own man . . . And yet—in the moonlight—oh boy that transparence on his skin he shone full different on the inside parabolic with the upward crucible head downward legs  d i v e r g e n t  on the ascent center of symmetry the duodenum sign that he once was a well his hand dipped up to the shoulder in the moon’s larynx was receiving messages. Then door to door he sold morning sperm and masks.

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III. From Laestrygones St. (1978) Archer Dog Now in the fourth dimension I continue with what was left unsaid. I smile at chromium yesterday at zinc tomorrow I die on lignite copper and nickel in my hands bleed for I must straighten our resurrectional nails and the antimony international from the trench an endless drum. God-sent aphorisms from the pulpits with breviary and edicts  p e r s u a d e  with bayonets and stock exchanges, with news-in-brief the fourth estate and the right-hand chanter his cheek glazing his walk taught by a goose new briefcase under his arm made of your leather o motherland. Only my red-skinned sweat stands aside faultless obeisance, smile newly manufactured then suddenly unleashes its cinnamon dog and all hell breaks loose. Thy will not be done, no no.

IV. From In Perpetuum (1983) Learn you the conceited one amid crystals: My heavy ego is the sacred monster the attracted axis is the signalman in form-breeding the unit a multitude mocking intellect and I am but a lens showing others otherwise ejaculating its magic and whose focus is you you forever Yes you are not mistaken It is tomorrow’s monsters gesturing

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and hooting through my mouth mocking the chromosomes the straight line’s labyrinth the ropewalker’s ecstasy the insubordinate bell tower of my beauty . . . o lizard o merciless mother of twelve sultans when her eyes . . . Yes you are not mistaken

V. From Gear Box (1987) When language does nothing but serve Logos it destroys the luminous disorder of things; they in turn avenge themselves by burying language in their cinder. Breast-Licking in Wagon-Lit Two o’clock after midnight On the station’s platform not a soul The lamp is gaining height that is because the stationmaster has trampled on his vows eavesdropping on stamps ignoring chlorophyll and oh I oh my bones shattered by shouts of salt, calcium, symmetry. The train never came, only its stimulation only its irony of my committing incest with most anything for instance with a moon-drunk sea urchin or with my mistress who underneath the most eleven midnight is sucking on her rhinoceros. Plan for an Alibi My dog an eighth-century copy cut in four along with further crippled codes I may sell as potato seeds

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I’ve children to feed my roof needs tar paper my henhouse needs corn my mice need cheese I need the Ptolemaian Cleo on my mattress and it’s raining. 1985

VI. From Chaotics I (1997) Time imprisoned in the hourglass is deaf in vestments veils charms it becomes ballerina promoted to lector And while officiating as womb’s neck while reveling in the chaotic eight it is suddenly torn in the middle spilling intestines and other resins First the infernal hand of William Blake undigested behind it a strange christ partly pregnant one eye spilt out then revolution a vampire foetus dwelling on wings so when that too is torn the biblical  w o e  is heard and all at once a wrathful polyp rises the once-pale yet alas at present stammering dynamite. Seven Gladioli of Chaos I. Perhaps diachrony loses seconds as we might say “loses blood” yet Chaos is a sharp-topped vowel it signifies it showers

 

II. O gladioli of Chaos light up the vaginas orgasm comes as a tempest announcing euphonies unspoken ova of words

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the mind drunk on causality walks backward resorting to the straight line III.

Birth does not presuppose a womb it continues extrauterine The Word has no birthright it never was “in the beginning” the word had not yet met its bones could not stand the humidity of corpuscles

 

IV.

The digital tiger straight in the eyes o friction’s bud look at him straight in the eyes

V. Abstraction has neither rocket-base nor aorta nor a pair of gloves for my pain plaint plight Chaos signifies yet says not

 

VI.

With the sparrows within N love on the bridges of Seine And how restless the gaze of Apollo while the gladioli of Chaos are swaying

VII. Do not take guard against disorder she’s sharp Order is stiffness Take guard Order at the dissection room Look inside her for neoplasm for atypical cells of number for concretions of time and space Chaos signifies yet says not. Staff The sun may be in Capricorn or any other precipice yet Being is in its jackals This means that talented moles creep inside our cellars This means that

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the coziness of orange groves is abolished This means that favor goes to the indigo brassiere of Teiresias the implantation of a reserve skull the prohibition of the intellect This means that Movement is the sole gorgonian reveling on the unit This means that the soil hatches dog-barks This means that it is the unutterable of the incubation that remains unborn And this means that it is its weight that makes light black as pitch . . . So that is why the white-clothed Bread is made of Chaos. Genealogy of Bombshells

For Mr. Savvas Michail I am not the reason that fire attacks the pine tree pulling the ears of the sun Let the shell brag that it descends from rain and citrus hammock nobility ranks no more since a northern October only listen: bombshells derive from danger and rattle of revolution steering the alphabet.

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VII. Four texts on surrealism Why Surrealism Cannot Die (Lecture delivered on 11-29-1976; in: Φραγκίσκη Αμπατζοπούλου (ed.) . . . Δεν άνθησαν ματαίως—Ανθολογία Υπερρεαλισμού (Frangiski Abatzopoulou, . . . Den Anthisan Mataios—Anthologia Yperrealismou [. . . Did Not Bloom in Vain— Anthology of Surrealism]), Athens: Νεφέλη [Nefeli], 1980) To the problem: “Is surrealism past or present? What is it that may have died in surrealism, and hence must be buried? Is it because there are gravediggers or because there is a corpse?,” the answer will, in my view, be found by means of a brief analysis rather than a recourse to circumstantial evidence. Surrealism is a movement within the general activity of human presence. Its ultimate target is to liberate all the parameters that constitute the face of humanity. To restore, within their operative role, the matter that becomes inert under the overwhelming pressure of the intellectual structure, whose instrument is faceless reason, in its invariable form and its standardized products, served and advertised as the only ones consumable by the human species, if the latter wants to call itself sensible. Yet let us not be misunderstood. Surrealism does not declare war against reason and its function (thanks to which a facet of knowledge was, in whatever way, organized) with the aim of abolishing it. That would have gone further, to the point of rejecting that field which we call scientific, of rejecting, that is, that point of contact with the thing, of the knot, as we might say, where matter is tamed in a predetermined manner, resulting in its use as a system of reference, within which what we call “conscious” is confirmed as recognizable. Surrealism protests against the monocracy of such a “reality” as that constituted by the rationalist violence exerted by a status quo of inflexible consciousness. It considers unacceptable the control of consciousness by directed thought. It announces the exit from that standardized schema, from the mask of the human face, as made up by the exclusively mechanistic view of the thing, with its monosemantic cognitive/theoretic lash. Surrealism wants to bring into the light, into the space of the conscious, all the material suppressed by the logic invader and, by means of overthrowing restraint, unleash associations to shatter cores, to contract the typically unconnected elements into improbable structures, transform the experiences, illuminated within a space that is surreal, for inside it everything conceived by the spirit exists, charged with all the force of our sensibility. So, surrealism refuses the judgment of reason on the concepts of our imagination, left to its creative revelry. From that point of view, and within the context of the general

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problem of cognition, surrealism opens a cognitive/theoretic window to the chaos where the roots of human sensibility lie. At this point it must be repeated that surrealism is a vanguard, I might say the most aggressive vanguard. It is, taken as a whole, a declaration of our innermost rights, those pertinent to the depths described by that perhaps intangible phrasal symbol “unconscious,” and it is a reality that lies beyond the coordinates of directed thought, a  s u r r e a l i t y. Surrealism has thus a discovery to its credit; or, as it has been so aptly put, surrealism is itself a discovery, not an invention. I would like to add boldly that, having agreed that any structure is essentially purposeful and serves to the construction of an apparatus with a standardized functionality, it is reason itself that is an invention. I may also say this: that, in facing the sum total of the ways in which we set our expressive reactions in motion, reason, as a system of connecting the means of expression, is a “dialect” whose employment is taught and which is accordingly employed. Let specialists ponder this, and, if they are persuaded that humans cannot employ any language but this dialect, then let them declare it. I fear, however, that they will be declaring a dogma, not a truth. There is one problem: could it be that surrealist expression is finally a “metalanguage,” meaning that it concerns and expresses a mass psyche, in the shape of a dialectical reaction on the part of the material accumulated in our common unconscious space by rationalist thought, as though it were the latter’s refuse? Surrealism set in motion an infinite set of functions (if I may be allowed to use mathematical terminology) whose operation reports to a field of definitions consisting of the perpetually renewable unconscious space, their values lying in those areas where our consciousness expands. The relations that shape these functions could be the subject of a theory of probabilities referring to qualities. By these thoughts I react to the diagnosis that would pronounce surrealism dead. Seen thus, surrealism (in my view)  c a n n o t  d i e,  even if it wants to. It is an operation, a syndrome of unfurling existence, something resembling a metabolism that introduces improbable relations to our experiences and their dimensions, digging within us galleries where imagination, liberated, unbound, uncontrolled, locates the essences of all things by freeing them from their rational combinations, letting them function as autonomous values, refer to any system of reference, or to none at all, and extend to the full range of their spirit and sensibility. S u r r e a l i s m  i s  n o t  d e a d.  Those eager to bury it either have not understood it thus or have not understood anything about it at all; or else they are themselves suspect of numerous things, already known from the movement’s history during the cosmogonic period of two world wars, with the political fanaticism peculiar to it and the consequent commitments and rearrangements.

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They are thus in a hurry to grant its historicity, distinction, glory, recognition, so long as it goes into pension. Behind these transparent intentions one may even discern a bitterness for the inability of surrealism’s detractors to express themselves within a field where challenge tests intellectual responsibility. They called it a School, which, once the spatial and temporal coordinates of its birth have been noted, is obliged to die. Yet the only thing that did break up was the comradeship among the bearers of its idea, which was a very natural thing to happen. Surrealism, however, is not a school. We have just said what it is. If something about it absolutely must have died, then we might perhaps accept that politicized surrealism, or “literary” surrealism, have; things, in other words, that surrealism never was, or wanted to be.  P o e t i c  surrealism cannot possibly die. In any case, there is a difference between literature and poetry. Propositions for a Seminar on Themes Pertinent to Surrealist Language (slightly abridged) (Lecture delivered on 5-16-1990; printed in Συντέλεια [Synteleia], no. 2–3, Autumn 1990–Winter 1991)







1. Let us agree from the start that Poetry intends to be a furious speech. 2. For the investigation and approach of surrealist language we must keep in mind, first, what the sources of speech are, according to surrealism. Then, what position, if any, surrealism maintains vis-à-vis the syntax of sentences. Will the latter have to both introduce and bear a meaning? Is there a question of priorities? Is speech (and the word, its cell) liberated from the dominance of meaning, or is it at the latter’s service? 3. For surrealism, in the spirit of the individual’s fullest possible liberation from the clichés of a narrow aesthetic as well as moral order that neither wanted, nor even deigned, to take a look at the innermost layers of our ego, those lying below the bark of consciousness, language was the first field of conflict and refutation of the ties that isolate the individual within a rhythm of thought and sense which finally incinerates individual existence. 4. In rebaptizing language, surrealism could not but assign to words, not the borrowed specific gravity that they assume when serving reason, so that the latter may describe the visible relations of things, those already or about to be approved by rationalized thought; but, rather, an inherent value, obtained by attaching to them, charging them with, an autonomous radiation, to the extent that each word attains being on a different scale according to its objectively fortuitous correlation to its unpredictable “correspondent.” 5. At this point, let me say something else: in its linguistic emission, surrealism

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does not hesitate to recall on the proscenium of speech any word or metaphor that has, or had, been marginalized by the established poetic speech, the established aesthetic necessity that insists upon serving the shameful cause of linguistic elegance, or the sweetened nausea of certain suspect lyrical forms, which aim at corrupting some emotional centers of pleasure. 6. A short while ago, I made reference to objective chance (without analyzing it, of course, as this is not my topic right now) and to the role of the unpredictable in the correspondences of words with things, or even with other words. I would now like to say something that might qualify as unheard-of: namely, that in surrealism, with the outlets to the fortuitous and the unpredictable that it entails, the organization of speech is reminiscent of the presence and role of Chaos. I am here using the word Chaos in a manner fully alien to its familiar use and meaning, which tends to reject and suppress it as identical to “abominable.” In order to make myself clear, I have to say that I am using it in the sense given to it by contemporary science, preoccupied for several years now with the necessity of reevaluating and expanding the parameters of our cognitive/theoretic conceptions. Of course, we are now referring specifically to the rationally unpredictable, given that, with the spectral development of the word within surrealist language, the electric discharge caused by surprise creates a short circuit, thereby giving birth to a space of Chaos. I might say that this phenomenon of speech reveals an interlexical movement as a symptom of linguistic temperance. 7. Is the surrealist language a communicative one? Can it maintain a code? First of all, let us not forget surrealism’s respect for and faith in the role of the unconscious in the substantiation of consciousness, as the latter tends to be formed, to be the formation of a movement, or to be itself the movement of a withdrawal from the chaotic disorder of the former. Surrealism, as we know, envisions a fuller reality (hence “surreality”) than that established by the operation of consciousness alone. It demands that the substance and role of the unconscious be recognized. It demands that it be endowed with a function on a level equivalent to that which constitutes the conscious layer of our cognitive movement. And the unconscious, according to Lacan, has its own language. So, as to whether the surrealist language is, or can be, communicative, I would say this: First of all, who can claim that one instrument, in this case our linguistic instrument, becomes an integral entity, that is, one without transmutations and exchanges, owing to the will that has alone led to its plastic shape, it too driven by necessity? Who, in other words, can certify that language was given to us, or constructed, exclusively for the sake of communication? The latter limits itself to those codified

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types imposed by its practice. The surrealist language does not accept being driven by such codes, albeit not because of a supposed aversion to communication on surrealism’s part. Not at all. It desires communication, albeit within an environment irrigated by the imagination, oxygenated by the wind of the unpredictably fortuitous, even of the hardly probable. 8. This means that the surrealist language does not derive the noun, adjective, and other parts of speech solely out of the stock of the orders supplied by a dogmatic grammar, with the syntactic style of the paratactic structure of a phrase, so that meaning is served as the dominant intention of speech. Thus, for example, the adjective may become noun and, inversely, the noun may assume the adjective’s place and function. The phrase is structured (if at all) automatically, by means of an associative escalation without limits or terms of selection. 9. With surrealist poetry, language enters a pathology that highlights its dynamism. Surrealist poetry thus reformulates the fields of language and their flora. Surrealism dared reveal the innate vigor of the word, that is, its capacity to create links between heterogeneous elements. What is more, it dared introduce in poetry a disorder more deafening than that of incoherence and of the conjunction of heterogeneous things: it dared introduce even heterotopies, without paying heed to the “disquiet” that these give rise to, since (as Michel Foucault notes in the preface of his book Les Mots et les Choses) “they prevent the naming of this or that, for they break common names or complicate them, for they ruin ‘syntax’ from the beginning . . . they exhaust propositions, arrest the words upon themselves, contest radically all possibility of grammar; they disturb myths and render sterile the lyricism of phrases.” Lyricism is not at all the predominant aim of surrealist poetry. If it occurs, it will not be rejected out of hand. So the gate is open to any word, any term from any source of experiences, concepts, fantasies, each and every branch of science. Mathematics, physics, chemistry, geology, biology, biochemistry, meteorology, architecture, painting. Surrealist poetry knows no racism of words. After All, I Am a Poet (slightly abridged) (Essay on Nikos Engonopoulos; from Καθημερινή [Kathimerini], 5-25-1997) One who insists upon whichever established and stagnant philosophical, aesthetic etc., thesis or baggage, and who for this very reason resists Engonopoulos’s assault, is not bound to remain for long behind those trenches; for this assault aims at the

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overthrowing of the perpetually reproduced framework, within which reality suffers from sterility. And while it is its very structures that produce its catalysts, it imposes a logic which condemns to rejection and marginalization whatever and whoever questions it. Yet this questioning is essential to reality itself, and (here is the contradiction) is reproduced by it, for the latter is obliged to face the “osmosis” of the conscious and the unconscious spaces, since the products of the psycho-mental energy liberated by this osmosis are precisely those justified by the tokens of our irreversible urge toward the beyond of the horizon composed of our agonies. With such a conception, it is only natural that Engonopoulos stood on the side of surrealism; of this movement that was “the most violent toward the rationalization of the poetic field, as well as of the intellectual fields parallel to it; a return to the original chaos,” [Y. Themelis, Our Modern Poetry] which, rooted in the utmost depths of the first stammering words of the human species, in terms of both speech and representation, enriched the cultural map of our century with new coordinates, on a universal level; while at the same time the acceptance or rejection of its revolutionary declaration became a criterion of either risk or foolishness for those who plunged, or were plunged, into the adventures of the mind. “From the beginning,” A. Karantonis tells us,1 “Engonopoulos was the type of the ‘permanent surrealist revolutionary,’ whose paradigm and stance would satisfy the demands of a Breton. He is the man who remained faithful to the most dangerous, far-left position of the surrealist movement, even if he did not happen to be its originator, leader, and shaper.” The most extreme, original one, faithful to the tactics and ways of surrealist behavior and production, as laid out clearly by Benjamin Péret. The most intransigent, vociferous one, without even the slightest reduction in his phrasal and chromatic tones, unlike what has been observed in the works of other first-class Greek surrealists. “There is in Engonopoulos” (continues A. Karantonis), “something unique, which assigns to him a special, solitary position in our modern poetry and even in our era.” [Karantonis] thus attempts to identify the cause of Engonopoulos’s motives for resorting to surrealism—an attempt that does not do justice to the perspicacity (so we think) of the celebrated critic. There it is: “Embirikos” (observes A. K.) “accepts surrealism as a visionary. There is an absolute good faith in his texts. For Engonopoulos, surrealism was but a means to an end, a way of proving his intransigence, his uncompromising character; it supplied him with the weapons by which to attack a depressing routine, to provoke it consciously”; he goes on to say, “All of his characteristics compose a psychointellectual Ego, polyhedral, oversensitive, and, maybe for that very reason, offensive, embittered, and tantalizingly egocentric. This Ego, reinforced by a natural tendency to exaggerate its own value, regards itself as a swan in the mud, when the surrounding reality is reflected in its eyes. He only envisions the spectacle of his own superiority, and this vision, forming a thick barrier

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of misunderstandings and disappointments between himself and reality, helps him get across to the redeeming world of surrealist phenomena (our emphasis), where the pure, the unusual, the uncontrolled, the unformed, the extravagant, give him the impression that he can create without taking the law of necessity into account.” So, the “spectacle of his superiority” is the sole reason for which, upon finding himself against a thick barrier of misunderstandings and disappointments, Engonopoulos resorted to the redeeming vehicle of surrealism! . . . And all this, despite his own confessions to the effect that he did not encounter surrealism while he was being persecuted by hysterical barks and cotton daggers, but that, on the contrary, it always existed within him, manifestly so. The view of the critic A. K. is based on his invention of the poet/painter’s psychic weight, which would explain (?) his provocation toward routine and his attack against it merely by referring to certain unrestrained temperamental tendencies pertinent to his choices. So, no idea about the high mission of art and of his own function within it would seem to inspire Engonopoulos, who is really nothing but the energumen of a certain psychological anomaly. Let us note in passing that A. Karantonis is not among the insulters of our surrealist poet, although we did refer above to certain cotton daggers, not including, of course, a detailed mention of their prominent use within the milieu of “colleagues.” We shall refrain from evoking the despicable stance adopted, not of course by the ignorants influenced by the malevolence and bad faith of certain journalists, but rather by the “intellectual world” of the period, which, having failed (truly, how few, how incredibly few were its representatives who did support the abused poet!) to give an end to the insults directed against an excellent revolutionary spirit, in other words against art itself, sadly revealed more than its mere inadequacy. And, of course, it could not have been otherwise: those insults have already turned into boomerangs and have hit at the worthlessness and stupidity of those sectors that would pretend to exclude such attributes. The poet’s mildly expressed bitterness regarding the attitudes of “colleagues” should not at all be omitted from any mention of the milieu’s mores. For, by not being stigmatized, those very “mores” corrupt profoundly the image of the leading intelligentsia and of its role, such as the world wants or imagines it to be. Engonopoulos had to write Bolívar before the slanders and sneers directed against him stopped, before the defamers were silenced. So what happened, then, with Bolívar? Did they all realize, all of a sudden, what the painter/poet’s work is and what it expresses? How so? Did Engonopoulos take a backward step, did he at last temper his harsh tone, thereby satisfying the demands of his persecutors? Perhaps his students will discover or construct an answer upon comparing Bolívar to his previous work. The biting poem entitled “Le pape aux entonnoirs” [The pope with funnels] ([French-language poem from] Do Not Distract the Driver) ends with the phrase:

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D’ailleurs, je suis poète. And since he is a poet, it goes without saying that he reserves the right to be a driver, instinctively guided toward everything that promises to be surrealities beyond the limits of the established and stagnant linguistic or plastic expression. For the current reality, with all the odious features with which suspect teleology decorates it, becomes uninhabitable “to the great, the free, the brave, the strong” of poetry. Echoes from the Adventure of the Embirikian Speech (abridged version) (From Τα Νέα [Ta Nea], 5/27/2000) It is one thing to “read” Poetry, seeing in it only a monotropic state of “linguistic” Reason and another thing to “read” it as a polytropic state of a Reason in linguistic form that excavates surrationalities. Andreas Embirikos’s work was Challenge itself! And, had we been provided with a grapheme on the action of those factors that were mobilized to pilot the reception of this work by the public, we would now have the image of the evolution of a pathology pertaining to our letters as the cost for exiting the fruitlessness of fixations upon forms about to be demolished. There is no line, stanza, sentence, or period in Embirikos’s texts in verse or prose upon which the contemporary reader, having escaped the tutelage of his/her sensibility by self-appointed shepherds of the poetic speech, does not sense the joy, the pleasure, the serenity, and most of all the vigor emitted by the speech of Andreas Embirikos, replete with intellectual and emotional impetus. His work is not only a brave declaration of poetic speech’s need to overcome its traditional stiffness, resulting from its long use as the porter of the periodically variable established good taste or the synaesthesia of ideas and emotions; it is also a lesson by means of examples on the possibility of a sudden and unpremeditated combination of substances, thus recalling upon the clavier of poetic speech the as yet unwitnessed phases of the creation of world-systems, something that may not even have crossed his mind. In the private reading of the poem (that is, beyond the climate established by the scientific analyses of philologists, linguists, and free-range gunmen of critical speech, pronouncing their censorious judgments from their unassailable positions) an elementary model might help, which would attempt to present to the reader the physiology of the excitement s/he receives from the poetic speech and the transformations of that excitement, so that the enjoyment derived from this speech would not be offered to him/her as a product manufactured by others, but would instead be the result of his/her personal harvest. Private reading thus renders the reader a kind of architect, who, urged by temperamental codes, reemploys creatively the materials of the text. The gains s/he derives are the juices of pleasure.

Nanos Valaoritis (b. 1921)

​N i n e

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orn in Lausanne, like Nicolas Calas; close to the “modernist” milieu of the 1930s from the age of eighteen, Valaoritis had an early mentor in Yorgos Seferis, but he soon frequented the Embirikos milieu and became a regular at meetings and discussions of surrealism during the war. Having developed a surrealist tendency by the mid-1940s, he spent the first postwar years in London, where he translated and introduced modern Greek poets. In 1954, Valaoritis came in contact with the French surrealist group via Marie Wilson, whom he later married, and participated in surrealist activity in Paris, Athens, and the United States. The vast body of his work, which includes a recently completed trilogy of novels and other texts not represented here, is unique in combining the experience of the Embirikos/Engonopoulos tradition with the lived actuality of postwar international surrealism. Valaoritis has also translated texts by Breton, Duprey, Mansour, Paz, Alain Jouffroy, Jean Tardieu, Jorge Luis Borges. “[M]orning and evening star, Nanos Valaoritis” (Andreas Embirikos).

I. From The Tower of Aleppo (1983; written 1945–1955) Dream Reader of Railways

H o m o Nat u r a l i t e r F e r r ov ia r i u s E st For Andreas Embirikos

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When the train halted its course abruptly, the passengers realized in horror that there was no station in sight. An exchange of glances began, full of promises, overcharged with love, between the occupants of opposite seats. Would the train ever start again? Would the hearts ever vibrate as before, thus replete with emotion? Would her eyes maintain their devotion to him? Would the explosion occur according to calculations? These and other questions of a similar nature were nursed by their troubled souls. And when the train started they all pondered the driver’s name, when it entered a tunnel, that of his wife, when it exited, they phoned to call for a doctor, when the train passed through intermediate stations without stopping, the ladies hurried to the lavatory, when the train changed lines the men hurried to examine the locomotive, when the train waited for another train to pass on an adjacent line, everyone flirted with the handsome valet, when the train crossed the bridge over a river, old memories awoke and the firmament attained a rosy hue toward the west, without the slightest interference from the sun, when it passed through an industrial town, the young man slept on a soldier’s bed, his right hand wounded, bandaged, and his inconsolable comrades weeping around him, when it passed through a coastal town, if it was a bathing resort, the girls dived straightaway into the water with scandalous gestures and very scantily dressed, if it was a port the men stood on the quay wearing top hats and waving goodbye, tears discerned in their eyes, the ocean steamer in the background, the sun setting. If it traversed another bathing resort near the Alps, policemen entered at lunchtime and conducted arrests, if the train stopped at the border, the railway employees alone were arrested. When many trains traversed a city simultaneously, if the whistles were heard a rainy day was in store, if only the locomotives were heard, the intervention might operate to the advantage of a third person, if the sound of the train was heard, habitually deafening, as though it crossed the very room of the patient, then the sailing vessels would depart without their crews; if, on the other hand, the train stopped at a distance of two millimeters from the bed of the sleeping and unsuspecting maid, the vessels would be restored intact to their bases. If the train was late and the passengers were obliged to wait at the station beyond the twelfth hour, on the morrow the event would be passed over in artful silence by the press. If the railway employees were all to go on strike, demanding the liberation of their colleague, the press would assume the identity of the referee. If, suddenly, and with no previous warning, the locomotives were sold to a foreign state and replaced by electric ones, the press would complain because the public had not been asked for its opinion. If at a film theater a train derailed by red-skinned Indians were to fall from a precipice, the young girl would ask her mother to allow her to sleep on the same bed as she and her father.

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If two trains traveling at roughly the same vertiginous speed albeit in opposite directions were to collide before a hospital the girl would refuse her dinner. If she ate even half of her food after yielding to her mother’s entreaties, on the morrow she would certainly demand from her father the present of a toy train, preferably electric. If the press so much as thought of interfering with the whole affair, despite the strictness of the existent orders, the girl would immediately set the offices of the newspaper on fire. If, finally, on that afternoon no train traversed the ruined town, no sound would come to disturb the lovers whose passionate embrace engaged shamelessly the soft, white, half-naked secret bodies of pupils from the nearby girls’ school amidst the debris and the piles, voids left behind by the departing war. 1945

II. From Central Arcade (1958; written 1944–1958) In the Earthly Paradises, I

M usic For Nikos Gatsos Our wooden houses built on uncertain ground protect us from the sudden bursts, from the squalls perpetually nursed by this treacherous climate. There is no safety here. Not even birds have any trust in weathermen, who are all either liars or mere idlers, never supplying any positive guarantees on what tomorrow holds in store for us. And bread does not grow on trees here, as we had been told, so many times, by explorers who fill their voluminous memoirs with imaginary details. And not a word about music. Yet there is plenty of it here, indeed it is supplied free of charge to the inhabitants of this remote society. It is the principal means of their nutrition, both mental and physical, consumed each morning, evening, noon, even late at night they wake up specially for a refreshing bite, then, satiated, they fall into the deepest sleep, until the break of dawn. This music grows on water, just like the other plants of the district. The water is supplied by the high mountains, whence emanates the dense circuit of rivers, all flowing underground and coming to the surface only after the completion of the human sacrifices for the appeasement of the subterraneous gods. I have met those gods once or twice at official ceremonies in honor of the foreign representatives, who often visit this Earthly Paradise, where man no more has to think either of his future or of his past. There is no future, and as for the past it is automatically forgotten, for the gift of memory has been removed from the inhabi-

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tants following an ancient order that may still be seen by the wanderer, carved on the Gate, the sole entrance to this country. (The other gates, everyone assures me, have all been blocked forever, albeit not with bricks and stones, as is usual in our own regions, but with gasses that form an impenetrable wall.) The inscription I just referred to, composed in an unknown or forgotten language, is translated in Persian for reasons of grandeur. The characters are numbers that symbolize the senses and represent, one might say, an act of creation. Without them the elements that constitute the world, each with a separate function, could not exist. Yet let us return to the gods. They really do not give a damn. Extremely polite, they are dressed in red or blue frock coats. Their prime occupation is the smuggling of music, sold to foreigners at very lucrative prices. The foreigners ask: How much? And the answer comes, again from the foreigners: That much. Immediately a joyful wedding or festal march starts playing, accompanied by a marriage proposal or by an invitation to a party. Let me assure you, life is excellent here, no matter how improbable, like a mirage, it may seem to be. In the Earthly Paradises, II Life in the earthly paradises like a thick green vegetation on the hilly expanses of tropical lands where sleepy girls nod in the moist suffocating air, heliotropes rolling almost imperceptibly under the heavy cover provided by the supernatural growth of trees the rivers, ripening like enormous fruits and burning in the manner of coffee roasted at a mile’s distance by hundreds of tranquil volcanoes, the people together as one. Life in the earthly paradises passes almost imperceptibly like a leopard slipping, under the thick clusters

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of climbing plants, just a few centimeters from the unwrinkled by a bird’s flight or a human’s gaze surface of the abyssal lake. Neither the lightning furrowing the sky with railway branchlines that last a quarter of an hour, the heavy showers that burst periodically soaking the lot to the bone, the sun that evaporates and maddens the lot with thirst, nor whichever other factor affects it. Life in the earthly paradises heavy unchanging volcanic like vegetation impenetrable by man, has no use for the tender care of the reforestation committee for the forests in the lands of the equator

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are all immense self-growing and eternal within them the essence of life is renewed with neither interference nor reinforcement involved as is today the habit everywhere whether we want this or not having never been asked for our views on the matter. Thus we on our part ask for nothing so excellent free and creative in these earthly paradises —that we have long chosen— life is.

III. From Sources of Microbes (1977; written 1961–1964) The Downy Confession Time wrap your wings And throw them to the South Wind Whence came the abominable man Whence came the eternal qualms The sirocco with its domestic mysteries Gardens with hanging thoughts

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The asiatic of infinity Inside the empty space of a skull A colored concert From blonde women With her broken arms The laughing Venus The vocative of her vagina Capped by a circumflex Hannibal with his fiery phallus Inside sheaths of illusions A bull with cracked horns And the dream botany One Inside the Other All things mutate becoming one another Woods turn into stones trees into clouds Women into men leaves into seas Feathers into wells eyes into air Letters and writings turn Illiterate beauty becomes beast Masculine becomes neutral the mystery is revealed Hope is blinded like wealth All things are telescopes and nothing is Certain to be or not to be-come All things are one inside the other stones Rivers flow from his fingers Their words are tulips His love is a tank is a table An armchair sits inside his right eye The orchard of the window is a Cemetery of leaves the market is a maid And the evening dew is a wrong turn of the wheel A needle stretches its thread to breaking point A leg chews its chain a paper kite Becomes a dog and bites the passersby An orphan child becomes another’s mother

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A title turns destitute and then gets married All that is lives, the metals in the earth Stones in the soil, the proof being that they wither When you uproot them the world is terrible It lends and is lent it changes its color Is no more named as it is named it is Monster turtle sofa couch thigh gas stove And blond hair that surrounds a female sex The Oxygen-Welded Dresses

For Raymond Roussel With trains that fall very slowly from bridges And melt like candies immersed in water Balloons catch fire yet are never inflamed Carried away by the winds that devour them Faces grown pale on the maps of Asia Little girl-swimmers dive into the sea Giants feel with the tips of their fingers The wound of a virgin forest shedding night Girls snapshots inside their petticoats Desires grown fierce rush to enjoy them Horrid scenes in the streets of Peking 1880 Scenes of peace and delight at an old ranch in Mexico as the mutiny ended in triumph The final silence undisturbed by man Of a magical pyramid by Guatemalan Indians Moral majesty of the river Amazon Wholly inexistent in the white man’s eyes A sugarcane-barreled revolver Whose shooting causes the victim to vanish Irrational indictments of the morning papers Sign language for medicine companies Minor damages in planes and flying Dutchmen Thoughts like unexpected fair female visitors Whose skirts are too short in accordance with fashion Goddess of lost cities in opium cloudiness

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Dilapidated ship fighting the monsoons The facts taking place in Mars Truth dressed in her brightest colors Is sold at a slave market of Syngrou Avenue Ideas crumpled like silver paper Kisses exchanged on a screen Between persons of different races and dimensions Sensation in a pen-holder’s fingers A clockwork bomb that goes tick-tack Space line between two death announcements A typewriter’s fuss over nothing A kids’ fight on the street (before) dark Emotions sold out at dime stores Millions of faces all thinking alike Talking informally saying told you so Or talking in fractions of Arabian origin The abacus used by a bird as a lyre For its babes to learn how to sing by notation Square structures slyly shaped Twelve years passing like naught Like a red thread entangled in a white spool Gray-striped suit worn by habit (Before meeting a voice not ashamed To hear what all the others had to say of it) Immense silent park where the truths come The crossed lines—glances exchanged by lovers (A body’s nocturnal transfer by helicopter) To converse privately saying what they alone know Knitting socks for the wisest among them News that has never reached its destination Women who waited—in a miserable condition Wide open like cigarette packets on offer— A naked man with a top hat and boots In the passage from one way of being to another Thousands of years later when they are no more When they are replaced by a gigantic specter Aiming at only two or three points of the universe

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On an electric chair enveloped in earth Spy of the distant other Galaxy Disordering with its magnetic traction All of Asia’s phosphorescent watches.

IV. From The Downy Confession (1982) (written 1961–1968) Goliath My world is the garden where her tears fell My skin is the derailed train of sunset My work is light broken into its components—the colors My lineage is ancient inexplicable obscure My man is that same technicolor rogue My cave is the prehistory and downfall of thrones My sea is the place whence your life gushed My book is the second chapter of the rhyming ideas generation My end is you living woman sphere that I breathe My fear is the second dream of silence before your gaze My snapshots are awe perfidy the tattered chamber of my cowardice My heart is a nut dropped from the tree of an abandoned grove where you walked My recollection is the great eastern wind that like the sun revolves around your shadow My emblem is a candle shedding light on your likeness As I thought of you dreamt of you shaped you Transubstantiated in reality—figment of my imagination. A Tale with No End Bird-men came to inhabit the loaves of fire In a water glass billions of germs made their nest In a water glass you dip your lips like a moon In a water glass your youth falls and drowns Till it quenches its thirst Bear-men came to inhabit the steppes of my heart In a cage a caged bird sang In a gold and ivory cage was caged a hope In a cage men caged the king of the beasts

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In a cage I too was caged Before I became like everyone else Spider-men wove their webs on the trees of my thought My thoughts fly lightly from my brain as in clouds The wind has come to spoil my tale’s cohesion. Entomology The coffins of megalomania serve Only inferiority complexes The nocturnal visitor was fish The frog’s tail played with its foam In the barks of babbling The leaves were lips and laments Crickets with hats in the air Greeted the lowered petals The gambler love was scissor-shaped Its drawers filled with down Plucked off the riddles’ feathers A hill with a fat woman’s waist (Human from the navel up) A ring knocked on the gate to be heard A whisper whispered for a wasp to appear Shaking its head to the left to the right As if its thoughts were terribly important A dilemma dressed as a butterfly Fluttered its way into the brains of trees Artaxerxes an oven-baked loaf Had lots of fun slicing himself With an enormous kitchen knife In the dining room of daily affairs Our vain desires await Their turn to become friendly with The mysteries conferring within them Like buckets hating the water of tanks The ants carried entire houses on their backs At night superstitions became glowing grass And the moon organized concerts

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In the orchestras of bushes Doves queued at the newsagent’s To learn the day’s affairs And the waters take guard just in case An oar hits them on the head A pebble falls asleep like a whale And the sinecurist passes the day Squatting up on a rock A man of marble Crossed himself feigning indifference Concealing his true emotions Before his daughter’s sin Caged in the cage of its happiness A mad swallow Choked out of sheer spite The immortals came to its funeral Laurels delivered speeches Saying much that was inconsequent Adorning with fair adjectives The bases of their stems. The New Downy Confession That which is and is not what is not. The beginnings of omnipotence in a human pocket. The hand dipped in anything extracting a handful of clouds. A gaze stuck on a wall like a poster picturing an eye. At times the river of time is poured into the head of the unmade one. A true tragedy is always a Lady. Mourning becomes Electra like iron becomes electric. A glove hides its hand yet shows its teeth. A demijohn from the bone of a mobile forearm. A mirror made of human wrongdoings. A hall frequented by aimless footsteps. There are two sides to truth: one standing one lying. A thousand times better that which is not. There is something prehistoric about dramatic collisions. The grandchildren of falsehood are denial mania and thrashing.

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The weirdest names turn up in funerals. Miniature of man in a grain of sand. Strange adulterations spoiled sleep. A spaceman has no distinctive features. He resembles all that happens around him All that he has in mind All that others think of him He is what others think of him—has no personal properties. What is usable is not always profitable. Personality equals not individuality. Had I known which of my mind’s two doors were to open I would have done much more important things Than those that I’ve done up to now. So two in the warehouse are worth one in the vine. The fastest kiss is the one free of charge. The most excellent hay is that munched with one tooth. Never do two mice sit on the cottons of truth. Start me off and we’ll see about which ship to catch. Never does semolina share the fox’s sorrows. The passerby knows your door better than you do. Thousands of puppets give rise to one thought. Don’t strip your thoughts for braziers can smell them. One’s usefulness depends upon a bridge. The mob’s reactions are mostly within you. Don’t act smart with me with ants around you. When you flatter your back your bosom gets jealous. Don’t greet when invisible don’t stop when not running. And don’t ask when not knowing! (Even the gayest devil has the initials of a water lily carved on his tail.) The best sleep is a tight bastard. The flesh trade is a delicate matter. The next-day celebration of an invention is not always scheduled. The workload is the sea of the mind. The sinecure is the brain of a ship. The whale would be an island if it did not sink—prematurely—. The Times Sq. equals money à la carte blanche. The intercourse is a snapshot. A woman’s gravest misgiving is always the man that she loved.

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A star’s spasm is to us its light. A sponge is the water’s best advocate. There is no time. Novalis Elle lui prononca à la bouche un Mot étrange et mystérieux qui Resonna à travers tout son être Il allait le répéter—quand son Grand père l’appellant, il se réveilla. Il eut donné sa vie pour se rappeler ce mot! [She pronounced on his mouth a Strange and mysterious word that Resounded through his entire being He was about to repeat it—when his Grandfather called him, and he awoke. He’d have given his life to recall that word.] Heinrich Von Offerdingen As we delved a little deeper inside, we met the queen of the country—who promptly offered herself to us, should we wish to enjoy her. She informed us that her rates for foreigners were not the same as for her own subjects. She usually hid behind a bush, where everything was done the way it was meant to—later, upon leaving the bush, everyone else pretending not to see, we came upon a shore with no sand, no rocks, no pebbles—the sea taking over straight from the land: there we settled to sleep on the first night. The place seemed peaceful to us— and we hoped that, if left undisturbed, we might be able to show everyone the stuff that we were made of. A little later we reached a town, where all the lamps had been put out: Because, so it goes, a bird that ate nothing but lamps had come to a nearby forest, and, fat as it was, they all feared that it might take up the whole district and leave them with no breathing space: the bird grew bigger—the town grew smaller (manifestly so) in comparison to the constantly increasing size, indeed the volume of the bird, which gradually became incredible. The people in that town were so polite that there was no need to worry. Soon, the bird arrived. They said it was very big—yet I for my part found it rather normal-sized, kind of like a healthy, well-fed hen. We never understood how it managed to devour the lamps. It passed several

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of them, without so much as turning its head: It kept walking straight ahead, as if hypnotized. The citizens had brought an enormous snake, which was waiting at the end of the avenue where the bird was. However, the snake was nothing but a sleight of hand performed by a cunning fellow, who had been begged into drawing a circle around the bird with a piece of chalk. Upon seeing the circle, the bird realized that it was not to live for much longer—and so, dizzied by its repeated attempts to exit the circle, it fell asleep. When it awoke, it had been transformed into a fair maid holding a mirror and combing her hair. Her name was Sylvia. And my name was something else. Yet my name was lost on the citizens’ lips when the wind blew, so nothing was ever heard. Sylvia married one of the village Mayor’s sons. The inventor of the typewriter— “he was Sylvia’s son,” who kept writing a name in his sleep and forgetting it upon awaking. From the Time of Noah

For Ghérasim Luca and Sinclair Beiles From the time of Noah’s ark From the time of Bulgarochtonos From the time of the cruel Janissaries From the time of Judith of Rebecca of Sara From the time of the black plague From the time of the alchemist Cleopatra From the time of the great Mongol From the time of the steppe people From the time of herbal magic From the time of the sleepless sea From the time of sensitive flesh From the time of the magic flute From the time of the strangely shining star From the time of the moribund sun From the time of the blue moon From the beginning of the world. From the time of the hoarse voice that spoke in the well From the time of the giant with feet of clay From the time that death gives me to live From the time that may one day turn backward

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From the time of the sleepless sea From the time of the fire of London From the time of thin cows From the time of the war of nerves From the time of Apollo the lizard-killer From the time of good assassins From the time of the flight to the West From the time of Onan From the time of Lot’s wife From the time of Judith of Rebecca of Sara From the time of the naked eye From the time of the carnivore plant From the time of the square earth From the time of the Aegean Sea From the time of the other woman From the time of the magus Apollonius From the time of the rubber book From the time that will strike tonight From the time when tresses were worn From the time of the golden chain From the time of the pocketbook From the time of the Olympian gods From the time of the road that reaches the end From the time of the grave errors From the time of the steppe people From the beginning of the world. From the time of Lot’s wife From the time of the cry emitted by herbs From the time of the naked chanteuse From the time of the donkey’s shade From the time of the golden scarab and the black spider From the time of evil royalty and green authority From the time of the inward turn From the time of the sleepless sea From the time of the time given to me From the time of the Queen of diamonds From the time of black and white vases From the beginning of the world.

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From the time of the Discobolos Ephebe From the time of the Brothers Karamazov From the time of the barren line From the time of Croesus hermaphrodite From the time of Suez From the time of liquefied cells From the time of Inès, of Aleka, of Yanna From the time of mad love From the time of Epimenidean sleep From the time of Ned Pinkerton From the time of Wuthering Heights From the time of Cairo From the time of the naked girl From the time of intense limpidity From the time of asymmetrical numbers From the time of lost illusions From the time of the incompatible temperaments From the time of the want in weight From the time of the sinking men and all From the time of the blue moon From the time of Gone with the Wind From the time that becomes bull From the time of the great Mongol From the time of the strange-shining star From the time of the coarse Chasm From the time when nothing much happens From the time of Helen of Troy From the time of the Hanged Man From the time that is money From the time of the naked lady in the mirror From the time I met you From the beginning of the world. From the time of the sleepless sea From the time of the blue moon From the time of fornication in the forest From the time of the evil Crusaders From the time of the letter alpha From the time of Rimbaud, of Jarry, of Ducasse

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From the time of the bloodthirsty tyrant From the time of the Thirty Tyrants From the time of Armand Duval From the time of the square earth From the time of the cruel Janissaries From the time of the Czars From the time of the constellation of Centaur From the time of the naked eye From the time of the espoused evil From the time of the great optical illusion From the time of the transient butterfly From the time of the man who sows winds and reaps storms From the time of the black spider From the time of the desecrated host From the time of the forces that be From the time of the sleepless sea From the time of the season of good assassins From the time of sensitive flesh From the time of Venus of Milo From the time of Pandora’s box From the time of the moribund sun From the time of dark deceit From the time of the strange-shining star From the time of Hermes Trismegistus.

V. From The Talking Ape, or Paramythology (1986; written 1961–1971)

The Mushroom Seed A mushroom came and sat right in front of me on the chair, crossed its legs, unfolded its newspaper and started reading without paying any attention to me. Pretty soon its seeds started falling on the floor with a tiny dry sound. I tried to make it stop, telling it that at any rate this was no way for a grown-up mushroom, indeed a well-fed and well-bred one, to behave before strangers, let alone in strangers’ houses and on their very chairs. No sooner had I finished my speech than I was seeded for good. The seeds were falling like rain, and each crash made a sharper noise than the last one, just like fireworks exploding. I am being bombed, I said to myself, so what

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can I do? How can I answer to such impudence? I had no weapons at hand. I picked a flower vase, poured ink in the water, and emptied it on the insolent mushroom. It laughed at me. The content of its laughter was as follows: “You silly man, are you thus vainly staining your chair and floors, for the sole sake of me, a stupid mushroom that reads the paper and sows its seeds all over the place? You are but a fanatical, irascible man, and it serves you right to suffer.” Thus spoke the mushroom and continued to sow its seeds and read its paper. I, however, had decided to beat the mushroom by any means I might have at my disposal. I picked up an axe and hit it on the head, splitting it in two. Yet instead of being bisected and falling lifeless on the floor, it became two mushrooms reading two papers on two chairs and sowing their seeds; one was sowing white seeds, the other black, and the black seeds married the white seeds and had black-and-white baby seeds, yet one seed that could not find a mate withdrew into a corner and began a noisy lament; so thus spoke the bachelor seed: “I am alone, with no companion, whoever wants me may take me as a servant; I, for my part, shall not prove ungrateful.” So I collected that solitary seed, placed it in a wooden box and fed it with all sorts of delicacies, yet it remained depressed, would not speak, eat, or drink, nor did it do any work for me, all it desired was to find a mate; in the end, my patience finally exhausted, I discovered a little white she-seed sitting alone on a bench in the garden reading her book, so I asked her what book she was reading, and she went, “Mister, I find you rather tactless,” but later on she agreed to follow me home and marry my seed if in the process she became convinced that the two were made for each other. That night I heard some teeny-weeny voices like small razors, and I realized that they were coming from the box where I had put the seeds. So I ran straightaway and opened it to see what was going on, only to find the two seeds pulling each other’s hair and squeaking. “Hey, what’s all this?” I said firmly. “Don’t you know any better than to act like little kids?” They, however, continued without paying the slightest attention to me—I had to give them a good watering to make them stop, and then each one went to its own corner, and my seed told me that when he had asked her “What book is it you’re reading?” her answer had been, “Show some tact please, one just does not ask ladies what they do when they are sitting alone on a bench in a public square, perhaps waiting for someone who is going to smash your face . . .” At that point I realized that there was nothing to be done without my intervention, so I snatched the book from her hands and told her, “Reading in this box is strictly forbidden, you are not here to read but to perform a function.” Then I rudely shut the lid of the box to show her I was having none of that. The book was an Atlas of seeds in its first, Lilliputian edition and talked of the species, the sowings and the crossings of hesperids and moldoids; indeed, it was opened on the page which read, “Black-and-white nuptials—instructions on the merging of black and white seeds,” so I crossed myself and said, gee, look what

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civilization can do, even the seeds can read and master their own fortunes like men, the seeds dispersed and interspersed in this great seedless multiracial universe. Athens 1961 The Talking Ape, or The Prophecy Numerous cases of mass delirium having been reported in Pakistan—which after all might appear natural for a somewhat underdeveloped and primitive country—, the exact same phenomenon was repeated in the strictly rationalist Holland, with its Calvinist-cum-Lutheran background, indeed at the very center of Amsterdam, and before the astonished eyes of listeners. Oh yes, that ape could really talk like a human—yet not only did this little monkey emit human words, but it told incredible things, mysterious prophecies for the future, sounds as symbolical and obscure as the oracle of Delphi, to whomever happened to ask. The ape’s owner, a sailor from the former Dutch India, half-breed son of a European whore and an Indo-Chinese, was initially perceived as a mere ventriloquist— yet when serious experiments were conducted at the anthropological laboratories and at the Institute of Psychic Researches, those wise and prosperous people were completely taken aback. Not only did the ape speak in the absence of his master, but he actually revealed terrible secrets from the private lives of the wise experimentalist professors, who consequently abandoned their research in horror and proclaimed the phenomenon inexplicable. The happy ape was returned to his master, who henceforth continued his routines undisturbed. And that would have been it, had the show not been watched accidentally one day by an elegantly dressed gentleman, who approached the master with a lucrative proposition heard by no one. The sailor accepted immediately and, without saying a word, followed the gentleman after the end of the show. Ever since that day, neither the ape nor his master were seen or heard of again. Yet another extraordinary thing happened. The theretofore financially moderate firm Adams & Co, manufacturers of bathrooms and other household appliances (washstands, lavatories, etc.), suddenly and mysteriously became extremely wealthy and began buying off its competitors, thereby evolving into a giant monopoly. Investigations were, of course, immediately undertaken, and the private eyes of the competing companies discovered that the firm was directed from a secret headquarters, concealed in the depths of its new luxurious mansion, wherefrom the ape in question transmitted his orders by phone. Dumbfounded, the industrialists requested from the Government the license to invade the mansion and bring an end to this scandal. However, the Government found itself at an impasse. The lion’s share of the country’s financial activity depended on this new trust, and the law was plain and categorical: the asylum of private initiative

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could not be violated without a legal cause. So that was that. Shortly, the firm started buying, not just the shares of all the other household appliances manufacturers, but also every other private company in the country. Outraged, the big and small businessmen cooperated to the end of confronting this threat. One of them sponsored a coup d’état led by a certain ex-general known as Rudolph (rumor had it that he was a bastard fathered by some prince of Hanover). The coup succeeded and, in the course of a single night and without so much as a drop of blood being shed, Holland finally acquired a King, a Prime Minister and a Government. In other words, a dictatorship was established. The new authorities immediately ordered the requisition, investment, and seizure of the new firm’s mysterious mansion. Of course, the attack met with no resistance; yet the invaders found nothing at all. The Ape, the Sailor, anything remotely suspect, were nowhere in sight. All that could be certified was that the company’s books were perfectly all right—and that its ascension was owed to nothing but good management. After that, a counterrevolution brought back to service the dethroned Queen and the previous, democratic government; then for a while Holland was ruled by an enormous private monopoly of mysterious powers and origins. Out of respect for the reader’s attention span I shall not say much more. Yet as you must have already guessed—the police had been right all along. It was the ape, that genius of a businessman, who pulled the strings and conducted the purchases and all the other financial enterprises with such clarity of vision and, I might say, prophetic perspicacity, that no one was in a position to compete with him in the financial field. However, one day business started going badly, the company was gradually losing ground, until finally, deep in debt, it passed into the hands of the old businessmen. This time, too, they hurried to investigate the basements. Yet still no sign of the ape. Upon being questioned on the matter, the son of the Director of the firm Adams & Co answered to the effect that his father had left shortly before, accompanied by a sailor and his monkey, for an island of the Pacific. The Interpol was notified. The report of its agents revealed the existence, on the islet of Rao-Raratea, of a small primitive temple wherein, according to the natives’ testimonies, an ape-god prophesied the future. The natives worshiped him as a sacred demon and brought him many gifts to flatter him, yet, unable to understand his Dutch utterances, were not overly worried. (Apparently both the sailor and Mr. Adams Sr. had long since committed suicide.) At this point I shall have to translate for you the utterances repeated perpetually—because of their extreme importance—by the ape: “Careful, go hide, people, mammals, fishes, and birds, an atomic war is about to erupt.” However, the innocent

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natives worshiped cheerfully their idol, their very own little charming, talking, and prophesying ape. Athens, March 1961

VI. From The Diamond Calmer (1981) (written 1963–1967) The Diamond Calmer! . . . He kept shooting, walking backward, finger on trigger, walking first to the right, then to the left—until his back felt the wall. Yet the wall was not an obstacle to the Diamond Calmer, who slowly started sinking inside it as though he was traversing a bush. Little by little it again became a wall; the part of the wall through which he had passed was healed from the wound caused by the cells of the Diamond Calmer. Those who pursued him checked their horses—all made of glass: They dismounted. They entered their horses (which were all Trojan) and very quietly followed his trail on the wall. It was there the battle took place. Occasionally swelling, the wall was sucking them inside. It kept moaning—yet the sound of the shootings was dim, kind of stifled, until they all vanished completely. The glass horses exited the wall one by one: the last one carried him inside—in the place of its rider. He had adhered to his pursuers’ side, he had become one of them. So thus ends the story of the Diamond Calmer. A Short Essay for Youngsters . . . Elephants share with rats their two most prominent heroes, namely, the crocodile and the pelican. The way things are, however—one may find more elephant in rats and quite a few rats in elephants. When I think of elephants, including myself, I find it impossible to not think of the mammoth. From a very tender age, young elephants bear a mortal hatred of mammoths, by whom they are humiliated on a daily basis. Within themselves, the vast majority are of unknown descent: rats, in other words, and those that are not rats are mice, weasels, and squirrels. I find it impossible, when thinking of faces such as that of the tiger, to not see it as a kitten—that is, a donkey—, although this may not necessarily be the case for many others. The rat of the steppe, or that of Sahara, is so civilized that it cannot possibly be an elephant. It is a rat, and those who, unlike us, are not rats or mice, are squirrels—such as the ape, the swine, and many others. The very few which are real elephants, namely, the hippopotamus, the rhinoceros, and the ostrich, do not present a direct interest from the elephants’ viewpoint. A significant portion consists of snakes and guinea

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hens—dogs and bears. The pelican and the crocodile remain permanent elephants and rats, in the best possible sense of the word. They are wise. As for rats, these are bastards: they are divided in boat-rats, basement-rats, sewer-rats, field-rats, tundrarats, city-rats, river-rats and dogs. In fact, they are so mixed up that, were it not for Religion, they would have all become bulls long ago.

VII. From Certain Women (1982) (written in the 1960s) Not At All Unlikely All along the corridor, placed at regular intervals, stood women—fair, with long, puffed-up, transparent dresses, thin waists, bosoms dressed in brassières 1890 fashion, faces oblong, turned toward the opposite wall. And they were all imperious, pale as candles, still as mannequins, although it is certain that they were alive, it is indisputable that they lived and breathed; and yet they looked dead, as if stuffed, all those curly dark-haired beauties, with their black hats like kepis. They stood still and silent along the corridor, looking neither left nor right, but always forward, toward the wall facing them—neither moving an inch nor talking to anyone. If you were to ask, they pretended to see no one before them. But how could they feign so successfully? Was it possible that nothing could move them? Could they really be so cold—dead, inexpressive, indefinite, abstract? Might they, in fact, unbeknownst to me, be made of plastic? Were they placed there, astonishing uncanny replicas of the women who really exist—those, the fake, artificial ones? Were they there to deceive us, me and all those other idiots, with their “god-given gifts,” in order to annihilate us, one by one, down to the very last man? Not at all unlikely. A Certain Woman He met that woman for the first time in someone else’s dream. He fought with her to the bitter end. Upon his return, one afternoon, from the battlefield, he saw that he had fought with a fake monster, with a mere mirage. He went to a great empirical philosopher to be exorcised. As he was leaving the magician’s home, he came across himself. He was impeccably dressed, exactly like yesterday, in his work clothes, to wit: spade in the right hand, shovel on the shoulder, book in the left hand—saddlebag in the middle. He advanced with eyes wide open like a somnambulist, toward the presumed unconscious happiness of naught, recognized by him since childhood, in the face of a neighborhood girl. His height did not exceed the tallest bushes of her grandfather’s garden. Ever since then, bachelors provoked him under various

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pretexts. He took them all down, in a notebook, for he had promised himself to get his revenge one day, when the facts or the words were made public. Now, it was the other’s turn to do his thing. He would tolerate it, up to a point. Beyond that, he would step on the brake of his conscience once and for all. He would not be responsible for the rolling of heads, nor for the panegyrics delivered, indeed believed in every single word, by the day’s winners. In the evening, when all would drop down, the voices, the light, the blinds, the eyelashes, and the sparrows, he would send straight to hell a bouquet of violets, he would send to hell the old mates, the cards and the day’s events. He would be free at last from the treacherous tutelage of the moral compass. He would do whatever came into his head. When he awoke in the armchair of the present, his wallet had been stolen by a certain woman who had kissed his mouth while he was sleeping. Later, before the mirror, he saw the traces of her rouge on his lips, he too realizing the fact’s incontestability. It goes without saying that he had no reason to accord any importance to supernatural interpretations, since everything could be so easily explained by a simple: I beg your pardon?

VIII. From Toward a Theory of Writing (1990; essays written 1961–1990)

An Introduction to Surrealism (excerpts) (First published in Κριτήριο [Criterio], 1965) For a long time now, negative judgments coming from all sides have been leveled against surrealism, one of whose best-known “methods” (there are others), namely “automatism,” surfaces as the foremost target of such attacks. Most critics usually set up an effigy of surrealism, which they then proceed to demolish with equal ease. This effigy goes as follows:

a. The “automatic” surrealist poem/text is not susceptible to aesthetic evaluation, because it is not written after perceptible criteria. b. The “automatic” text is “facile”1 and thus falls under the category of an uncontrollable form of expression; it therefore includes “commonplaces” of an automatic nature, that is, certain inevitable subjective clichés, which concern no one but their author. c. From the automatic texts no conclusion can be drawn; neither can the text’s “evolution” be observed in any way, rationally or otherwise, so that all discussion on the subject is superfluous. d. As a method, “automatism” is dated, given that, on the one hand, Breton himself dismissed it in the 2nd Manifesto and, on the other hand, it has

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since become to such an extent a “property” of poetic consciousness as a mode of writing, that there is no poet who has not used it at some point or other, only to leave it behind as a “childhood disease,” while in the meantime it has spawned many bad and “arbitrary” texts, so that what is called for today is either a radical revision and reorientation, or an entire annulment of everything ever declared by surrealism, which may clear the field for writing, and art in general, to proceed further. e. Surrealism, as a fashion, has run its course, so that no “serious” person needs to bother with it anymore. This last view, combined with the idea of a youthful “error,” has been expressed mostly by political apostates, the “Stalinists” (Aragon first and foremost, Éluard less directly), and by those critics who, in the name of a “snob” ideal, tend to regard any intellectual movement as a “new fashion,” as in the clothes industry and in advertising, after the manner of Dalí—people like Cocteau (who was just about the best among them); more generally, it has been expressed by those mannerist writers and poets of the U.S., Britain, and France, who dismiss surrealism as a throwback vis-à-vis the modern tastes (the major influence here being Auden in England, who brings back both rationalist and religious criteria in the judgment of poetry, as well as the branches of his “American” school). Note: in the Anglo-Saxon countries, the teachings of surrealism have only now begun to be understood on a large scale, by two new movements, namely, the American beatniks in the U.S. and the “Angry Young Men” in England, who are starting to realize what it is all about, due to their experience and to the often parallel evolutions of their own “revolts” against their respective countries’ establishments. In Greece, things are the same as they were twenty years ago, exactly where they have been left by, on the one hand, the totally inadequate and rash judgments made by Seferis and his critical progeny, and, on the other hand, the equally inadequate “defense” undertaken by Odysseus Elytis in a couple of essays, and in his polemics against various opponents, from the representatives of socialist realism to the “rationalist idealists,” between 1940 and 1944. Surrealism is neither a “dogma” nor a closed philosophical system, but an open and perpetually readjustable “method” of thinking and facing life. It is an effort to recompose the “scattered” conscience of our era into a “whole,” which undergoes continuous revisions and is enriched with new elements and facts, both from within and from without—it is a synthesis of many internal ideas, while its external sources are equally numerous.

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For this reason, it is not fair to judge it by “poetic” or literary criteria alone—nor, for that matter, by “philosophical,” “national,” “political” or “religious” ones. The superficiality of criticisms is often rooted in unconscious causes. In other words, such are the reactions of those afraid of getting in touch with their “deeper” and thereby “scary” selves (just like the neurotic resists psychoanalysis), which run the danger of being exposed by the surrealist “methods.” Yet surrealism becomes equally unpleasant to those reacting against the “conscious” content of the “surrealist message,” that is, the “at once internal and external liberation of humanity from all its chains.” If—as is often the case—surrealism is confused with the complete “abandonment” of autonomous criteria by whole groups of intellectuals in every country, that is a grave error. The very existence of an “organized” surrealist group in France suffices to create the impression that surrealists the world over “follow the line of orthodoxy” from some Paris café, whence an international movement is supposedly “directed.” Nothing could be further from the truth, and this writer, who has frequented one of those “cafés,” is in a position to contradict this falsity clearly and responsibly. Each surrealist gathering always assumed the character of a “friendly encounter” between people who like the same things and who subject each idea, or even sentence, each decision, judgment or opinion, to the trial of an exhaustive dialectical investigation—often to the point of voting before making an important decision. The applied criteria always maintained the aspect of an already “elaborated” conscience, with an absolute awareness of its position in the contemporary world. No “arbitrary” act in the sector of ideas was adopted without first being justified by means of adequate and serious, if complex, intellectual criteria. No relation at all with “party” disciplines, especially those of totalitarian leanings, even if that “vanguard” quality attaches to every discussion or disagreement an inevitable, yet often creative, tone of fanaticism. If, on the one hand, the impression has prevailed that the contemporary “derangement” of poetic speech is due solely to the surrealist influence on newer poetry— for, by following the principle of spontaneous writing, everyone supposedly writes whatever and however they like—, on the other hand the poets truly inspired by surrealism are very few. . . .2 What others call “aesthetic criteria,” the surrealists call “self-knowledge,” a clear comprehension of what happens within them, a knowledge of whether the text, painting, or sculpture produced derives from a true source of one’s self or whether it is a mere caprice—that is, a “marching on the spot” already trodden by oneself or by others. So, those who refer to a lack of “aesthetic criteria” in surrealism should study the matter carefully before reaching such facile conclusions.

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It is certainly not easy to state the surrealist positions, experiences, methods—nor, indeed, its “philosophical” stance—in their entirety, because an “enigmatic” residue remains in the end—something that “is and is not”—something that escapes us, like the elusive image of lightning. Something that presages something else, greater, wider, mightier—in other words, the true “gnosis” of surrealism is the equivalent of an “initiation”—and I might go so far as to say that it recalls the “initiation” undergone by students of Zen, whereby the aim of spiritual and physical violence is to remove, by way of unsettlement, all previous prejudices and conventional ideas, so that the “student” is prepared to accept the “experience” of comprehension. And in order to comprehend surrealism, one must live it. In his books—Nadja, Les Vases Communicants, L’Amour Fou—André Breton transmits to us the description of a “surrealist” experience. These books constitute a kind of “surrealist phenomenology”—an analysis of reality into its composite parts, a continuous search for the truth of the “inner” in relation to the “outer” world. This search occurs by way of a system of “analogies,” whereby the internal facts, truly mysterious in a way, respond to the external ones, so that the barriers of consciousness and habit, as well as those of standard logic, are abolished; we thus find ourselves within a complex system of correspondences, which really “happen” to the writer, thereby annulling the usual sense of “reality.” Yet for Breton it does not suffice merely to expose an “exceptional situation”: he subjects it to meticulous research. . . . At no point is the thread of logical relation, the continuity of facts, acts, or thoughts, lost—at no point does he write merely to make an impression or to puzzle the reader. Each situation is a link in the chain, which shapes, announces, or allows us to guess, the “sur”-image. The mystery that surrounds beings becomes perforated by the bullets of “consciousness”—and light itself is covered by the darkness of the unknown. The things described often remain “uncertain”—yet perspectives do open, and probabilities spread all around us, ad infinitum. . . . Breton’s books attempt to pinpoint an intangible idea, which needs the space of an entire book to even begin to be traced vaguely. The surrealist net is dipped in the waters of the unconscious, now collecting a flâneuse from the street and rendering her into a symbol of a poetic way of Being, now attempting to recall, eyes closed, something forgotten, yet always there, albeit unseen. Something so obvious that it becomes invisible. . . . The powers of conservatism are vengeful—those powers that keep “things” in their appointed places give a hard blow, like a slap from the paw of the lion guarding the door of “Omniscience,” and the audacious ones fall back into the darkness of their selves. Artaud went mad; Paalen, Crevel, Jean-Pierre Duprey, Seligmann, Arshile

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Gorky, Fernandez committed suicide. No one may liberate the forces s/he keeps inside and get away with it; which is why surrealism, as a movement, has few active adherents—around forty in Paris, right now—and many former, quasi-demobilized ones. Only young people with desire and curiosity regarding all fields of knowledge come to join. And even then, few are those who truly understand what it is all about. . . . Breton refuses to see a true conflict in the antithesis between “materialism” and “idealism.” The spirit of a “closed system” is repulsive to him. Rather, he supports a “mixture” of those ideas which go “deeper,” which persist and respond to the innermost needs of the mind. It is thus that, being an admirer of Hegel, he applies his dialectical system to the analysis of sentiments and psychic conditions, which concern the “emotional world” of humans. He creates a phenomenology of “love” and concretizes an excellent method that is partly lost on us when applied to abstract concepts alone. In much the same way, he borrows Freud’s most important “keys”: dream analysis and the method of “penetrating” the codified psychic world, consisting of symbols, analogies, and displacements. He largely rejects the “mechanistic basis” of Freudian theories, as well as the theories of “complexes,” not so much in their formulations, as in their conclusions. He complements psychoanalysis with “meta-psychics,” without for all that falling into the trap of “mysticism,” or of a naive faith in the “beyond.” On the “political” plane, surrealist theory believes that too much has been sacrificed in the name of, on the one hand, those “tactical detours” which conceal the ultimate aim behind variously readjusted “lines,” and, on the other hand, the theory that “the end justifies the means,” whose preponderance, especially in the case of Stalinism, has completely disfigured the initial aims of the revolution; hence the turn toward the overlooked theorists of utopian socialism, such as Fourier, to whom Breton has dedicated a major poem. Surrealism thinks that the anarchists Bakunin, Kropotkin, and their contemporary descendants lack both a strong dialectical basis for their theory, which would invest their thought with evolutionary potential, and an elasticity in their somewhat static overview of social and political problems, which has led their movement to a decline, to a theoretical and practical cul-de-sac. However, in the case of the conflict between Marx and Bakunin in the First International, Breton is clearly on Bakunin’s side, owing to Marx’s bad faith and to the low quality of his attack, even on a personal level (accusations of stealing amid other signs of animosity). Finally, surrealism accuses the Stalinist “communism” of an overly narrow perception of the “epiphenomena”; it also attacks the theory of the direct dependence of the “intellectual superstructure” on economic factors, by

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using the example of the Christian religion, which persisted for almost 2000 years, through four different “social” systems: a. the Roman society (slavery) b. the Medieval society (feudalism) c. the bourgeois phase, and finally the so-called d. socialist phase (Soviet Union) The inadequacy of the economic factor becomes plainer with Freud’s analyses, especially in his work Moses and Monotheism, concerning the persistence of the psychology or character of minorities, especially of the Hebrews in Diaspora, etc. The theory of the economic factor in the formation of the “intellectual superstructure” becomes increasingly precarious with more recent research. According to the new linguistic findings, the development of language is susceptible to mathematical rules, which in their turn, and in total independence from economic conditions, necessarily affect the evolution of thought with no recourse to “social determinism.” The totalizing essence of modern ideas, which aim to embrace the whole of human functions, from financial activities to “psycho-spiritual” phenomena, is peculiar to our age! Equally peculiar is the fact that these theories are not prepared to treat certain phenomena that escape the attention of theorists—one person cannot possibly see or do everything! Hence the largely “artificial” conflicts that have arisen between psychological theories such as psychoanalysis, Marxism, existentialism, esotericism, etc. As far as language is concerned, Breton does not see why the dialectical system should not be employed for the solution of other problems besides the social ones. That is, problems concerning love, dream, madness, art, religion. The issue of social action is not, as he insists and repeats, but “one side only of a more general problem that surrealism wished to pose, that is, the problem of human expression in all of its aspects.” And whoever talks of “expression” really means “language”! One thus should not be surprised by seeing surrealism situate itself at first almost exclusively in the realm of language. Surrealism is radically opposed to the loose use of language, to the “imperfect determinations that leave ground for doubt around them”; contrary to the common misconception, it believes that vague thoughts and words, misty psychic conditions, are the root of all evil, leading to the confusion of ideas, to the abolition of criteria and to heated conflicts deprived of all interest. A good poem, or poetic work at any rate, may not be written with “ideas,” as the preceding generations of critics believed,

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but it is the spontaneous product of a “clear thought,” of true limpidity, of an “expression with the experience of things.” . . . It is in vain that anyone will search for a surrealist concern other than the reconsideration of each idea that has been important to us from the start: anarchism, esotericism, metapsychic phenomena, psychoanalysis, communism, the beyond, human exploitation, etc. While surrealism treats nothing as sacred or holy, on the other hand it seeks precisely those “sacred” and “holy” things, without being overly bothered by the mystical or “religious” misinterpretation of this concern. [T]he appropriation of certain explosive expressions, or psychic phenomena, of “extreme” cases (great criminals, like Gilles de Rais, works such as those of Sade and Lautréamont, Maturin’s Melmoth, Darien’s Thief and the entire negative phase of Dada), are an essential part of the surrealist effort to create a new mythology, responding to the most profound human demands—in other words, to shed before it the shadow of a “future faith,” as Julien Gracq once said, without risking accusations of mysticism or “religiousness,” given surrealism’s very aggressive and much-documented objection to all kinds of churches. Such an appropriation of elements taken from the “enemies’ side,” of things believed, out of habit or tradition, to belong with other ways of thinking, is often used against surrealism—being regarded as “sectarianism” or “eclecticism”—, or gives rise to a complete misunderstanding, as in Freud’s notorious and very characteristic treatment of the surrealists, then enthusiastic supporters of his work. Freud understood neither their “criticism” nor their enthusiasm. The same goes, of course, both for Marxists of all inclinations—who are extremely skeptical of the “choice” uses made of their theories by surrealists—and for the classical idealists of the Hegelian school. Today, this “free” way of thinking suffices to raise suspicions on all sides—at a time when, on the one hand, the reception of Freudian theories in the U.S.A. has led to the tragic adventure of the psychoanalyst Reich, who was persecuted and died in prison after his books were burned (a clear case of a community’s “revenge” against ideas by which it felt itself threatened, in a way that evokes the Medieval Holy Inquisition), while the purely materialist view of psychoanalysis gains ground daily—that is, we are witnessing the return of the theory of chemical reactions and of the “Pavlovian” school of reflèxes conditionnés—, and, on the other hand, Soviet “Marxists” persist in their refusal to acknowledge, even in theory, psychoanalysis as a “method” of research on the human psyche. In this world, of course, much the same is being done by other ways of thinking (Sartre’s attempt to interpret Baudelaire in psychological terms being one of the most detestable examples of irrational hatred and vengeful attitude toward the

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“poetic phenomenon,” under the guise of objectivity provided by psychoanalysis): these, so to speak, illicit uses of a method are curiously reminiscent of certain uses of Christianity by the church, either in the cases of heretics and witches, or in that of native Americans; but also of the Stalinist terror, with its abuse of Marxism, and of Nietzsche’s distortion by Nazism. As we know, throughout the history of the world, “ideas” have often been directed against those who invented or supported them (the French and Russian revolutions being two cases in point). At times, “esoteric” theories like that of the Pythagoreans became unpopular because of being appropriated by “political” groups, such as the aristocrats. Quite often, the character of “esoteric” ideas changes completely when they are applied to “external” matters, or, if these ideas are too widely spread, they run the danger of disappearing behind a “formalism”—as in the transformation of the Masonic theories of the “Templiers” to their contemporary, purely decorative use by various “Lodges.” It is thus that surrealism, wanting to avoid a generalization that would render it cosmetically anodyne, narrowed its entrance and kept a complex enough character, so as to discourage those seeking “panaceas” and easy solutions. The extent to which it has “failed” to attain mass impact, something which would have been possible only after a radical simplification of its ideas, gives the measure of its overall assumed “failure” to impose itself on a grand scale. In my opinion, this limitation is not at all a sign of “failure,” but rather an indication to the effect that things worthy of one’s time are not always available effortlessly and painlessly—nor, indeed, without a radical reconsideration, on the part of the one who attains them, of all previous ways of seeing life. This reconsideration, of which Buddhism, as well as psychoanalysis and other methods, have of course already spoken, is extremely difficult, so that many are discouraged to the point of abandoning the effort in the middle, or even in the very early stages. The fact that these ideas have not attained the status of mass acceptance does not mean that they are of no value. The ideas of “Orphics,” “Platonists,” “Gnostics” had a very limited impact in comparison with the later “triumph” of Christianity—which paid the price of its recognition, evolving as it did from the status of an “esoteric” teaching to that of a world religion, with all the distinctive features of the most rigid dogmatism. These dangers have led the surrealists to avoid “impressionistic” slogans empty of content, so that many things thought of as “new” today have been expressed by surrealists 40 years ago. . . . It is only insofar as the “spirit” of poetry is transmitted like a “spark” to the socalled prose that a new conflagration, reminiscent of the Romantic movement of the last century, may cover the entire world. The indications that we are moving in that

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direction are daily multiplied, and, even by forcing open an already only half-closed door, surrealism will have been the creator of this possibility, acting, so to speak, like the box including the psychic gunpowder, so as to render it explosive—that is, with the condensation without which nothing may explode, whether on the “chemical,” psychic, or “intellectual” sector. . . . The Society of the Written Spectacle—To a Young Poet (abridged version) (First published in Σήμα [Sima], vol. II, no. 2, 1975) I pick up my dragon-shaped paper cutter and cut off the neck of a mediocre poetry collection. Paragraph after paragraph, the spectacle of mediocrity corresponds to the mediocrity of the spectacle. If the society of the spectacle begins with sacerdotal societies, the decline of the spectacle culminates in the technocratic society that specializes in the production of the debased spectacle of the society that produces the spectacle. The spectacle of the production of the spectacle of mediocrity extends to the suburbs of every city the spectacle of unrestrained mediocrity that devours natural environment, irrevocably deforming it with the subproducts of an unbearable tastelessness and a monotonous misery. The production of mediocrity begins with attitude, with thought, with the reading material distributed by the technocratic Establishment, either in the form of books or in that of falsified news on the daily press, or indeed in the form of TV shows, on which the mediocre spectator is deified as the hero of the spectacle of mediocrity. The projected spectacle, whether real or not, transmits the same deathly rays whose sole aim is to lull the consciousness of the spectators before the abyss of the mediocrity which consumes their being. The perfectly packaged mediocrity appears in underdeveloped nations as a promise of “Europe-ization” equivalent to a deceptive polishing of the surface of misery. The quality of reportage in popular magazines rises at a spectacular rate, and the reader believes that the gates of the advanced Society are already traced on the horizon. The illusion, accompanying the attendance of a film by Godard or Buñuel, by the ironbound audience of an underdeveloped country, whether it watches it from the parks and halls of its towns or from the state prisons where the hostages of the society of the spectacle are held, the same ones who tomorrow or yesterday will or did play their spectacular role as Resistance to the reign of the spectacle without for all that realizing the dialectical unity of the two protagonists of the pseudoconflict between the pseudoestablishment and the pseudoresistance which attacks the former’s surface rather than comprehending the deep, indeed absolute, identity between the ideology of the Established Spectacle and that of the Replaced Spectacle, the false revolution offering itself as a change of director for the purpose

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of turning a mediocre commercial film into a relatively well-made commercial film for purely consumerist reasons. Such are also the sufferings inflicted by the gangrene of the spectacle upon wordsmiths, pseudowriters who in the name of art perpetuate the illusion of quality, thereby creating the impression that there is a conspiracy which excludes the unfortunate uninformed or half-informed person who lives on the margin of the society of the spectacle being unable to taste the goods offered by that recognition from the international establishment which is reserved for certain heroes presented as the only ones who have escaped the anonymity of mediocrity to walk under the blinding lights of the projectors of fame and promoted as the advertisement of a probability that is not outside the range of the anonymous crowd provided it follows the highlighted example and advice. Faced with this state of affairs, the excluded wordsmith is transformed into a protesting and angry youngster who attempts either by penetrating into the barbed wire-wreathed camp of the awarded one or by revolting against it, albeit always on the level of speech, to provoke attention, fear; hence the diplomatic, at least, recognition by the Establishment’s watchdogs, the paid critics of journals and magazines, in the form of a good word, thrown like a crumb to a hungry man, and usually with so many reservations and Machiavellian allusions that the poor wretch cannot tell if s/he is being mortally insulted or rewarded. The so-called Dissent is therefore no more than the theoretical parachute which allows apprentice writers to fall without breaking their bones. Yet it does not liberate them from the laws of the pseudogame once and for all. Instead of the absolute liberation it offers to the candidates substitutes that go by the name of: the new Generation, of nonrevolted youngsters with a clear consciousness of their role, albeit pseudo-subpoets, prose writers, and critics, modeled after the old ones, albeit with a different emphasis on age. A difference so ridiculous that they themselves soon abandon it and are united with the mass of the workers of the word-spectacle, this time with no pretext, indeed relieved that they become accepted DESPITE THEIR AGE. Yes, indeed. A despicable sight of perjury against pseudoprinciples, and of desertion to the camp of others, whom they only pseudofought until yesterday. Only those who have overcome the pseudochoice of subproducts of the prominent pseudoculture, both in theory and in the practice of their thought and act, may proceed and be original, not only aesthetically but essentially, with their entire being, and oppose to any compromise a quiet and incontestable No. Only they will not be bought off, who will hurry to overturn the basket and EMPTY IT OF ITS CONTENTS. It is this emptying that will separate the straw from the wheat. It will show who it is that really risks self-revision, abandoning the pseudolyrical whining and the pseudoaesthetic pose, from which no one is safeguarded, neither yesterday’s rebels

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and innovators of words and thoughts nor their progeny today and tomorrow. Dotage is a symptom, not only of old age, but of just about any age, and it strikes without warning, resembling uncannily its symmetrically opposite disease, namely, premature senility, which may even appear at school age. So be careful, friends: it is not only the neoleftist who may one day wake up as a neoconservative, but also the ex-surrealist who may turn into a neotraditionalist. The poetry of the miserable inner spectacle must vanish once and for all. And there is only one way for this to happen: a radical criticism should alone be acceptable . . . a criticism of a dialectical nature, which will always pose fundamental questions and contest not only the surface, the shape, the dress, the cassock, the uniform, but the essence of each case, in its entirety. Poets should thus not allow the fact that they write, whether automatically, pictorially, or emotionally, lull their spirit; they must throw away mercilessly what does not fully represent them. In an age as cruel as this, it is impermissible to return to pseudoemotionalism, to effusions, to sighs, to pathetic speeches with no other content than the writer’s illusion. Without a profound dialectical confrontation with reality on each line, without the eternal war of the imagination with what is, no text will be worth more than a dime. As well written as it may be, it will sound false. And when I talk of dialectics, I of course do not mean its usual distortion by ideology, which reduces it to a feeble abstract instrument of sociological analyses, supposedly radical yet in fact deeply conservative, but the living instrument of thought which affects the perpetual confrontation with the official text, that which has been bequeathed to us as “prevalent thought” by the dominant tradition. . . . Today, each text promoted by the establishment as the last word, is usable by the spirit of transgression, which must, if properly operative, effect a DETEXTUALIZATION, in the double sense of the false text, that is, the dead letter, and the rejection, that is, an overcoming of poetry by its own materials, the spirit, the essence that constitutes it, in other words a parody of speech, which is undermined by its very structures. Writing then becomes a constant “crossing out,” whose prototype is to be found in Lautréamont’s Les Chants de Maldoror. In this way, all that appears as Continuity will be transformed into Interruption. The perpetual turning on and off of the light results in making the readers/listeners become conscious of their automatic substance which has turned them into stooges and mouthpieces of the Established Word, of the dead Letter, of Yesterday’s Sermon in the mouth of a preacher who does no more understand what he is saying. The deformation of poetry is thus the first duty of the free young poet, just as the ridiculing of the false teacher’s dead maxim is the first duty of the pupil. Recent events have shown that the spirit of radical critique is alive among the young and is automatically translated into action, without the dubious intervention

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of ideologies, even if the shadow of the latter is hunted by a regime which suspects that someone conspires against it, whereas the truth is that no one does conspire, apart from the bad conscience of the abjurers who always seek the bugbear of their own projection on the wall of everyday events. Yet if this paranoid atmosphere prevails as the dominant mode of thinking, we shall witness mutual accusations in the ranks of complete dissent and internal divisions all the way to the atom. The only way of exorcizing this atmosphere is absolute negation, not in the sense of a nihilistic Nietzscheanism which ends up with the will to power and totalitarianism, but with the spirit envisioned by Fourier, his Utopia, in constant breach and complete divergence from the current, centuries-old mentality. This negation bears only the most distant relation to cynicism and is based on the alienation of the present by history and its storage in the Tartarus of ignorance. (Who knows adequately, apart from SPECTACULAR gestures, the everyday life of the masses?) On the other hand, the CRITICAL PARANOIA, envisioned by Dalí during an, alas, all-too-brief moment of his life, may be the ultimate weapon by which it will be possible in the future for the friends of dissent to disorganize the DEAD WORD out of its spectral survival in the brains of young people. Here, alienation is merely the philosophical, existential equivalent of exploitation, which has now surpassed the bounds of the human sphere and extended to the spectacle of the exploitation of an exhausted earth resulting in limited chances for the survival of the human species if the current methods adopted by a mindless and unorganized technology continue to not only pollute the waters, the atmosphere, and the soil of our planet, but also to isolate it from future generations. The uprooting of the dominant paranoia may therefore be realized only through a radical critique, by which the entirety of our expression must be spontaneously imbued, whether these are written, pictorial, poetic, antipoetic, oral, or dramatic, in the sense of everyday action. At this point, and unlike the iconoclastic critique adopted by the “situationists” under the leadership of Guy Debord, I am not making a distinction between the projection of the external spectacle and the inner psychological spectacle of thought associations. Only the consciousness of their interdependence, as perceived by Artaud and Dalí, may inflict the final, mortal wound upon the degraded Roman-derived pseudospectacle of our Society, that may be summarized as follows: Bread and spectacles for the restless crowd. For if we merely pursue the external factor, as did the last idolatrous emperors, by throwing the bodies of Christians to the lions, we shall end up with the internal Ecclesiastic Millennial spectacle of Medieval Christians, for whose annulment we shall need infinite metaphorical lions, those that only great painters and poets are in a position to invent. We must not, like iconoclasts, regard the external images as responsible for the internal spectacle. Sadly, the internal spectacle has been insufficiently studied by

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the situationists’ critique, whose radical significance is thereby greatly diminished, leaving the “decadent” surrealism as the master of a battle not yet given and fought with a decisive victory from either side. The future will show whether the external spectacle is directly linked to the internal one, and which of the two most influences the other. If we pick the American youth as a criterion, their TV education not only has weakened external reality, but has reached the point where the exhibited images of real events are perceived as imaginary; e.g., the landing on the moon is attributed to Hollywood studios, etc., with a sarcastic indifference toward the actual event. . . . The falsification of reality thus corresponds to the false poetry presented to us as real and transmitted from TV stations, as part of the everyday spectacle, which entertains the bored crowd with imaginary parodies of its own life. Thus, the victory of the Imaginary may be effected by the peculiar way in which a child watches a spectacle—that is, with faith in its “reality.” Later on, the decline of faith in all reality, which for the young viewer is no more than another pseudoimage, may lead to the revolt of the Imaginary and to a return to the internal spectacle, which will herald the death of realism, not only in literature, but also in thought. The result of this will certainly be this dissidence toward reality already encountered in young poets the world over, and the return to the irrational. The more followers of structuralism try to erase the “baroque” and the imaginary from the contemporary vocabulary, the more these return, invigorated by a mysterious power, which, I suspect, has its roots in the perpetual debasement of reality by the debased commercial spectacle. This situation will, if my analysis is correct, result in a return to the “Secret” and the “Mystical,” analogous to that effected in the last years of the Roman Empire, and for similar reasons: crucially, the debasement of the spectacle, whose increasing dimensions in hippodromes and theaters were, because of its consequent vulgarization, conversely proportionate to its quality and profundity. Finally, after the replacement of external/paganist with religious theater and the total suppression of drama—popular theater all but disappeared in the Middle Ages—, the audience’s hunger was transferred to another level, one generalized enough for the central societies to be lulled by it for 2000 years on the metaphysical plane, and thus to remain prisoners of orthodoxy. Today, the dissenting intellectuals will see the ground disappear from beneath their feet, unless they proceed toward a radical revision of the facts in their entirety. By fighting the shadow of one’s own consciousness, one will never get to abolish the reason for which s/he exists, through which s/he attempts vainly to reach selfawareness. This self is the reflection of that with which we are fed by social education. The same ambitions, the same fears, the same fury over trifles, the same worship of information, the same wandering discussions over nothing, and finally

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the same compromises with the inevitability of age and death, premature, spiritual, or both. If all that is wrong is attributed to one’s surroundings, one automatically ceases recognizing the possibility of freedom as a necessity. The surroundings and that which is surrounded is one and the same, and one’s concrete expression is the word, the word that is act, not word alone. That is, the word as essential gesture. The word is not a simple medium that conveys information unrelated to the individual. The information is composed into speech and inextricably incarnated within it. So that the tone of what is written may, at a specific moment, constitute its essence, not as the announcement and elaboration of the act, but as a new given within the existing space. It is thus that we reach the conclusion that the trials of pseudo-orthodoxy were acted around a formulation. Dogma suppresses the possibility of opinion, and opinion hardened into dogma paralyzes thought and becomes ideology. In order to shed ideology, we must rethink from the beginning, with no “previous notices,” all the problems that lie before us. A sign with the ancient sign-ificance of a memorial, that is, the space where memory literally ends. A total experience scares the hell out of the establishment, which tries to keep it away from the masses, lest that irrational thirst for the absolute that so frightens Compromise awakes within them. Eroticism without thought is like thought without eroticism. Lautréamont, Sade, deprived of horror, is like horror deprived of sense, as in Grand Guignol—the spectacle of horror, not its dialectics. The commonplace spectacle transforms the meaning of horror into the horror of meaning. . . . When the horrible loses its clarity, it becomes Melodrama.

IX. From Andreas Embirikos (1989; collection of essays written 1966–1988)

[Structure and Meaning in Embirikos] (Abridged selections from: a. an article first published in Ηριδανός [Heridanos], no. 4, February–March 1976; b. an essay first published in Χάρτης [Hartis], no. 17–18, November 1985; c. the Introduction to the book, written February 1988) a. Andreas Embirikos died without a single important study having been written about his work. . . . Thus whoever attempts to write about [him] today [1976], inhabits a no-man’s-land. In some curious way, it is like writing about a young, stillobscure poet. He who carved the language of surrealism in Greece is left without the critical recognition proper to his contribution. Somehow, he has been pushed aside as a phenomenon resisting judgment, insofar as his work does not display the

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usual criteria. The familiar aesthetic stimuli recognized as aims of a poetic work are not present here, to provide some footing for the critic. And just as we remain dumbfounded before certain phenomena of nature, we are lost for words when we attempt to talk of him. Embirikos’s proper place in poetry was ignored by contemporary critics, insofar as his work was seen as a product of automatic writing. His inner solitude becomes even more tragic when one considers that he was ignored even by surrealists outside Greece, who do not know his work even today. . . . Yet this much has to be said: Without Andreas Embirikos there would not even have been that disorganized surrealist group, that bunch of friends whose contact gave rise to a whole climate. And then, much later, it was again around Embirikos, both as an inspirer and as a symbol, that the Pali journal was founded. b. Now that we are attempting a careful disconnection of the written work from the “old ways,” the commonplaces, that which has already been said, let us once more consider what Andreas Embirikos did, back in those days, with Blast Furnace and Hinterland. . . . The texts of Blast Furnace displace “normal” writing, referring it indirectly to primal scenes. The replacement of one word with another, of one meaning with another, is the plasticity of the unconscious, as Freud revealed it to us. Behind the sentences there are constant references to the erotic drama. The spectacle of a mythic scene, the parents’ intercourse: a scene shared by myths, Peeping Toms, and dreams. The associations produced by reveries often lead back to that point, so that Freud, with a scientist’s rationalism, wondered whether those scenes might refer to some experience from childhood. Finally, he abandoned the theory of the traumatic experience and adopted the idea that those were fantasies, always deriving from childhood. We might say that Freud opened the way for a theory of desire for the primal scene, which thus must be innate and universal. It is the urge to return to a previous condition, an urge that thereby becomes the motor and vehicle of erotic desire, itself a displaced desire for the parent. This is not the place to discuss this theory. Yet it will prove useful in an overview and partial decipherment of the texts of Blast Furnace, whose very title is of a special importance: the displaced symbol of [Embirikos’s] industrialist father, bearer of the giant, monumental phallus of our mechanical civilization, on the furnaces of factories. The title thus warns us that these texts must be overtly-cum-covertly erotic—vehicles of a desire ramified into language itself, by the richness of its images. Let us start with symbols of the vagina—of which there are plenty: baby basket, boilers’ fifes, cosmic bottom, gulfs of silence, cups, ashtrays. Moving on to the male member: kettle’s torch, peduncle, cane, branch, levers, clubs, rocket, tail, lobster, pole.

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References to primal scenes of intercourse, parental symbols: knots and combs, cup-bearing coach, boulevard, miraculous snake, elastic movements of a waving mountain (“the fairest spectacle seen by the Wandering Jew”), the pitching of a slender brush. Interweaving of two dinosaurs’ necks, dragons (monsters usually being mother/father composites in coition, forming a primeval woman), cylinderbearing pigeon, whale—surely the primordial vagina alluding to the mother’s phallus—, perpetual fornication. The terrible tale has not been concluded, the seven-yearold rabbit exiting a sewer, covered with the hair of the universe (aspects of birth), the young glasses of the blond beach, two panting fairies, pole’s negative roaming and hole, hermaphrodite conversation, bird exiting a sock, Bavarian protuberance, cloth torn in two. Two girlfriends become a buckle, automatic lapdogs, sweetest protuberance, cane leaning over the vapor of the preceding night, ceiling’s peduncle, composite woman, of mixed origin (the “kettle’s torch” here must imply the malecum-female dimension of the said woman); “Toranina Ekhbatomvia,” already a composite, the text referring to an intercourse observed by the entire world; teacher of marine elephants (the poet watching all these creatures of composite sex, at once mothers and phalluses). Many other references to a primal scene of intercourse may be found, in which the whole world participates—including the entire history of the Greek language, from antiquity to our own times. . . . If we abandon the attempt to decipher the texts of Blast Furnace, there will be nothing else to say about Embirikos—and that is exactly what Greek critics did. Indeed, the rest of his work is judged as a step backward from the “bizarreness” of Blast Furnace—as a gradual rationalization. Yet if we take a closer look, we shall see that there is already a “logic” in Blast Furnace, including frequent covert references to ancient themes. The surrealist system is to replace one word for another. Let us look at a text from Blast Furnace [“The Wires of Emotions”]: The nature lovers voted for the abolition of subservience and the spout of every last one became the pilgrimage of lepers and healthier units alike.

Now, this passage may be transformed as follows: The citizens voted for the abolition of subservience and the vote of every last one provoked the departure of enemies as well as of neutral parties. (Fashioned after Xenophon? Thucydides? Herodotus?)

What Embirikos does with ancient history and archaic words is replace the moral/political meaning of a phrase with the erotic/psychological one.

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The tyranny of precipitous rocks is about the overthrowing of a paternal superego: the assault (Attacking with the violence of fever) is followed by general collapse, disorder and confusion: The clamor of the populace in ruins was hung on the wires and the ruptured brains gazed in ecstasy at the murder slipping toward the ulcer of the abyss. The replacement of words such as “depth,” “opening,” “mouth” (of the abyss) with “ulcer,” is a typical surrealist strategy. We may see it clearly in the collages of Max Ernst. The one who is slipping cannot of course be the murder, an abstract concept, but rather, to start with, a human, an individual. A phrase like the following is thus concealed: . . . gazed in relief at the murderer slipping toward the mouth of the abyss (murder may imply, in psychoanalytic terms, the end of an inner conflict, which disappears into the “abyss”), that is, a sentence evoking the adventure novels of Jules Verne among many others. Ecstasy, of course, implies joy, relief, pleasure. The clamor of the populace in ruins may signify the defeat of the populace. And what is that which is hung on wires? An alpinist, most likely—yet these may also be telephone wires; or the passage may be referring to an avalanche. In which case, the attacker may be a mountaineer who attacks and conquers a mountaintop. The polysemy of the text lies in its employment of ancient Greek, of allusions to historic events, quickly transformed into a mountain-climbing scene from an adventure story. . . . It is thus that fragments of diverse readings, of different texts, form a network of unrelated or inconstant elements in continuous fusion, indeed fornication. So the text leaves us with no specific meaning, but rather with numerous possible meanings that coexist and cancel each other out. Literally a “holophrastic”3 technique. What so annoyed traditional critics and poets in Embirikos’s system was what we might call its surface structure. Words without depth, annulling each other, not even forming a modernist continuity, a space recognizable by common experience. Yet it is precisely this refusal to signify that constitutes the work’s radical aspect. It does not wish to speak the language of others. The abolition of subservience includes language itself, which refuses to conform. At the end of the text, we have the founding, on a hilltop, of that curious ammoniac catamount asylum, that wholly surrealist and oneiric establishment, which is not merely made of ammonia, itself an ingredient of urine as well as a substance

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used for cleaning. So catamount does not merely refer to cats and the like, but rather to something much bolder: namely, a surrealist urinal, freely frequented by persons of both sexes, thereby entailing the abolition of that policy of separation and segregation that so restrains and suppresses our society. At the same time, however, it implies the abolition of meaning and the introduction of a new significance for things, which may now again communicate in a fully paradisiac and innocent manner, as in the times when people were not differentiated from animals, and all spoke the same language. Hence the idea of nature loving, and of participation in this new harmony which includes even plants: The lamentation of young trees was transformed into a laudation of great dimensions . . . And the small animalcules also sing against seats and shields, that is, against the rectors and notables, the sovereigns in ancient theaters, markets, and assemblies. So everyone, the sick as well as the healthy, are grateful to the naturalists who abolished subservience. The development of Embirikos’s texts is always the same, although the mise-enscène may differ from one text to another. As for the rupture of brains, what else can it be, in this latent language, but the defeat of rationalism and the reign of the imagination? We must thus take care to neither interpret the Embirikian text in a one-way, monosemantic manner, nor abandon all attempts to approach it, with the defeatism typical of critical writing even today. “The wires of emotions” may lead us unexpectedly to extract meaning from a fragment and, following this line, to “read,” for the first time, other pieces that have not, to my knowledge, been “read” adequately yet. . . . Following on from the Freudian theory of transference, the topic is certainly one (intercourse, birth, death), but the way in which it is expressed is plural, reaching out to the limits of language, writing, and meaning. The abolition of barriers 4 in Greek writing, as we find it in Blast Furnace, has no precedent. This text thus remains exemplary. There are, of course, analogous texts by Odysseus Elytis from the same period, but they somehow do not carry the same weight. Those are mere toys—I am referring to the texts mentioned in Cards on the Table. Whatever may have been said about surrealism as a theory (and a lot has been said, both for and against), we have still not learned how to read Embirikos’s texts. Blast Furnace is the matrix from which everything else derives, including Embirikos’s own work. . . . Let us now move on to Hinterland. . . . Embirikos always sets up a short “drama,” a contrast, an elementary plot with a development. The amazing thing is that we do not follow it, because we are accustomed to reading the poems as outcries of the “enthusiastic,” “delirious” Embirikos.

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Yet upon reading the poems carefully, from a different perspective, one discovers astonishing aspects—first of all, a structure, not only of the lines themselves, but also of contrasts, which always have the same basic character, even though they may appear under various guises. . . . The poem “Instant of Purple” begins as follows: No crevice expands without desire The topic here is attraction in its various forms. The garden rails where birds open their wings (an expansion). The river that attracts the vulture’s passion for the doves. The white dove, whose whiteness takes us to the line: the peak of a snowcapped mountain (another whiteness). Again, the ices melt, and their waters become the pupils of our eyes that wash treasures (the image of gold diggers washing the river’s sand to find gold)—to this scene is added the final sponge that washes and absorbs the drops (of gold?). The birds rest in cavities, while the earth, like a cavity, gives us its treasures, whether blond or black (oil?). The snows give us waters and the waters milk, again white. Finally, by the transformation of the narrators into hourglasses, the poem’s origins in scenes of gold digging are confirmed, although the sexual element of purpleness in relation to the crevice shows the other dimension of the poem. Of course, the reference to the clots of mountains, to arteries, to veins of gold comes to reinforce our suspicions concerning the poem’s sources in stories, films, or illustrations of that kind. In the end, the narrators are assimilated by the gold, which turns out to be a reference to the golden age, when all was easy and happiness reigned. (Expansion—purple—sex—sponges—drops.) Surrealist texts often conceal such a structure that is disguised by the words uttered, or rather written, but which is implied as the object of an intertextual elaboration. The hard work and toil involved in gold digging imply an underlying contrast to the blissful tone of the entire poem. The object of desire, we are reminded, is not attained effortlessly: And sponges wriggle for each of our drops. c. [I]n Oktana we find texts wrapped like bindweeds around metaphoric concepts or iconic symbols, from the first text titled “Silence,” to “The Isle of Robinsons,” with the symbol of the great Whale, vainly expected by the castaway. The reference, in “Silence,” to zero as a voiceless open mouth, and to the works that remain unaccomplished, is the apparition of a stance vis-à-vis the inexpressible, that which has not been done, written, realized, that which finally is, like death, an entombed life, a pregnant absence, an untouched and unlimited possibility, before which our realized works are paltry, comical, transient. This identification between being and

Nanos Valaoritis, Collage

Nanos Valaoritis, Collage

Nanos Valaoritis, Collage

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nonbeing may puzzle the reader, given that surrealism has always favored the positive over the negative. Yet in Embirikos affirmation is never monological, one way, one-sided. It is always dramatically accompanied by its opposite. . . . Finally, the recognition of the necessity for a new, inarticulate language, in “The Isle of Robinsons,” highlights Embirikos’s most advanced and daring aspect. The language that does not signify is also a symbol of the motherly/universal whale, which contains all life within the liquid element of the prematernal Ocean.

Dimitris Papaditsas (1922–1987)

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articularly close to Hector Kaknavatos and E. Ch. Gonatas, Papaditsas is unique amidst the generation raised during the war in displaying a pronounced lyrical tendency, and a repertory of autonomous images reminiscent of Pierre Reverdy. Certainly one of the most original voices of his generation, his work assumes explicitly metaphysical overtones after his first two books, and the surrealist imagery therein becomes increasingly mild. “I dissolved into birds/With the wind’s instinct” (D. Papaditsas).

I. From The Well of Harps (1943) Narrative

For Hector Kaknavatos Stairs here stairs there glittering steels square beings no trees anywhere and yellow orchards infertile air. Swallow of joy you are pecking on my repentance. Precious pleasure I am always subtracted and lost. I am owed to elevation. The alarm ends at six a.m. on the fiery volcano. Ding dang ding dang drops of sound have filled the violets. The jackdaws depart. Who will condemn this hand. I descend stairs speedily. Golden riddles golden feet heels on the shadow-shaded floor. What sulfur in all that we leave with your curved eyelid. Young wind. Prow of memory tears the darkness and sits upon the stars. From a great height I shall descend to the chaos of your embrace. On my palm a town sinking in violets. Years have passed since the street encounter divided our

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gaze in two white lilies. As the broad-leaved plant fell down everything collapsed. Yet what beautiful debris with orchestras of skeletons at the lazy windows. Three decrepit flower glasses gape in the void. What will you bring to us from the infinity of your vein. We want nothing we are content with your evergreen gaze and the banner of your nakedness. We are here with the bells of style bragging in the winds we are light and shiny like pebbles. We do not recall the harbor anymore, the winch has become a vulture’s beak. Blessed be your coming with dusted clothes from Sahara and the Nile. You stature of the most secret voice where are you taking me to where are you drinking me to afflicted rosebushes hearkening to the marches of dew? Right quite right the ransom now take back your wing take back your laughter I do not find them enough.

II. From Between Brackets (1945–1949) (published 1949) Declaration We are not at all unreasonable When noontide whistles traverse our skin Touching the windows and the abyss The coiled up rattlesnake confuses its one eye with our own And upon facing the slippery sun of its native land Still finds the time to ponder that it once was a teensy little reptile We are not at all unreasonable Especially I who have three opium-addict fingers Out of spite against the holy trinity Especially I who every afternoon attack the Gothic rhythms keeping the impregnated Africa between my thighs We are not at all unreasonable For the dead swallows are three generations of our silences For the cicadas have escaped from the hostess’s armpits And out of joy we hid them in our mouths for other summers When the pelicans arrive with their ears sealed by Negro cries: “the whites are coming aououa aououa!” We are not at all unreasonable When we ask for the streets to be broadened And for us to be bothered by South American mosquitoes.

E. Ch. Gonatas (1924–2006)

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ne of the foremost storytellers of Greek surrealism, Gonatas has been a physically marginal figure in it. His solitary attitude (excepting a poetry journal undertaken along with Papaditsas in the late 1950s) is regrettable but reflects his programmatic unwillingness to court publicity. A lawyer by profession. The slim volume of his complete published works testifies to his eclecticism and has helped render him a “cult” writer, to use a rather tired expression. Gonatas’s stories involve a renewed sense of the marvelous, whereby curious revelations always remain at arm’s length. He has made several imaginatively chosen translations, including works by Coleridge, Antonio Porchia, Yvan Goll and Wols. “I admire him very much. I am irritated by those worthless yet shrewd people who manage to obscure the important and modest ones” (Nikos Engonopoulos).

I. From The Hiding Place (1959) But then begins a journey in my head Shakespeare, Sonnets Excavation (selections) She had hanged tiny mirrors on trees for the birds to look at themselves. *** After caressing it for some time with her erotic gaze she opened her palm and reached for it. Yet the enraged pear hit her hand and escaped, stood up on its tail and started to perform a wild, menacing dance on the tablecloth.

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*** With a large pair of scissors he makes his way through the furniture, reaping the heavy branches that grow on all sides. They are in bloom, albeit unfrequented by birds (these are all gathered inside the chimney, which has remained unused since last winter). However, their bodies exude such warmth that he has no need for gloves, gaiters, or those woolen socks that start braying each time he tries to squeeze them through his tight boots. *** The hungry birds on the leaves are watching out for me, scratching their nails on the barks of trees, for one who has tasted my blood even once can no longer feed on fruit and mulberry juice. *** Do not ask for a watch, there is none, for, as I have explained to you, we are in a deep cave. Yet there is that large eye within the woven cage, just as there is my heart which strikes the hours and leads you through the dark. *** Inside the open lions’ mouths of the bronze bed knobs she had planted carnations, so as to hear in her sleep the buzzing flight of the thirsty bee. *** From the holes of the sponge small scorched animals emerged, and from the freshly buried coffin in the cemetery sprang the dead man—a young lad—in a brown dress; basil had not yet grown in the flowerpot of his teeth, and in the green rush of his eyes the great desire of ruin was not annulled—that overfed migratory pigeon with the seal hidden deep within the down of its neck. *** The forest raised on four wooden wheels departed with a groan, like a waterfall between mountains. *** On the stage, the lights are off. The theater is empty. A candle flies from seat to seat.

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*** With an indifferent and somber gaze he watched the pile of coffins heaped on the edge of the demolished fence full of red, green, and black dead thunderbolts. *** Inside the apples, there are happy babies, laughing. *** When the moon rises behind the rocks, nuns jump from their beds, undo their hair, unbutton their robes and then, sleepwalking, woven baskets in arms, they descend to the gardens. Silently sliding between the trees, they always follow the same path, upon the backs and heads of pigeons. The Secret One night, as I was walking all by myself, I discovered for the very first time my terrible secret: inside my youthful chest, I kept encaged a pair of living lanterns: a red one on my left side, a green one on my right. “So, I’m a ship!” I whispered slowly, blissfully. Then I tested my willpower: upon applying my full attention, I noticed with indescribable joy and pride that I was capable—upon setting in motion certain muscles, theretofore unused—of giving orders to either one of the lanterns, which hang from a luminous nerve within me, thick and soft as marrow. Thus enchanted I walked, on that marvelous evening, in the light that flowed from within me, upon its green and red reflections; I walked for many hours, until the soles of my shoes melted and the sharp street rubble began to sting my feet. The Lilies I wandered many a time on this deserted beach. Yet whenever I happened to throw my fishing line, I always ended up dragging out the same hen by the beak. Upon my return, the fish were drying in solitude on the roof of my attic. One evening I shall build a nice fire and the bright colors of their seabed will live for one last time, before turning to dust. Then, this wild bodiless bird will fly from the window, and the stars will shed their light upon the lilies that grow on the walls. (In the morning they are onions; in the evening they become lilies. Crime supports them.)

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Journey The bird appeared at the window and gave me a nod to go outside. Soon we were flying together over gardens of apple trees, soaked with moisture. The bird was chattering in my ear: “The cave—I have told you of it so many times—is not far away. The frog that guards the front entrance knows me. (His father was smashed the day before yesterday by the wheels of the oxcart.) There, in the rotten case, amid the spearmints, lies hidden the ancient hand.” The Eyes He fell on the side, badly injured, mortally wounded, upon our great, our unique olive grove. Soaked in blood, he put out the light of our garden, stopped the heart of the orchard. Silence, darkness, and black grass started growing everywhere. “The sun chased you away from the sky so you chased my sun on the earth; once again you came near the sun and lay down to die with it,” I told him and turned him over with a large fork. Then I knelt down and, assisted by the light of the lantern which hung from my neck, I unfolded—while they were still hot—his wings, which were stuck together; they creaked as I opened them, like the thick pages of my dictionary. In his armpits I discovered two living red eyes, gazing straight at me. I unstuck them carefully with my penknife, without damaging them, and when they froze they became two beautiful marbles, with which I beat all my schoolmates. They offer me whatever I want in exchange for them, yet I, knowing how much they have cost me, would not change them for anything in the world. Being eyes, they find their target all by themselves; it suffices for me to push them with my finger. They always strike home. One afternoon, however, as I was walking alone in the dark garden, between long lines of heavy-breathing sponges, I had the idea of competing with myself, for the very first time. So, I produced the marbles from my pocket, put one down, took a few steps backward, then, placing the other on the ground, gave it a push with my finger. However certain the result may have been, my heart was still pounding loud as I waited. The marble started out slowly but gradually gained speed on the grassy slates. It approached its target, yet, at the very last moment, a mere half millimeter before touching it, it stopped abruptly and, straightaway, my marbles—both of them— arose and vanished in the sky.

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I never did find them again. And no other eagle has fallen in our orchard ever since. No other eagle will die in my arms ever again. The Tiger Night, with its moist muzzle, passes through the trees, through the fields with the waters and canes. On the attic of the ancient house an orange light shines. It is an empty chamber with broken windows. Three beautiful fires are lit on the broad bed that floats, chained, in the middle of the room. An exercised hand wearing a black glove and a ring collects them softly and plants them in a flowerpot covered with cobwebs. A small tiger with black stripes, so far hidden behind the jug, exits from the halfopen door; she looks briefly at the moon, then, with numb footsteps, vanishes in the tall grass of the garden. On her feet she wears big yellow violets. Yet she will return tomorrow night. All day long, in the train wagon leading her to her cage, then in the immense frozen arena, at the time of the performance, she will long for the caress of the black-gloved hand. She will come back tomorrow night, nostalgic and obedient to the order of the gloved hand, to light the fires up on the broad bed. The Idol There is a pitch-black bird, with a sole gold feather on its tail. When the dawn appears, yellow and regretful, in the orchards behind the medlar trees, or when the dusk begins to spread its blue-red shadows over the untrodden ravines, ’tis then that the bird, which nestles at the rocks of desert fields, exits its hole and flies to the forest. It is the menace of initiated hunters. At the music of its feathers, their footsteps retreat. It never flees before danger, never abandons its place, never hides from the eyes of its enemies, traveling wrapped in a green leaf, as is the habit of all other birds.

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One may count on the fingers of one hand those hunters who may brag of having seen it even twice or thrice in their entire lives. Yet to this day not one embalmer of rare birds has ever boasted of having enriched his collection with it. Woe to him who encounters it when he is armed yet unprepared. It invites him to approach with the solemn grace of its coloring, with the unspeakable sweetness of its voice, with the rhythmical movements of its gold feather. The unsuspecting hunter gets close enough, always aiming, his gun raised toward it and the finger steady on the trigger. At the very moment when he is ready to fire, he sees, horrified, on the branch, the rock, or the stone bench of the dry well the exact same pitch-black bird gazing at him, this time with a different look. How does he know these eyes? Where has he seen this hair before? Why does he remember these very familiar characteristics now facing him? No, he is not mistaken. On the black body of the bird, in the place of its head, is now stuck the diminutive replica of his own head. It is his very face that, as if through an upturned spyglass that diminishes objects, he is aiming at, on the branch, the rock, or the stone bench of the dry well. Who would dare shoot a bullet at his own idol, at the very moment when it is about to shoot a bird?

II. From The Chasm (1963) The Hermit The wooden door opened with a creaking noise, and a long snow-white beard spread over our feet, shedding light on our faces, flashing in the dark. Walking over it, we entered the hut. Two tree trunks leaned on the ground, by way of seats. Having first kissed the old man’s hand, we started undressing. He, meanwhile, had withdrawn into a corner and, without paying any attention to us, was quietly tuning his ancient violin, which now and then dripped thick tears of wax. The Butterflies Help “The garden inspector is coming,” a voice was heard shouting. Thousands of butterflies popped out of the fences, flew straightaway over the naked stems and took to simulating the flowers, which continued their carefree slumber under the ground.

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The Garden As I ascend the miserable earth road, which keeps getting narrower and steeper, the garden appears before me. A stairway leads to the railed kiosk with the big mauve flowers. The steps are made of transparent stone, and inside it swim leaves, beautiful colors, and a few letters of the alphabet. On the Bridge I am lying face down on the small bridge. Under the glass floor an enormous blue hollyhock shines in the white field. Lambs bend over its roots and lick the snow that covers them. The field guard, wearing a cap and a pair of heavy boots, passes in front of me, mumbling the same sentence over and over, like a prayer: “Birds are the dandruff of trees.” Impasse The road was getting narrower and narrower. By now we could just about squeeze our way through the opposing houses, which nearly touched, leaving only a tiny passageway. We crept into the yard and, following the footpath, ended up in the square. Hairy dogs were sitting, weeping, upon some discolored benches. The woman took me by the hand and showed me a glittering stingray, which was sliding from roof to roof. Upon the beatings of its tail, the bronze roofs echoed like cymbals. “It’s sharpening its teeth; someone’s bound to get eaten tonight,” she turned and told me softly. Her pigtail was shiny, dipped in oil. Her eyes burned under their long lashes. I look at the fence before us; it is tall and covered with scales. I stick my eye on one of its holes. Countless hollyhocks stir around a kiosk half-sunk in the ground. On the roof that protrudes from the earth, the skylight suddenly opens, a pigeon falls down the stairs and is then plumed and straightaway delivered to the ray-fish. The hollyhocks are instantly soaked in blood. All around me, the day breaks. Her hair, now undone, grows under the light of dawn. Thousands of fringes cover me. The Wild Beasts I was walking in the countryside. The night was falling and the smoke of grass burning in the fields was rising to the sky in tall columns. Behind the thick ferns cows

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were mooing. I pushed the branches aside and saw, behind the leaves, the ruined stable with the small windows. There was not a soul in sight. The mooing was heard once more, along with the sound of chains being dragged on the ground. “They’ve gone without a thought for the animals,” I said to myself. “Who knows how long they’ve been away?” I slipped inside the farm and, after passing beneath the tall blooming fig trees without meeting anyone, finally reached the stable. Nettles and rotting leaves blocked the door. I opened it with great difficulty, and a heavy stench came up to my nostrils. Sacks of barley were piled up in there, along with two or three buckets and a wheelbarrow. On the right, a low wooden door, whose upper half was railed. I pushed it and found myself in the barn. In the dim light that entered through the narrow skylights, I discerned five bears on a heap of straw. They were asleep, breathing heavily, their legs chained to big metal rings nailed to the walls. Here and there, lumps of fresh dung reeked. The manger was empty and the basin dry. I turned the tap on and filled the basin with water; then I took some food out of the sack and put it in the manger. The bears had taken no notice of my presence, seeing as they were fast asleep, with their bright red eyes wide open. I was suddenly possessed by the irrepressible desire to caress their backs before leaving. I went near them and, upon extending my arm, felt my hand sink in their soft fur. They had neither meat nor bones under their skin. And yet those yellow empty sheepskins stirred, animated and hot, between my fingers. Sleep The countryside, covered with snow. I cross the wooden bridge over the frozen river; between its rotting beams grass grows. A noise, like a small pulley turning somewhere nearby, attracts my attention. The noise comes from the foliage of the enormous cedar, whose branches reach the bridge’s railings. I approach it and see a big fat bird with no legs, sleeping. Its eyelids are closed. Although fast asleep, it holds onto a branch by its beak and keeps beating its wings, as if flying. The Well On the edge of the vacant square with its many series of columns there is a stone well. Looking from afar, I spy a baby sitting inside the well’s bucket. I run forth, emitting wild cries, yet the bucket dives headlong and vanishes deep down before I have time to hold its frenzied chain. Soon, agitated people emerge from all corners of the square; after I explain to

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them briefly what I have seen, they all run to the well, cups in hands, to rescue the child. The well is soon emptied of its water, yet the child is nowhere to be found. The freshly revealed bottom glitters with black slime. I put my hands in the mud, like everyone else, and in the course of my search unearth a piece of tinplate. I stare at it for a moment, and am about to throw it away, yet suddenly I discern on it a large grease stain. The familiar shape of the stain awakens a thousand desires that lay hidden within my soul. I clasp the tinplate, which I now recognize all too well, traverse the square, and vanish in the orchards. From the Bottom of the Lake A yellow, rainy afternoon. Standing on the stairs of the marble pier, we are staring at the deep, troubled waters of the lake. A big lobster passes in front of us swimming, so near and slow that a secret communication immediately takes place between us: “Let’s catch it by the ears!” So I grab hold of one ear, and we start pulling. The ear is long, soft, and hot. As we raise it from the muddy waters, slowly and troublesomely because of its great weight, I realize how badly we have been deceived. Contrary to what we thought, we have not pulled out the lobster, but rather a large, half-drowned orangutan, which was beating the waters trying to escape our clutch. I regret ever having played a part in all this. The orangutan does not have the power to resist and soon succumbs completely to his fate, letting us tie his jaws with a rope. In his large eyes, which are staring at me, I do not discern anger, only immense sorrow. Instantly, everything becomes clear in my mind. I realize I have been entangled in a horrendous crime. I know this soaked orangutan, which is now shivering resignedly at our feet, is a unique animal with rare intellectual qualities, the likes of which are not to be found again; he speaks faultlessly our own language, and many others besides. Now I look at my hands, in whose palms lingers the heat of his velvet ear, now I cast guilty glances in his direction, as if begging him to forgive me. The wise animal remains silent. I withdraw into a corner and break into floods of tears. The Apples I walk in the village with its old, half-ruined houses. Most of them have red curtains instead of windows, and the wind that blows them now and then reveals the smoked

2 6 8    The Second Generation

beams inside. On a balcony with a beautifully sculptured balustrade stands a whitehaired woman in a long dress, whose color evokes blackberries. On her neck she wears a brand new banknote by way of a shawl, held by a pin whose ruby shines like a thick clot of blood. She leans over her flowerpot and waters it, singing. Her voice is sweet and soft; tearful, I stand and listen. For a moment, our eyes meet, and she nods that she has something to give me. I extend my arms—like she shows me—in the shape of an embrace. Then, taking them out of her dress where she kept them hidden, she starts throwing hot apples at me, like those sold at fairs, roasted in small earthen furnaces, powdered with fine sugar, then stuck, like babies’ heads, on long sticks with many branches. Mad We ascend the alley of the rhododendrons. I am mad and I know it. I am accompanied by the cashier of the T. company, who acts as my nurse. He has uncovered my left shoulder blade and, following my directions, he subjects it to a lot of rubbing and massaging, which is greatly beneficial for my condition. I explain to him what a benign effect the pressure of certain muscles and glands in that part of my body has on my darkened spirit. It is a new therapeutic method I have only just discovered. I say, “I start from the fact that each alteration of the cerebral cortex, which is to say, each particular form of psychic disease, accordingly occasions the alteration of a specific part of the psychopath’s body or even of an entire organ. It is evident that the success of this cure—whose means are extremely simple, namely, muscle rubbing and gland squeezing—depends, first, upon the precise localization of the bodily region that is polluted by the psychic microbe, and, second, upon our ability to interfere in that particular region. We cannot expect much when the psychic sickness has settled, e.g., in the entrails, which does indeed happen, if only very rarely. With this, therefore, as with all efficacious therapies, the field of application is not unlimited. You must admit, however, that it is very extensive indeed.” Even though the nurse listens carefully, occasionally shaking his shaved head, I am certain he does not understand one jot of what I am saying. Still, why should I care; I am delighted and exalted at saying it, so I continue to talk heatedly and fanatically of my theory. Does not, after all, the result of its application to my particular case constitute its most palpable justification? At the end of the street my father is waiting. He sees us and comes near, yet does not seem to guess my condition. He takes me aside and whispers in my ear, giving me a wicked wink: “I’ve come straight from home. In your room, under the table, I found a urotropine pill.” He is telling the truth and I know why. If, instead of the

E. Ch. Gonatas    2 6 9

pill, he had found a bird’s feather, I am certain he would not have bothered to tell me, yet he does feel like making fun of this obsession I have with medicines. The Fig Tree I bowed and kissed her. “I am the wind,” I whispered softly in her ear. “Let us go behind that fig tree. I shall blow and its leaves will start falling very gently all over us; no indiscreet eye will thus be able to see us when I embrace you.” Picking a small coin from her hair, she showed it to me, then, looking beyond, to the space where the fig tree stood in solitude, she started shaking it in her palm. “The answer is written thereon,” she said and threw the coin in the air, where it changed its course and fell into the lake, beside us. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dived into the water. I soon reached the bottom. I kept searching and searching, making my way through the tall herbage, but the coin was nowhere to be found. Grieved, I decided to make my way up, having first unearthed from the mud a silver spoon to offer her as a present. Holding it tightly in my palm, I came to the surface. “I used to eat with this, as a child,” I was about to tell her, but she had vanished; and the coin that I had been looking for all along shone on the rocks by the lake. I realized it would be pointless to call her; at any rate, I did not know her name. I picked up the coin and made my way to the fig tree. Upon approaching it, I discovered with horror that it had no leaves left on. It was completely withered, and entire armies of ants were moving in and out of its hollows.

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Mando Aravantinou (1923–1998)

​T w e l v e

​A

​ravantinou’s early texts, influenced by Embirikos in their treatment of ​language and expansive freedom, but entirely original in concept, consti​tuted one of the major tone-setting works around Pali; language here at once constructs and describes a mysterious, nocturnal urban landscape. Largely ignored by critics and translators alike, her death from Alzheimer’s disease was a tragic irony, given her preoccupation in her works with the function of memory. “Here the narrative flow follows the direction of desire, of an impossible craving” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Script Βʹ (1964) Along the safe one-way street we move, the woman of my past, the dwarf with the black wig and my red shiny coat. We face the irregularities of the road, luminous signs of unguarded passages, with the synchronized pulses of our six hands. The dwarf obeys only our own rhythm, the agile movements of our own one-way street. We move on the unguarded passage, the woman of my past, the dwarf and third playfellow and my red shiny coat. I shall not change the rhythm of the triad, I shall not interrupt the dialogue, I shall not alter the line of our hands. The dwarf and third playfellow just about touches the ground.

Mando Aravantinou    2 8 3

We move along the direction of the one-way street. On the South parallel the irregularities increase and so do the pulses of our hands. In the openings, recent uncovered excavations of the South road, the dwarf and our lovable playfellow floats blissfully and obediently, fully dependent on the women who firmly frame him. We do not alter the swaying of our hands. We do not betray the rhythm of our hands. We preserve the integral body of our dwarf and third playfellow. To his doubts and fears, we oppose the one-way movement and the safe vertical of our six hands. We harmonized our steps perfectly with his horizontal hopping hesitations. To his brief scared tiny cries we answer with the corners of our laughter which is registered into the town plan on the lateral parallels of the memory plan. Our lovable playfellow touches the ground and purveys our rhythm. The corners of our sensitive six hands determine for long the distance, along the one-way street on the specific town plan. On the diaphanous laterals of the memory plan. In noncontrolled time. On the specific level passage, exactly on the South diagonal, at the dwarf ’s sharpest point of laughter and bliss, the woman of my past, and my red shiny coat, performed their most perfect and harmonized movement, in its most elegant and calculated form. We changed the direction of the safe one-way street. We expanded the line of parallels. We transposed the vertical line of our hands. We blunted the corner of our pulsing bodies. We hurled the body of the dwarf and our third playfellow. At the center of the specific passage, at the smoothest point of the asphalt. On the edge of our pulse and laughter. We threw the body of the dwarf. At the exact point where the one-way street meets the South parallel. On the registered nontransposable laterals of dream. Points of the town. Points of memory. There where I always return. There we threw the body of the dwarf. At an indelible point of the asphalt. Along the direction of the safe one-way street. With a vigilant consciousness for the writing of the imperfect equation.

2 8 4    The Pali Group

II. From “Notebooks of Script Βʹ” (Fragment, first published in Χνάρι(A) [Chnari(A)], no. 1, 1985, and reprinted in Συντέλεια [Synteleia], no. 6–7, 1992)

Excerpt Αʹ (So we inhabit, the aged and wise hymnographer and I, the outskirts of the nameless town.) The old man’s announcement was clear and crucial: “It is a most ancient writing, composed, for reasons unknown, in the form of a diatribe.” The old man insists that I possess, not quite the exact writing of the texts, but the memory of their writing, which is very important, for I had concealed this: I had been an ancient inhabitant of the district, perhaps even of the town, for a town did once exist, and a most ancient one at that. . . . . . . So, of the old man’s knowledge I possess mere portions, or even articles of the complete gnosis, and even those fragmented, disconnected at any rate. The old man is ready to proceed to the abolition of conjunctions. “In the special case of these texts, the conjunction shall be abolished, so that textual analysis may proceed.” The Motel that we inhabit, the aged hymnographer and I, lies at the borders of the town. Very close to the familiar Center of Researches. I often accompany the old man in his long walks on the low hills enclosing the town. From the hills’ height we have an excellent view of the town and of the sandy district that surrounds it. There the old man and I attempt to discover the slightest traces or remnants or even infinitesimal specks of the Town that preceded it, whose memory I fully possess. Our attempts have heretofore been fruitless. My memory remains silent and elusive. And neither the immense expanse, nor the familiar shape of the hills or the sands, not even the musical notes of the ideograms chanted by the old man beside me and stubbornly repeated in our everyday wanderings, not even the incitements, or the cunning recollections of memory, or the narratives of battlefields after deathly battles, how many dead animals, legs stretched out pricking the sky, how much the lost and never recorded material and every man for himself and Mother of Mercy have mercy on me. . . . These invocations, I remind him, are strictly superfluous and only serve to distract us from the problem of the writing of the Town. The old man remains silent for a moment and suddenly reemerges: “It is only a matter of time, patience and time” . . . memory. . . . I am carried upon the swift bicycle, the old man’s gift to me. I indulge in acrobatic jumps, showing, as high as possible, my thighs and legs, I move fast as a bullet on

Mando Aravantinou    2 8 5

the swift bicycle, faster and faster, safer and safer, crossing diagonals, verticals and parallels. While my mind is occupied by brilliant equations. . . . . . . All of a sudden, the center of the underground passages, where I roam upon citizens and infants, is attacked by the noble Body of the Agrarian Police, who, with the help of crushers, whips, and other blunt instruments, injure, thrash, and occasionally slay citizens and infants. Spectacles of this kind are frequent in the town of equations and underground passages. Recently, however, something peculiar has occurred. Due to the frequent, indeed daily, use of algebraic equations, the inhabitants completely forgot the use of speech. . . . The easy and repetitive use of the equations, even for the simplest necessities of everyday life, facilitated significantly the development of rhythm and the town’s entire operating mode, yet at the same time we lost or forgot the use of speech. It was that very lack which the aged hymnographer was invited to atone for. The scientists of the Center of Researches insist that all efforts are vain, for the word codes of communication have been lost. There followed exhaustive archaeological and linguistic researches. Finally, certain remnants of the memory of some forgotten consonants were discovered and promptly recorded. The vowels had all been lost. I cannot say that the phenomenon of the loss of language took us by surprise. What did take us aback was the loss of vowels. The language of consonants performed the following sounds: grrrgk blkll bggkk fkttt tststs. And these were the brightest linguistic achievements. . . . The phenomenon of the loss of language did not happen in a single day; it took some light years to reach the total lack of vowels. We the citizens realized, at a time that cannot be exactly determined, insurmountable problems of communication, dyslexia, and often phenomena of complete dumbness. E.g., we realized that the words and their accents, as well as the manner of pronunciation of the consonants or vowels, the frequent use and confusion of the pronouns I, you, he, or even the silences and pauses between two words, gave various acoustic or conceptual results, which led us to completely confuse concepts, relations, negotiations, confessions, inert explanations, serious misunderstandings, displacements of words and faces, exhaustive interrogations and reposes, excommunications and separations from groups or clubs, or, what is more frequent, denunciations, deceits, disappearances, fictions, and transgressions of truth. Mass suicides of citizens and rapes of virgins were also noted. . . . We thus acquired some distance from the facts and events of everyday life: we used only the passive voices of verbs, exchanged cookery recipes and visited the Aegean Islands:

2 8 6    The Pali Group

—Were you recently transferred to Olynthos? —No, we were recently transferred to a certain isle, reasonably airy. —Best wishes to you. Fair wind in your sails. We never asked about the neighbor’s health because it might be mentioned that the neighbor suffered from that deathly medieval sickness which eliminated populations, exterminated villages and small towns, and, what is most repulsive, left indelible signs on the evolution of the human species. All anthropologists agree on this point. . . . If the neighbor disappeared, chances would be that he was transferred to Argentina or to a certain isle, from which he never returned except disguised as something else, an object usually or, in the best of cases, a beast of burden. . . . His relatives, faced with such a disgrace, would then dig deep holes in the ground and hide the disgrace therein. . . . Excerpt Βʹ The chronology of the texts has not yet been determined by the old man; besides, he is particularly reticent when it comes to dates. The specification of the chronology is, at any rate, the least of the problems concerning the comprehension of the texts. The foremost problem is the combination between the signs of the alphabet and the mysterious ideograms, whose symbols change according to the meaning of that most poetic and ancient text. On the quality of the text the old man has no doubts whatsoever. It is a most ancient hymn, probably the first in the history of human writing— only recently the old man stated officially that it is a (the) Grammar of poetry. (So we inhabit—the aged hymnographer and I—the outskirts of the nameless town.) The announcement caused a certain commotion among the members of the town’s society. The Center of Scientific Researches, on whose jurisdiction the reading of the texts depends, along with all kinds of research, was convinced of the opposite. In an early announcement it had taken great care to clarify that this was a scientific diatribe—a most ancient one—written for reasons unknown in the form of an epic. It was to this end that the wise hymnographer was invited. My own presence is equally explicable. The aged hymnographer insists that I possess the memory of the writing of the texts, for I had been an inhabitant of the district, perhaps even of the town. In the course of the last decade, I collaborated repeatedly with the aged hymnographer. Our collaboration was interrupted, through my own doing I believe.

Mando Aravantinou    2 8 7

So, out of the old man’s knowledge I possess nothing but fragments of the whole gnosis and even those are scattered, at any rate disconnected. Yet the old man insists that the conjunction, while certainly essential, may be omitted in exceptional cases owing to the special nature of the text. Excerpt Cʹ The memorization of the system of circulation of the underground passages and the inclined planes. The demanding examinations take a long time. The repeated examinations of equations aim primarily at the acquisition of the disputed identity. The educational system provides excellent institutions and timetables analogous to those of adults. The memorization of the underground passages does not constitute a secret, yet it does constitute a property and is a problem of temperament: nobody, and I mean nobody, will prevent me from memorizing completely the mechanism of underground passages. Nobody will intervene in my course. Nobody will block my passage. After the complete knowledge of the town, I shall request specialization in the underground system. . . . They did not refuse the memorization of underground passages. Yet they did draw my attention to the complex system of moving planes. . . . I keep moving and returning, going back and forth, before the enormous entrance leading to the underground moving planes. Yet no guard blocks the entrance; what is more no one has asked me to declare a thing. Many returns and arrivals follow. I keep deferring the visit to the underground town. Enormous lighted boards, as at an exhibition, allow memory to move, following the underground passages, indicated clearly on the boards by arrows. The polychromy of the lighted boards, the explanatory arithmetic boards, the willingness of the speakers to repeat the original claims, the agility of lighted signs, the repeated exemplary courses of vehicles, always returning at regular intervals, the lighted passages of pedestrians, also returning within regular periods, are of no use whatever to the interpretation of the events by memory. . . . Everything takes place in complete silence and precision, and never has a single arrival of a pedestrian or vehicle delayed or interrupted the continuous and regulated movement of the underground passages of the moving planes.

Yorgos V. Makris (1923–1968)

​T h i r t e e n

​H

is suicide and unwillingness to publish bring perhaps to mind Jacques Rigaut and his namesake Vaché—a facile comparison for an equally unique human case. A member of Embirikos’s wartime circle, close to Sahtouris and Gonatas, Makris evaded both work and “literature”; one of his poems, now lost, was titled “An attempt to become enchanted.” Introduced to André Breton by Nanos Valaoritis, Makris collaborated on Pali, notably with his translation of Paz’s Sunstone (based on Benjamin Péret’s translation and notes). Many texts by Greek surrealists (most famously Embirikos’s “King Kong”) have been dedicated to Makris (both before and after his death), or make references to him. His few surviving works were eventually discovered and published in one volume. “Makris found it impossible to exist save in the most authentic immediacy” (Nanos Valaoritis). “We are the harbingers of chaos” (Yorgos V. Makris).

From Writings (1940–1967; published 1986) Declaration (excerpts)1 Having shared the aesthetic and cosmic viewpoint for which the destruction and mortality of living forms are contained in the outline of life’s fulfillment. Having decided upon the destruction of the Parthenon, to the ultimate end of restoring it to essential eternity, which is nothing but the non-form-conscious/standardized flux, and the rich in probabilities automatic transformation of matter, that which is falsely called loss. Having in mind that man is perhaps nothing but an indirect automatism and a

Yorgos V. Makris    2 8 9

versatile natural manifestation; fundamentally acknowledging the work of art, yet sharing an aversion to its temporal/historical consolidation, which we regard as unheard-of and foreign to life. Having also felt that the craving for eternity is one of the basic preconditions of life, and consequently of art, given that art is nothing but a kind of subversive application of life’s fundamental instincts, yet feeling this craving to be essential only in the course of creation. Having understood Salvador Dalí, who dared compose a work out of raw meat and vegetables (irrespective of whether, psychically, he prepared it for eternity, for God, or for himself, all these words being humanly identical, albeit essentially misunderstood), having indeed understood and appreciated him as much as we have Phidias, who may have invested his work with a temporal/historical substance, but did nothing more in the context of substantial eternity, for which there is neither quantity nor temporal duration, for which a second is no different than three billion centuries, thanks to its voluntary properties and to its dynamic quality, conceivable only in terms of atoms, whose number is of no concern to anyone. Having identified in this temporal/historical consolidation all that is most foreign and deceptive to humans, and what is more, hating National Tourism and the nightmarish journalism written à propos of it. Having been convinced that we are committing a psychically and artistically superior act, one of aesthetic as well as vital pride, by establishing this kind of nihilism—being at any rate certain that not only is the entire ridiculous and false survival not comparable, even unfavorably, to one minute of energetic action, but it is also artistically harmful, seeing as it only prepares the amateur tourists and eunuchs or onanists of contemporary poetry and painting, especially given that—in our case— it does not even belong to the historical cycle of our aesthetics. WE DECIDE 1. To aim explicitly at the explosion of ancient monuments, at the practice of propaganda against antiquities, as well as against any object not to our liking. 2. The first destruction to be undertaken shall be the explosion and perfect demolition of the Parthenon, which has literally suffocated us. . . . 10. This Declaration merely purports to give a measure of our aims. It is a missile, launched with few chances of hitting the multitude, yet having but a tiny minority as its desired target. Extremities I want nothing more to know either of the bird or of the diamond. I walk or stop before the symbol of the stone sheep

2 9 0    The Pali Group

it fell and its fall hath been great. These revolving doors that cry help were not made for my stretched neck my neck stretched from the height of the roof of the movie theater extends toward an auditorium emptied of people dazzlingly lighted full of the basilisk’s tongue yet the indefinite point causing thirst moves away thirst is not even quenched by a cup full of knife flashes demands the indefinite point the half-moon does not exist the good old man expired upon his bed and was subsequently shattered in a laboratory of wines liquors and rainbows. When unexpected illumination spreads the other observing with wolf ’s eyes has no time to become a common vegetarian. Yet he always places something in the shade at an incalculable speed perhaps a holy grail the replica of his Solitudes and his other eye turned to the inside always of an unintelligible color (for some the color of an azure lance or of the iodine frieze of a bull carrying the earth on his shoulders). 1944 If I Were a God (text originally in French, c. 1964; translated after E. Ch. Gonatas’s published Greek version) I would be a great absence, and I would expect each presence in the world to reidentify with me, or at least I would be a presence, albeit one never separated from “beings” and “objects.” In the former case, I would perhaps be able to play, helping the world in its desire

Yorgos V. Makris    2 9 1

(which would also be mine) to cease—in the space of one second—to exist as presence, in order to meet me in the wholeness of my nonexistence. In the latter case, that is, if I were a presence, I would guarantee maximum development to all beings, I would give them both space and time with great generosity, and I would harmonize their relations in such a way that, e.g., wolves and sheep would stare at each other with the wisdom of stoic philosophers. I would not allow (again, e.g.) the foundation of discriminations and irreconcilable conditions of the Hegel, Nietzsche, Marx, and Kierkegaard variety (not to mention Freud). That sort of thing would become meaningless. Thus, only the theorists of cosmic potential would be able to express the terms of their existence. (Of course, in that sense, mathematics would be equally absurd.) I would abolish the existence of distinct sexes, or at least I would free their coupling from all worries, crises, compromises, weaknesses, unfulfilled identities etc. I would reinvent love, as Arthur Rimbaud recommends. PAX ET VOLUPTAS. Today (Excerpt from “Mrs. Illness”—Poem in English, French, Greek, and Latin bequeathed to Nanos Valaoritis and published in N. V.’s Greek version) How? With “Slop” and Mingus a certain variation (acoustic I mean) for scissors and stereo are not “the best of friends!” My egg awaits me. Yet I, I’m in a state of inspiration; so let it wait and get cold. The cat is the animal with the most contradictory nature at once free and domesticated. Careful: seen from the outside, because his inner state, his inner magnetic field is infinite and as mysterious as a steppe, as a savanna, sometimes as a desert and (very often) as a garden or as the sea and

2 9 2    The Pali Group

even as fire; I am talking of the cat, the familiar domestic animal, poor relative of the tiger of Bengal and of the lion, whose sad destiny in international zoos is equally “familiar.” My egg awaits me. I’ll break it, suck it, eat it, assimilate it, embody it: It’s destined to become a part of me. So be it!

Alexander Skinas (b. 1924)

​F o u r t e e n

​O

ne of the most brilliant Greek humorists (a quality rather than a specialty), and a major, if elusive, contributor to Pali, Alexander Skinas has spent most of his life in Germany, where he worked extensively for the radio, notably with his junta-era barbed broadcasts. Although, predictably, Skinas’s writing has been downplayed by critics for not being “serious-minded” enough, it would not be much of an exaggeration to consider him as perhaps the most original Greek writer of the postwar era, his boldness in stretching the limits of language with biting playfulness far surpassing the level of mere “literary innovation.” Skinas’s work includes a vast repertory of ingenuous narratives, from surrealist phrase-collages to iconoclastic parodies, wordplays, Rousselian mechanisms, and Kafkaesque horror. He is also the author of a remarkable novella on chess, The Game (1989). “A humorless author could never achieve such a feat” (Nanos Valaoritis).

I. From Pali no. 2–3, undated issue (1964) la vie en rose . . .1 What good are 1140 millions of PILGRIMS-astronauts 6000 Gabonese  600 km of ex-ten-si-ble bracelet-watches 60 % of the budget  SIXTY FILMS of stammering LIVING LANGUAGES FIFTY superfluous hairs “upon measurement” five minutes of suspension . . .

2 94    The Pali Group

4 Dimensions  THE PROOF BY FOUR three marriages PER MONTH  3 giant lights 2 colors of choice  THE CHOICE OF PARENTS A NEW UNIVERSE a certain placement  an impeccable service AND . . . the heart of an indefatigable servant If water  Water, that dangerous friend WHICH ALSO EXISTS IN LIQUID FORM the real water IN A REAL CIRCUS passes no more? What is the duration OF WATER beyond limit? ATTENTION! Here is all you need to know on A MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD . . .  9.40 F per kilo: THE WALL OF HOPE protects and whitens the teeth the heart of champions always has A WISH FOR YOUR SERVICE AND HEALTH Take advantage of these exceptional conditions! STOP BEING DEAF! do not wax when you should luster! BE INSPIRED BY crosswords! irrigate, nourish, embellish your SABOTEURS OF THE HUNT! choose THE FALSE FRACTURE of  m a z u t WHICH disappears in the eyes of men! AND marry THE CLOWN with THE TIGER! The right gesture is to place A KING under the tap You shall find him in the interior of your sideboard where ARE ENCLOSED the tables of the law STOP!

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II. From Case Studies (First edition 1966; second, greatly augmented edition, 1989) A Hero of Our Times2 An attempt to reenact the private life of a genius. A series of adventures of a nuclear hero, young, handsome and proud, full of romantic vigor and passionate exultation. In the heart of this decomposing world. In the times of the great Western “The West” and the proclamation of the emperor Ford. For seven years now, the Greeks and Trojans have joined forces in conducting a war with no outcome, whose very pretext has been long forgotten, against a Motorists’ club. In spite of deaths, of political upheavals, or even of some person’s perspicacity, in spite of love (so alike war), they continue the fight to the point of absurdity. Along with a group of soldiers, our hero relives several instances of the Second World War, of the war in Spain, the war in Korea, and accidentally arrives in the Chinese capital at the very moment when China is about to demand from the European forces its financial independence. Between fights, the winners suffer as much as the defeated, and respites are not always meant for rest. Yet why are the Chinese so bad and the Europeans so full of good intentions? For eight years now he has been a window cleaner, a dentist, a vendor of umbrellas, a shoe seller, a vendor of fishing and hunting tools, owner of thousands of cows, and master of an entire city. He is a mysterious man who punishes the innocent and saves the guilty, leaving behind a simple visiting card, who writes books on Africa (where he has never been), who narrates the birth of a monster named Aetideus, who relates the romantic drama of the notorious Gascon with the big heart and the long nose, who conducts inquiries into the supernatural phenomena, who does his military service, who has two families and six children. After he was kicked by a pony his mental age is arrested at twelve. His sisters are all-round servants to a ruined bourgeois family; they run the household as they like, and will end up murdering their masters. Which were their daily concerns, their troubles and joys? They compete for the seduction of a fickle young man. Abandoned by him, one of them accuses him of murder; the others try to get him acquitted of the charge. But will they gain his devotion thus? The town’s citizens, who hide them, are in danger of terrible reprisals. One day he learns that his late aunt Anais is about to be placed by the pope amid the ranks of saints. However, the future saint’s nephew is not yet through with his marriage troubles and his quarrels with the police. He is guilty of the murder of a newborn belonging to a recently discovered biological species: the so-called Tropis. But, before the trial, it must be specified whether the Tropis are humans or apes. Therein lies the catch. While imprisoned for the murders of his wives, he receives in his cell imaginary visitors, witnesses of his existence, who shed light on his personality. Foundering in his daily concerns, he decides to recon-

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sider drastically his conception of life and to analyze thoroughly his emotions. He thus decides to follow the advice of a manual on how to succeed in life (without really trying). He joins a distinguished society, ascends its ranks one by one, yet at the last moment, alas!, he meets with a difficulty that was not mentioned in his manual. An activist (slight and ironic, gloomy and romantic, embittered and merciless), adventurer, and defender of the oppressed tears him away from his bourgeois comforts to make him save an officer friend of his imprisoned in a former protectorate. He thus places him before a Corneillean dilemma between the sense of honor and the political consequences of a desperate enterprise. In order to avenge himself, he decides to break a bank along with his entire family. Succumbing to the insistent entreaties of his mother, who is expecting a child, he seduces the son of a rich merchant, a wealthy boy, a most cynical one, with mediocre successes, a small, selftaught, commercial agent who acts the beast and turns out to be a sheep. Before the marriage, he resolves to live platonically with his fiancé, to see if their characters match. Yet they have, alas!, chosen an apartment next to that of a horrible seducer. This, then, is a confrontation between two generations, seen from the viewpoints of three families. They decide to separate. Four husbands later, he manages to marry a billionaire, who nevertheless commits suicide. A young Italian falls in love with him. Love might perhaps save him. But they have to part. He will be taken prisoner. The other one will be employed at the Moranbong theater. There, they will meet again. Wishing to abandon the army, they decide to steal the treasury of a regiment. They organize their enterprise with a literally military precision. During a leave in Paris, he gets entangled in a crazy adventure that leads him to Brazil. He has to go, following government orders concerning the recovery of a lost rocket. This tempestuous journey will also provide opportunities for romantic adventures. What has happened? He wants to solve the mystery of a haunted embassy and thus decides to stay there for awhile, along with certain persons that serve as his guinea pigs. A merry and violent bunch with a first-class hero: A military detachment. Three professional soldiers. Three young gold-diggers of billionaires. A divorced couple. A charming student, heiress to an American’s fortune, and a wealthy lad. A flashy Russo-PolishFranco-Japanese American. An actress of exquisite beauty. A clown named Metternich. A clown named Napoleon. An industrialist disguised as a tramp, murderer out of philanthropy, champion of impartiality. The embassy’s typists, and others who have come as spectators. How did they manage to live in there? With what facts did they fill the columns of newspapers? Among other things, he also assists in a psychoanalytic demonstration by a capricious and garrulous old man, the pleasant owner of a palace-restaurant, with a paralytic young woman whom he will succeed in curing. When the guests gathered in the living room, a mysterious force rendered them immobile. It then became apparent that they were destined to die on the spot.

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Thanks to his enormous talent as a joiner, he manages to perform an excellent number from military history, a great success of excessive violence, in order to save the soirée: A savage civil war, with forty thousand dead in two hours. An unknown and marvelous Brazil! On a raft carried by a river current, faced with the savagery of various persons, now anguished, now frivolous or moving, being attacked by robbers while heading an incomparable flock of wild buffaloes, he is forced to leave and take part in the war of Algiers. Thanks to his persistence and bravery, he succeeds in arousing the Arabian tribes against the yoke of bourgeois existence. After a tenyear imprisonment, which he serves in the space of eight days, he returns home desiccated by the sun. Assisted by a wretched young ruffian, author of a renowned episodic novel, this time he will attempt the bravest exploit of his entire career: The cracking of the safe in the basement of Palm Beach in Cannes. Yet he falls prey to the pilfering of an irresistible trio: A couple of famous actors from the silent era and an amateur banker. Meanwhile, on a train traveling from Warsaw to the Baltic Sea, the police are pursuing him (without really trying). After succumbing to the persistent entreaties of his mother, who is always expecting a child, he marries an Indian princess, owner of an enormous pink diamond, the only one of its kind in the world. A gentleman thief and his accomplice (married to a French police inspector) snatch it at a winter sports resort. He runs in search of the stolen diamond, which is hidden inside the guitar of a popular singer. His wife falls in love with his brother’s teacher. He blackmails her via his mistress. The abandoned old woman lays out a satanic plot to take her revenge. In order to go on living this way, she accepts a post as a journalist. She has an illustrious career. He resigns from an entire Far West district in order to satisfy her ambitions, and lives in Paris. But she publicly beats him up in the mud. Her coquetry and cynicism force him to denounce married life. But she, too, abandons him in order to meet the one whom she had never ceased loving: An old Turkish beggar judge. He asks for her permission to love her from afar, sending her love letters on a regular basis. She bursts out laughing. Even this love is condemned. After completing his service, his ex-fiancé weds simultaneously the daughter of a vendor of umbrellas and the orphaned daughter of a porkbutcher. One evening, the wives discover the plot. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars hidden on the far side of America. It is the secret disclosed to him by an aged intellectual, chief of the Count D’Artois’s police, murdered on the street by a widowed piano teacher. There begins, then, an amazing race for the treasure. He joins a distinguished society, ascends its ranks one by one, narrates the romantic drama of the notorious Gascon with the big heart and the long nose to a nylons manufacturer, settles every thing to his own liking, yet at the last moment, alas!, he meets with a difficulty: The misery of office life, symbolized by two employees. He then suddenly becomes aware of social injustice. He decides to give up on his own nature. Once again, he resolves to

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reconsider drastically his perception of life and to analyze thoroughly his emotions. He will cause the death of his ex-fiancé’s young car mechanic, he will give up all glory, and even his very name, and he will end up in the wretchedness of the natural scientist, whose entire life is dedicated to nuclear research. Although he has been dangerously exposed to radiation, he continues his experiments. He is thus condemned to die. In Sweden, in an old dilapidated pagoda, surrounded by servants in checkered dresses, he awaits death. The Hyperextension of Expressiveness (abridged version)3 A novel world-making method was invented on the eve of the Second World War by an imaginative adolescent: Eleutherios Dougias. He named it “hyperlexism.” According to him, the difficulties as well as the dangers it entailed did not permit its wide propagation. The first public presentation took place around the mid-1960s, in the then most suitable periodical [Pali] and in the appropriate manner. Eleutherios Dougias elucidated thoroughly his hyperlexism to himself and placed it within the wider context of a hyperexpressionism, which he envisioned to be linked to hyperempirical situations. We hereby quote certain illuminating excerpts of his diary: α ε ι ο ö u ü, χ γ g k h, ρ λ ν, σ ʃ ζ j, τ d δ θ, β φ, μ π b: These basic phonemes form at least three thousand easily pronounceable monosyllabic combinations. The geometric progression gives the following results, in round numbers: ten million disyllables, thirty billion trisyllables, a hundred thousand billion tetrasyllables, three hundred million billion pentasyllables etc. There is not enough room on this page for the zeroes of the number that would express the possible words corresponding to the seventy-eight-syllabic one in Aristophanes’ Assembly Women, but far fewer words would be enough for every atom to have a unique name, and the two-and-a-half to three thousand languages and dialects of all five continents, with all their types of conjugation and their various polysyllabic words, would cover only one-thousandth of all the possible trisyllabic words. These numbers multiply with giant steps when, along with the basic phonemes, one also takes as a starting point the hundred-plus intermediate variations of international phonetics, and they exceed all imagination even from the first stages of the geometric progression if, rather than those easy to pronounce, one calculates all possible combinations. Hyperlexism, which might also be named metalexism or panlexism, is the admission of the existence of all possible words, and the decision to discover (or rediscover) their meanings.

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Existence and nonexistence are two of the dimensions of one Big A. The universe is an incidental by-product of existence, life and thought an incidental by-product of this universe, history an incidental by-product of life and thought on the crust of this planet, and language an incidental by-product of this history. A mere coincidence within this language has so far caused meanings to precede words. Hyperlexism starts with words, with all the possible words. Then, upon finding the meanings, objects, and situations that correspond to them on each occasion, it recreates all the possible worlds and restores existence to its true totality. Every manner of existence, in every kind of world, is possible. And, because possible, it exists. Hyperlexism expresses all the possible manners of existence in all possible worlds. All that has not yet attained its expression lies in wait. Existence is frozen hyperlexist material. What is the limit of syllables after which a word would cease being a word? In synthetic languages, the construction of words with hundreds of syllables would be possible in theory. Indeed, a clever ordering might arrange nearly all the nouns, adjectives and verbs in single composites, whose duration would be roughly the same as that of reading an entire dictionary. Of course, the construction and use of such words would prolong the time of conversations, yet it would decrease drastically the danger of misunderstandings. And in hyperlexist language? The duration of one word might be the same as that of the longest-living hyperlexist’s lifetime. The time needed to create such words would coincide perfectly with that needed to use them; their use would replace the unnecessary—indeed, by then impossible—dialogue with a one-word lifelong monologue, and their meaning would be clearly discerned upon the pronouncement of the very last syllable, at the moment of the monologist’s death. The longest possible hyperlexist word is obviously being pronounced by god, and its meaning has yet to be clarified. By a portion of the hyperlexist material we might attain a crucial rarefaction, a catalysis of general concepts: a rational hyperprimitivization of the linguistic system, whereby to every object, person, animal, or plant, to every situation, motion, energy, act, there would correspond a particular word. And, to take this a step further: The same object, the same situation, each time expressed and named differently. Hyperlexism might recompose the language of stones, metals, plants, animals, and god. A stone beside the pathway says, from within the walker’s consciousness: “Here I am, I who am a stone.” or “Come rain or come shine, I don’t give a damn.” or “All of you come and go, but me, I’m always here.” It also says: “Ah! those little bugs that walk all over me, if you only knew how they tickle me.” or “For centuries now, I and

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that other stone next to me haven’t talked to each other, for we are stones, you know. By the way, now that you’ve found us, do make us say something.” It also says many more things, so self-evident for a stone only just drawn out of its nonexistence. It says: “Oh, how I wish I too could go to school.” or “Do you want to love me, to love me passionately and belong to me, from this moment on until forever and ever? It is so simple. You shall lie beside me, you shall forget whence you came and where you were going to, you shall hold me tightly in your arms, and a little later, when the night comes . . .” or “Careful! Upon this point of the world, at this very moment, I am defending the interests of the number 3,333. Think twice before you touch me.” And if the walker leaned closer to hearken, the stone would tell more, much more, in its real language; it would perhaps say: “lithlolath—lidathla—lithlaor.” As for the stone next to it, it would certainly be no less talkative, were it given half a chance, and the same goes for all the other stones in the world. And it is a well-known fact how much of a chatterbox a cabbage can be, or a compass, or the façade of a house, and also a beetle on the cabbage, and the finger that directs the compass, and an old woman’s face on the façade of a house. And if all these things are chattering so much all at the same time, what a soundless pandemonium must occur if one adds the blabbering of a bluthur or of a baclatabane or of a peridinithliptic dioclather or even of a mere tapteride. And the world is suffocatingly, deafeningly full of those. Three stages of hyperlexist word making: First: Opening, stretching, forcing of the current language up to the extreme point of its semantic endurance. Free play with words and roots, creation of all kinds of combinations, use of all suffixes everywhere, gender changes, transformations of intransitive into transitive verbs and vice versa, mutual transpositions of all parts of speech etc. Second: Composite constructs of current and hyperlexist language, e.g.: bellytoothickings, deatholuptiolosty, alternapthifying. Third: Purely hyperlexist words. Each language must recreate to a significant degree its particular hyperlexism. Research must be undertaken regarding the creation of an international hyperlexist language. Phonemes, like colors and all elementary representations, contain a self-sufficient associative potential. “A black, E white, I red,” someone once wrote, and yet my own “a” is snow white and my “e” is pale red. By psychoanalyzing the personal linguistics of every individual, one might discover, now the menace of χ, the aggressiveness of ρ, the hedonism of λ, the voluptuousness of j, the stupidity of δ, the flabbiness of θ, now the voluptuousness of χ, the hedonism of θ, etc. In the Indo-European family, for example, “a” is connected to water and is to be found in words that signify a sea,

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ocean, stream, swamp, while “m” symbolizes that which is mystical, mysterious, masked. The technique of hyperlexism is difficult and dangerous: Whenever necessary, it may take advantage of the conventional associative emotional-cum-semantic content of the phonemes, and especially of the syllables, which are alienated by current language as words or parts of words; or, at times, it may unhook the phonemes and syllables from traditional convention, and each time regain from the beginning their antediluvian virginity. The current language is but one of several ways of symbolic signification, manifestation, and communication. In the General History of Expressivity, it should be registered as a peculiar tendency, a young fashion of the past few thousand years, which should go under the name of lexism. Hyperlexism is the extreme possible extension of language. The ideal extension of hyperlexism would be a kind of hyperexpressism, if, beside the human phonemes, those of animal voices, as well as those that might be produced by special machines, were also utilized; to which might be added the colors, musical tones, smells, tastes etc., as structural material for the symbols. And, in an extreme expansion: elements and tropes of the language of microbes, insects, or fish, representations of the para- or posthuman sensations of extraterrestrial beings and so forth—in a temporal order, or simultaneously, in hyperexpressive “harmonies.” Here is an example of a hyperexpressive parataxis: Sound of K—followed by swift contortion and disappearance of a green line over a black background—weary raven wings’ smell emerging and vanishing like lightning—sound of R—taste of ink abruptly experienced—echo of beak beating on a glass bell in a minor sixth—R resounds—slight electric discharge becoming felt on the tip of the small left finger—instantaneous interplanetary buzz penetrating the frontal cerebral lobes—bunch of black lines exploding over a green background— R resounds—sensation of abrupt dragging of wing over the right leg—echo of beak beating on a bronze bell in a minor sixth—sound of A. This symbol might perhaps signify: “The raven will be very sad tonight.” Examples of hyperexpressive “harmonies”: One of the possible variations on the symbol gad: g green, in C, smell of ammonia, taste of cinnamon; a yellow, in D, smell of carnation, taste of vanilla; d orange, in E, smell of musk, taste of bitter almond etc. Another gad-“word,” consisting of the exact same components, albeit with g smelling of hydrogen sulfide, would share with the preceding one but a distant relation of synonymity. The visual arts, such as those of two-dimensional representation (whose partial realizations are, say, drawing or painting), of kinetic two-dimensional representation

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(e.g., animated cartoons or self-evolving paintings), of three-dimensional representation (whose partial realizations are, say, sculpture, architecture, or decor), of kinetic three-dimensional representation (whose first stage might be said to be pantomime or a dance with no music, and whose subsequent stages, e.g., with floating dancers, with moving, increasing, decreasing, self-evolving volumes, as in “Pharaoh’s snakes” of hydrocyanic mercury etc., have yet to be invented), the acoustic arts (and especially a “pan”-music, which would take advantage of all possible sounds, of all tones, heights, frequencies, and intensities and of all kinds of noises, buzzes, cracklings, hisses, voices, yells, and whispers, using, besides the conventional instruments, the objects and machines of everyday use, of the technical civilization and the scientific laboratory), the not-yet-invented olfactory, gustatory, tactile, and other arts (only vulgarly and temporarily replaced by the techniques of perfumery, cookery, massage etc.), and their combinations, those art forms which, generally speaking, do not take advantage of speech, lie in a field of organized a-lexism, or of hypo- or pro-lexism, explosively full of potentialities for lexist and hyperlexist reception and interpretation. Here is an example of a combination of all known as well as potential art forms: The hyperexistor (the words “spectator” or “auditor” would cover imperfectly a mere part of this much broader concept) lies in a space heated to 50°, placed erotically upon the writhing cold body of a mermaid, and at the same time experiences: enormous yellow eyes of whales blinking over the dark red background of a three-dimensional screen + alternate smells of rosefishoils + taste of lightly charged shellcables + slight suctorial action of medusas upon armpits and soles + gradual decrease of gravity to the point of commencing suspension, while from the subsoil thunderous harp harmonies emerge and vanish, and from the roof and walls there resounds a chorus of female whispers reciting the hyperlexist prayer: “Mathamatha-woonee-lavakthan, matha-matha-woonee-lavakthanan.” Let us note that the hyperexistor might also lie outside the machine of directed dreams and experience analogous situations by means of direct actions upon his corresponding cerebral centers. The batteries of such machines would come to replace today’s halls of public spectacles. The hyperexistors would sit one beside the other, roughly like women do today at the hairdresser’s with their helmets on, and would share the same parts simultaneously; in the above example, female hyperexistors could assume the part of the mermaid, but so could the male ones, if they so wished, etc. The hyperexistors of that age would, at any rate, probably be hermaphrodite or even multisexed. By means of analogous machines there might also be attained simultaneous telecoexistences, e.g., a telefornication, whose coexistors would be in different parts of the planet or even on different planets. An ultimate

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stage of that evolution would be the con-fusion of two or more egos in the same consciousness, and, later: the definitive con-fusion of all egos in a hyperhedonistic panegoistic monoconsciousness. At certain points the diary becomes purely personal, with the writer’s proposals or observations to himself, concerning the daily hyperlexist tasks: To study organized activities and procedures that lead to naught, e.g., a parade, a divine service, an old man’s wait at a coffeehouse. To systematize the contacts and study the mutual exchanges of beings, especially humans. Examples: cat with turkey; aged, fat, hard of hearing flower-shop owner with neurotic, irritable oil merchant of the same age; stammering mystic-cumprivate employee with fat, cross-eyed old maid. I, Eleutherios Dougias, God’s confidante up to the seventh day, say: Let there be chnight. And lo, there was chnight. Let there be the planet Erasquadar. And lo, there is the said planet coming once more into orbit. I say: Let there be one Vrador yet. And lo, there is that excellent species increased. An enormous iron door blocks the entrance of the fairy tales cave. The only way to open it is by pronouncing a single word. Which one could it be, the sole word that would crack the big door of the mystery of existence wide open? Perhaps the first, in the history of this world, creation of the magic combination of phonemes, might mean the ultimate, final solution. Just think, the celestial curtain would be torn, a universal alarm clock would fill up the space deafeningly, all this decor would vanish like smoke, I would spring up from my solipsistic sleep, and would once again become Osiris, the god or devil that I always had been, that I even now am without knowing it. I try: vnathr! vnaathr! vnaaathr! Nothing. This story, it seems, is not bound to end so easily. The story did end in the summer of 1949. The word was: tuberculosis. The hyperlexist production of Eleutherios Dougias covers all the genres of speech and nearly all the gamut of themes. It includes poems, epics, narratives, plays, reviews of imaginary books, exhibitions and concerts, biographies of unborn great men, histories of nonexistent peoples, journalistic descriptions of invented events, scientific diatribes with meticulous analyses of curious emotions and situations, relations between beings, erotic proceedings, forms of torture, symptoms of illnesses, performances of experiments, magical recipes, functions of machines, travelers’ impressions from unlikely places, juridical speeches on impossibly complicated cases,

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documents, protocols, cryptographic codes from unheard-of agencies, children’s games and tales, guidebooks on good manners, hymns and prayers of fictitious religions, and many more things, including lexicographical works and grammars of his language. What follows is an indicative selection from the plots of Dougian narratives, with the necessary conservation of neologisms. The frizel vegetates or rather vegetightens in any place where grease has been spilt between the beams and the railway lines. It is a collective concept, like grass. And yet the greasironsqueezels, humilobeameans and mutualeffusives that constitute it are on the verge of self-consciousness: they grouplantdream, heirnervate and autodimrelish. The impulse toward this development was evidently bequeathed to them by the steam engine. So in time they became steaminettloxicates, blindmechanophobians, and thinlineshudderites. This modest existential order of theirs was suddenly shaken to its foundations by an unexpected phenomenon. One of them suddenly started hyperfrizeling. It vaguelinsensed much more clearly than the others the thunderous passage of the wheels up to the ua of a Futsaf. And it was deeply enchanted. Hypogloomemorly buzzwheeliared, it started being drawinchsmelt by it and locomotropized. Who knows how many others around it must have been wronged by its overturning the analogies of mutualeffuses, so that it could get to develop monsterately and germinsolently and to scrambrailstretch and lustcuriositize while expecting the next arrival? Of course, the Futsaf passed by, clumsobluchniarred as always, this time also felt to be heavystephed-up and deatholuptiolosty, and it metalsoulpastickated it. Yet after such a precedent, who could now rule out a new, indeed a mass hyper-frizelism in the near future? The transition to a higher biological scale, from vegetation to full animality, becomes apparent by the fact that the beings which now appear to us are not nameless members of a whole, but rather eponymous, separate individualities. Unlike the frizel, which may develop along the mines of a universal railway network, these appear once and for all, in a unique place of the world: in a town, in an alley, in a sidewalk gutter where a dirty rill crawls slowly, on a stagnant point, in a small tank. There, gutteranged across the brownash ammoniwaters, live the whinacthorns. Their peculiarity is stressed by three major manifestations. The first of these is completely harmless: they do, time and again, each one unto itself or perhaps unto its neighbors, the kthu and pthu. The other two are directed toward certain other kinds of beings, which are also to be found only in that particular tank. This refers mostly to the tzinias and woofonias. From their very names one may infer that they move playfully, with spasmodic jerks. Yet whenever they pass by the gutter, something

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terrible happens to them: The whinacthorns do the hubbublooning unto them. Yet something even worse befalls another creature which lives there, and which constitutes an individual species by itself. It is the son of Fiflitzis. His father has vanished mysteriously forever and is now a bit of a legend in the tank. As for the mother: perhaps she has never existed. For this tragic descendant, the whinacthorns reserve something much more unjustifiable: Whenever he is led astray in their vicinity, they apply all their power in doing the evil pitzipitoo unto him. The mutual relations of beings, one of Eleutherios Dougias’s favorite topics, are equally prominent in the following narrative. Its plot must be taking place in a forest clearing. Although not named, the creatures that live there permanently are the sole members of a particular species. They are evidently small and chubby and are possessed of a most profound self-satisfaction and an excessive indolence. Their existence is mostly defined by two manifestations. The first one is individual. The other one is collective. All day long, they do nothing other than drubuzzle gaily or scroarm while squeezing one another. In the same forest appears a solitary being, the last representative of a vanished species: it is the Lilios. He is slightly older than them, round-faced and touchingly good intentioned. He may not know how to drubuzzle, and he would never manage to scroarm with them, yet he does pass from the clearing all the time, with an ever-renewed hope for the odd exchange. But what do they do when they see him? Certainly not out of surprise or fear, for they have known him well for some time now; rather, out of a combination of instinctive snobbery and completely inexplicable meanness toward him. They pretend to not notice him, fall down and begin to zizibel. If this cruel narrative had a title, it should be: The bitterness of Lilios. The example we shall now present belongs to an intermediary stage, at which man is added to the multiply interrelated disparate creatures: The Boothy is a degenerate megatherium, which ravages the Mudanga district. From hedgehogs to elephants and natives, there is no one with whom it has not repeatedly fornicated in the lewdest possible manner. One day, it encounters the newly arrived missionary Teg, whom it pursues and entraps in a cave. In spite of his prayers, and even of the continuous phlagmolizations of his inseparable piggi-piggi, Hieronymus Teg shall not succeed in escaping. The Boothy shall finally graspulate him and commit with him buttomucoitions, posteriopercourses, and other unspeakable orgies. With the three examples that follow we move on to the level of human relations:

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A geopatathetic employee leaves the park, returns to his office and wants to get on with his job. His superior and colleagues are outraged. They tell him he is a geopatathetic and has nothing to do there anymore. He insists; a great uproar ensues, and the police arrive. With the police’s help, he is taken back to the park and is geopatatheticized all over again, this time for good. A crowd of faithful ones are gathered, famished and half-dead, beneath a balcony, waiting for Avaglaor to come out and scatter the salutary laktha all over them. Many have already begun to doubt whether Avaglaor is ever going to come out, and some have even raised suspicions as to whether Avaglaor lives there at all. They are mistaken. Avaglaor does live there, the balcony door really opens at some point, and Avaglaor appears. Yet he assures them categorically that he is not going to scatter any laktha, because there is none, and they better quit bothering him and scram before he gets angry and feels forced to throw likthi all over the place—that’ll show ’em. Then he shuts the balcony door and vanishes again. The thrapa is a condition of severe long-term collective crisis with complicated manifestations and unpredictable symptoms, deriving from a combination of sadomasochistic violentopathy, libidofrantic insanity, manioecstatic unrestrainability, and other dark impulses that have yet to be sufficiently explored. Blind to differences of a social or educational order, stronger than any psychological or moral barrier, and even stronger than the instinct of survival, it explodes unpredictably and impetuously as soon as two or more thrapics meet under appropriate circumstances. Such an encounter took place in the shop belonging to the lurstmenian Bithulian, at the very moment when it was visited for the first time by the reputable trader Cleanarseon, accidentally followed by two barefoot porters of the district, namely, Gavoone and Mammoone. Nobody knows how the two Siamese Voozis ended up there immediately afterward. The door closed as if by itself, and they all looked at each other with a thrapic glow in their eyes. Their collective crisis carried on for entire days and nights. During the first phase they had fallen into the shop’s slimer and were cliclicking about. Very soon, however, they started somerstrutballing, tremblefallthrivishing, and clamorwooficking. And then, completely unrestrained, they got into ragedivepuffing, alternapthifying, and interpressbloughing. It is impossible to describe what they did to each other: bellytoothickings, heelscruffrubberiques, and successive desirrumpquiveries. Gavoone foredug Cleanarseon to the point of exhaustion, the Voozis masturmixated most rudely the posterior of Gavoone and re-foredug the bynow unconscious Cleanarseon, Bithulian managed to lickuidive three of the Voozis’ ears, despite the fact that his gums were being persistently tzitzified by Mam-

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moone. On the very first day, Cleanarseon was drained out. On the second day, Bithulian pfellied in the slimer, which was completely viscothicklued with fleshaliva and sweatmarrowrrhea. The others, more durable by far, continued to thrapacize for one more night. Finally, at dawn, Gavoone and Mammoone were on the brink of death, while the Voozis had been separated. Here is another example, one of those that gave a firmamental dimension to the hyperlexist production: The Fafana is a colossal nebula. Its lifetime is measured in abahamerias. One abahameria is divided in twelve aerzibia, each of which would, in our own metric system, correspond to millions of centuries. Upon every fourth aerzibion, from the innermost depths of space comes the Tracey, a creature in the approximate size of a microbe, floats for awhile over the Fafana, then goes: hf; after which it again vanishes, to visit other nebulae with which it perhaps maintains an analogous relationship. It is on this hf that the Fafana survives. When the end of the tetraerzibia approaches, the Fafana bubbles with the orgasm of anxious expectancy; then the Tracey appears, always within the appointed term, and again goes: hf. An infinite number of abahamerias have gone by this way, until one time the Tracey arrives again, remains floating for a few seconds beyond the ordinary, then, just as the Fafana has reached the end of its tether, it goes, not hf, but: ht. Is that intentional? Can it have confused the Fafana with another nebula? Might it all be due to mechanical damage? These questions shall remain forever unanswered. The result is, in any case, a tragic one for Fafana. By this ht, lethal astral zymoses are immediately created within it, it undergoes severe nebular spasms, which culminate in a kind of galactic epilepsy, and then it dies, dematerializes, and vanishes forever. Amid the first drafts of this narrative there were found the following sibylline notes: Nightmare of needle’s head falling into immobile ocean. Disappearance of the male in the fafanicism of the female. The maximum and the minimum are equal. The rationale of the narratives’ ordering, from the zoophyte through the human to the universal level, is a conventional one. It would be more consistent to arrange them according to the density of the hyperlexist vocabulary in each text. The final example would contain nothing from the current language, with the exception of certain elementary remnants that would maintain the appearance of narrative. Such a creation of Eleutherios Dougias’s began with the following sentence: A hordeous attrachnoid was alphydating the blonple blubbels.

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“Is it legitimate to construct worlds in that manner?” he was once asked. “But of course,” he replied. “They are even somewhat more intelligible than the worlds of music. The right to construct worlds is not proportionate to their intelligibility, which is at any rate determined by the elective affinity between the world’s constructor and its recipient.” And he added: “Let us not forget that one of the most unintelligible is this, the most commonly known of worlds.”

Tassos Denegris (b. 1934)

​F i f t e e n

​A

vital member of the young Pali group, who has not remained close to surrealism. One of his generation’s most acerbic poets, he has translated works by Octavio Paz, Jorge Luis Borges, and others. “Seldom has a man given not a shit/For the collected values of the European spirit” (Tassos Denegris).

I. From Death in Canning Sq. (1975) Ballad for Jane Fonda Flute water ski Tarot prescience On staircases With wind With darkness On a Portuguese bed in the UN building In the countryside on the Pnyx hill in Brittany Anywhere Like a dog wherever I find you. Magic image Bursary to my erection Fox wandering in the marshes. 26 September 1966

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II. From The Wolf’s Blood (1978) The Scandal One by the name of Govil A madman known all over town Who used to make the rounds on a gondola Accompanied by his namesake and dog. So one named Govil Taking advantage of his notoriety as a madman Indulged Stark naked and at plain noon In orgies with his namesake and dog. Those of a milder disposition intervened And the scandal was prevented As was the nobleman’s defamation Later however The scandal erupted elsewhere. The Chief Of the police, Captain Zambia Came along Or rather just came Not with a dog But with his subordinate Known by the name of Serafino. August 1970

Panos Koutrouboussis (b. 1937)

​S i x t e e n

​W

riter, painter, graphic artist, director of surrealist shorts, and cofounder of Pali, whose intervention gave the tone of an era. His Historias constitute a new kind of surrealist narrative and offer a fresh look at the world, albeit one rooted in a subversive reading of folk tradition and modern popular culture. In magnifying the everyday as well as in trivializing the apocalyptic, Koutrouboussis alludes to a new myth, barely discernible amid the prevalent misery and the debased, common use of popular artifacts. His influences include, by his own admission, Engonopoulos, Max Ernst, Barbara Stanwyck, the Three Stooges, and Zeno of Elea. “He says that he prepares . . . a gymnastics system for closed spaces that may be practiced by busybodies inside their coffins when they die” (Panos Koutrouboussis on himself).

I. From In the Arms of Krisyiaourti y Otros Tachydramas y Historias Bizarros (1978) Paleo-Future Stories (slightly abridged) Here are a few words which may or may not be pertinent to the Historias. I imagine the following possibility: One day, humans will discover that they are incapable of producing individuals or maintaining “underdeveloped” societies with the gift of the particular tempera-

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ment that is essential for the creation of myths and poetry. This sterility will be the result of the increase and acceleration of cerebral activity, as of the entire rhythm of human life. Of the “overpopulation” of natural knowledge via technology. Of the increasing, all-encompassing interest in wealth and power at the expense of creativity. And—closely related, albeit inversely proportional to the above—of the near-disappearance of the external psychic environment and of the internal psychic personality; those that we heretofore called belief, imagination, humor, heart. Nevertheless, these future humans will be well aware, by the epistemological studies they will have accomplished, of the cosmic role played by myth and archetypes for all creatures that have intelligence and consciousness of the absolute necessity of the existence of myths for the spiritual and physical health and survival of a conscious Species—for, as usual, when something has all but disappeared, it is only then, at the very last moment, and if we are lucky enough, that we realize its great value. Until recently, the dominant belief was that the human communities-tribes developed separate “alphabets” of symbols and myths, depending on the conditions under which each one of them had come about. Now, however, new evidence shows that there are common sources of psychic symbols in the unconscious mind of all tribes and peoples. Thousands of myths taken from numerous cultures of the Earth reveal enormous, radical similarities; the archetypal symbols are thus the same for all. A pair of psychologists, Tiger and Fox, established the term “Biogrammar” to designate those common psychic archetypes which are deeply engraved in the spirits of all peoples and all eras of Humanity, unchanged from the primitive eras until now, irrespective of the language and linguistic structures of each people. So, when people lose their power of mythmaking, they will be forced to construct an electronic machine-Poet, whose aim will be to undertake the transmission of ancient archetypes and symbols and their rearrangement for the creation of new Myths for humanity; and its name will certainly be Mythographer. Yet when they do construct this machine, they will have to program it and then to keep updating this program with new input. Many of the things they will teach the Mythographer we cannot know as yet. But, along with all the existing evidence concerning the raw materials of all tribes, ranging from myths, epics, beliefs, religions, fairy tales, stories, songs etc., and all the treatises written about them, there are certain recent “lessons” and instructions which are impossible to not include in the Mythographer before it starts its creative work. On the work of Carl Jung on Archetypes, Symbols, and Dreams, and the work of Einstein and Heisenberg on the laws of relativity, probability, uncertainty, and chance. On the fact that the phenomenon called “the cause temporally precedes the

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effect” is valid only in statistical terms—as revealed by research in the inner microcosm of the atom, where everything is possible—and thus the relations between events, the very nature of time and space, may in several cases not be Causal. For example, a girl may have brown eyes because that will be the favorite color of the man she will meet when she grows up. Or, something may occur today that influences one’s behavior of last week. On the fact that the extent of a Probability can never be verified. It is, by definition, a forever-unknown quantity, always in a state of uncertainty. Everything in the universe, from the inner world of the atom to the cosmological scale, time and space, the past, present, and future, morality, human relations, all things we know around us are constantly Relative. And . . . relatively constant. On the fact that mythic events, by their very nature, often do not obey the various rules we impose on objective (?) reality or the rule of Cause and Effect. On the fact that it is best to consider the universe as a psychic phenomenon. On the fact that two or more opposite realities may be equally true. On the fact that one plus one is not always two. On the importance of Belief and its relation to Knowledge. On the importance and the activating elements of the Marvelous and the Enchanting. On the intoxication of unknown pasts. On the work of Dada and Surrealism. Let us, however, allow the future to sleep. Many of these Historias Bizarros are closely related to all of the above (the hyper–three dimensions; the past-in-thefuture or the future-in-the-past; the present mixed up in both; the machines; the dematerialization; the beyond of reason). Others have almost nothing to do with the Mythographer; they are but a mere façade, a tissue of images aiming at the reader’s pleasure. Yet they are all related to the influence of the “unprecedented” on the “everyday.” They all live around a nucleus of para-time. We know them all, yet they are always elsewhere in time and space, like the phantom images which appear sometimes on TV screens. There is something very odd which is never localized, but which may not even exist. Like fairy tales told to children who believe everything they hear. The Woman Who Lived in the Machine At the time when there was a great housing crisis a poor woman had no place to stay, so she found a big machine the size of an entire room in some deserted warehouse and rolled herself up in some corner among five rusty wheels which kept turning all

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night and releasing heat, whereupon she fell asleep, but in the morning she awoke astonished and saw in the mirror that her face was not her own but her granddad’s who sported a moustache and a beard, only he had been dead for several years. The Paradise Where You Come Out Rich In the days when people conversed with the flying saucers, there was an inventor who had many problems, for he was poor, and then he did some scientific research, and he built a house which he named “The Paradise Where you Come Out Rich,” and once you stepped inside then you came out wealthy and happy, and it was actually somewhere behind the poultry farms. The Old Man Who Wore Curtains An aged gentleman who wore curtains (although he did not always go about in such a state) would often walk up to a milk machine in the night and press a secret button he had discovered and without putting in any money at all he opened the flap-door and there would fall 30 cartons of milk which he placed inside a sack and then went on his way. By this system he succeeded in surviving for eight hundred thousand years. The Philosophical Visionary There once was a visionary who made the decision to never be reconciled with reality but instead to inhabit worlds of his own devising. So when he moved from where he used to stay, he found another room, twelve sq. meters, unfurnished, and as he still had some money left from savings, he ordered the local decorator to make the room according to his taste; that is, he first had him paint all the walls blue and build the great stairway with the statues at the top, the fireplace and the statues by the swimming pool, the pool itself and the roof and all the columns out of white marble, the whitest possible, without worrying the least bit about the cost. Then, he had the phantasmagoric fountain hydraulically installed in the pool and purchased two dozen gold-trimmed cages, inside which there sang upward of two hundred nightingales and birds of paradise. Finally, for this beauty to be complete, he had a double row of trees planted as in a boulevard, followed by a small garden of grass and a crystal pavilion in the midst of the said grass. After all the rough work had been accomplished, there were certain innumerable other tiny ornaments placed in the room, and so the visionary moved in carrying his sleeping bag, his Japanese sword, and the tea tray.

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The Real Jesus Christ These last few days it’s been told thru the grapevine by some Atheist tattlers (suppos’dly after lengthy investigations fully objective and equally insistent) that Jesus Christ our Savior looks likely to not have been God at all, but from the age of twelve ’til he cropped up again, he’s secretly been a whole lot deeper in the Orient, where there were some monastery schools packed with human skulls, and in those places a few people used to learn a great many mysteries and knowledges with lots of discipline and so he studied to be a Fakir and when he came round again he was so very learned they all got dizzy and even today they’re not all of them sure what he was all about. Dechiricos the Voliot Why did Dechiricos the Voliot choose expatriation? Did not his parents pamper him, and was there ever anything missing in his life? They had every luxury placed at his disposal. And when he was seven years of age they sent him to school like all the little ones, and every Sunday afternoon he would go out with his mama and papa to take a walk by the seaside of Volos. When they got tired they would sit at some patisserie in the Square and they’d let the boy play with the other kids until the electric lights went on. Then papa would go to his Club and mama would take Georgie to see the film showing at the open-air cinema Lido. It was thus that the young Dechiricos was raised on the hospitable ground of prewar Volos, and the years of his childhood resembled a fairy tale. The stillness of this community and the dead calm that always reigned over the broad streets, when the time of the afternoon siesta came, were as one, so to speak, in the heart of Yorgos Dechiricos, so that all the friends, and even his folks, marveled at watching him become a true Greek. So what was it, then, that even before he’d finished the fifth grade of High School stuck this idea into his head, namely, that he could—so it goes—easily caress the sun? That poor mother! What lengths did she not go to for her son to be cured, so that, when the time came, he too might study to be an engineer and later on decide upon a modest local maiden to marry. Nevertheless, all this came to no avail, and whenever the adolescent happened to hear such things he started braying swearwords, banging doors, and taking to the streets. Later, when he had become a famous personality in the capacity of an artist, he told some people exactly how it had been on those walks, during which his mind became addled by the sun and the silence of alleys and struck by melancholy so that not even he himself could realize what went on around him, but instead imagined (just think of it!) that there was a very close

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friend of his, although he did not exactly know who, always hidden behind the enclosures or the corners of mansions with vaults and galleries and columns and that this gentleman did not appear at all, only his shadow cast by the oblique sunlight lay on the street before him. Or that, behind him, on the town squares, there were certain white statues on pedestals. Only if he turned to look behind they were there no more. There was only wilderness and the sky, yellow at the bottom, while at the top, the firmament as they call it, it was dark green. In the blink of an eye, he would automatically find himself in the room his father used as a workshop, and so he threw himself into the ancient designs and measuring instruments, even drawings in perspective representing factories, stations, and old barracks, and he really loved fooling around with the mannequins, of which there were two in the room, and he adorned their necks with triangles. In this room there were absolutely no windows, yet on all the walls papa had hung numerous blackboards, like those in schools, and many designs with incomprehensible numbers. So he did all those sorts of things until it got really dark and he fell asleep and was found there much later. The very greatest scientific therapists would then run to investigate the mystery, so then some decided upon epilepsy, others upon somnambulism. A very illustrious one left in deep sorrow and contemplation because he had no doubt whatsoever that this was a case of vampirism, but, however hard he racked his mind to think of a prescription to write, there was nothing he could do. The one thing that was certain was that Volos had been from time immemorial the port from which the Argonauts, those ancient sailors, had embarked. And that even today there were a few witches, and in earlier times the whole of Thessaly was full of those old women, and the boy was born under the sign of the horizontal eight, which also happens to symbolize Infinity. Less than two days after all this had become known to young Yorgos, he disappeared and later sent a card from Turin, where he said he was fine and in good health and earning pretty good money. But what was it that had made him choose expatriation? This will never become known to anyone. And it is very strange indeed, given that in his work one can see very clearly how deeply he loved the nostalgic atmosphere of his homeland, although sadly he never set foot in Volos ever again.

II. From In the Chamber of the Mythographh (1992) The Vampiress A long, long time ago a poor village mother in a place called Upper Musunitsa happened to die of a sting. That place had a river and it was dark and hostile, hidden

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high on the Parnassos district and never trodden by the Turk. Many otherworldly stories were related by the villagers there, about things that happened at night or sometimes even at high noon. After the burial, but before the passing of forty days, the dead woman’s husband and their child, along with their best man, the shepherd Karaglitsas, were at home eating trahana by the light of a lamp and suddenly the door opens and in comes the dead mother wearing her burial dress, albeit smeared with soil and spider webs. So they all went speechless, and the dead woman went to the table and placed on it some four pounds of wormy meat she’d been carrying, and she spoke very slowly and said, “vachnya vuchichnya,” which means “meat” in the local tzigane idiom. Then she sat for a quarter of an hour or so on her chair by the table, but no one made a sound, and then she stood up, emitted a sigh, and left by the same door. That was the first apparition of the vampiress of Upper Musunitsa, albeit not the last. She never again appeared in her village, probably because in the situation she was in now she had started putting on airs and was no longer content with yokel mayors and Turko-Albanians with pigskin footwear but instead had acquired a taste for the high life. And she was right, too, because she was now in a position to live forever, if she could get away with it and not end up spitted by a blackened stake. Another time, a little while later, as she wandered one evening in some obscure streets of Messolonghi she met with an English lord, who had a thing for the supernatural, known as Lord Byron, whereupon she bit his neck, and then she went every afternoon as he was taking a nap and sucked his blood until finally she sent him to his grave, albeit without turning him into a vampire, seeing as he was not deemed suitable. She also snatched from his trunk a purse of florins that milord kept for the fighters of the ’21 Revolution, and then they said it was Mavrokordatos1 who had stolen it. Nobody ever suspected the truth about Lord Byron, for this living dead had also learned, from the tziganes who gave her the first lessons on vampirism, the trick of doing the rounds in the light of day at her convenience. To do this, she needed to wear on her neck the Mark of the Abnormal, hung by a leather cordon. Then the vampiress traveled to many a land, and the years and centuries went by without her having the misfortune of being staked by some man of God or by one of those vampire killers. Then once, in the Age of Narcotics, she stayed for many years in a mansion of her own in Paris, France, and one night she went to have dinner with a company of her own breed at the Café La Coupole, for it was also her birthday. All the friends of the vampiress were wishing her may you live to be a thousand, bless you, you don’t look a day over twenty and the like. Then, from one of the nearby tables, a student of the Beaux Arts who was also a vampire killer and always carried a stake under his arm just in case, realized who she was. This student of engraving at the École was Greek and also happened to be a distant great-great-grandson of

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the vampiress from her child in Upper Musunitsa but did not have a clue about that and had only become a vampire killer by chance. So the vampiress threw the dish with the hot bouillabaisse into his face, rushed out like the wind, and vanished like smoke in the Lamborghini she owned. As for our vampire killer, he was beaten black and blue by her monster mates, and later that same night, at the Hospital for Accidents where he was carried in bad shape, twenty bats sucked all of his blood, rendering him quite dead. Bennett the Inventor2 The traveler sitting on a deck chair of the first class bridge of the steamer NIKOLAOS FUFOTOS3 was returning to his birthplace, Sevanè, also known from national tradition by the name LAND OF TWILIGHT, because it is there that the idolatrous wind appears, that Angel of Sterility, the famed Serimasis, which, clear and icy, sweeps and is swept while traversing the ravines, invading the cottages, whirling and tumbling on the sole square—made of reddish marble—of the little town, and finally, after numerous attempts, covering the last 12 kilometers that separate it from its destination, prostrates itself before the smooth glass surface extending to the first horizon, where it is extinguished, absorbed by the symmetrically placed caoutchouc pores of the glass. The land regains its serenity. Life starts anew, now joyful. The summer and meadows make a perfect match. The steamer is now sailing very close and parallel to the coast, where one may discern the manifest landmarks of his homeland, to wit: the extensive sandy beach, on whose entire length the Statues were erected in earlier eras at five-meter intervals, placed in such a way that the descending orange-colored rays of the twin suns would eternally paint their right side, while simultaneously the ivy and other climbing plants fully cover the left one. The view is exceptionally hedonistic (in the sense given to the word by the ancient Philosophical School of the same name). During the past few years the area has fallen into the ownership of a certain healer from the Capital, who has left it unattended because of his own occupations. Often, however, it occurs to this healer, while he is walking and working with patients in the corridors of his sanatorium and the beards and moustaches of those present are waving, to direct his gaze toward the wall, and on it to see: Ancient Greek conspirators with their mantles covered with bugs and fleas, assembled at nighttime before the closed entrances of International Banks, fast food joints, and travel agencies, or macromicroscopic movements of particles dressed in winter clothes and bearing candlesticks whose candles transmit fluid light.4 On such occasions, and in order to avoid the noise of the crowd, he resorts—nostalgic walker—to the clearings and tree

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plantations found in the innermost parts of his land. Immediately, the little metallic birds, which, for that very reason, spend the entire year inhabiting the shrubs under the giant pine trees, awake from their perpetual stupor and fly all over the place, filling with exquisite symmetrical and multicolored shapes the dimly lighted space between the trees as their feathers reflect the entering rays of the suns. Representations of marvelous beauty develop then before the eyes of the weary healer. For the entire duration of this mating flight, the river wolves stop their liquid games on the muddy banks and withdraw into their lairs, specially reconstructed and decorated by the previous owner within the slate foot of the only hill of this fenced district. The traveler on this steamer is precisely the previous owner, the pilot Bennett, inventor of the Homeostatic Crypto-topo-scopicograph THE JULIA, who, having met with misfortunes abroad, is returning to his birthplace to spend the remainder of his brief life in peace, aspiring, not to his old allure when he was the lord of the place and of its exquisite fenced district, but to a calm, untroubled coexistence with the inhabitants of this very town of Sevanè and to the rental, for this very purpose, of a modest little house in the suburbs. As he stares straight ahead, resting in his deck chair on the bridge, and as the golden, iridescent light of the suns penetrates the semitransparent canvas tent protecting the passengers, the traveler appears to be now in the thirty-first year of his life and to be wearing a conservative dark shirt, a black coat and hat, in spite of the prevailing heat, and carrying in his hand a black walking stick topped with a handle of violet-colored ivory. Beside his seat he has placed his luggage which consists of a Gladstone-type suitcase containing the essential and indispensable instruments of disguise and voluminous wardrobes, four in number. On his traveler’s waistcoat the golden chain of his watch is visible. Wholly by chance, he sports a moustache of respectable size, equally violet in color. A slight breath of wind relieves those tormented by the heat. The traveler is now aware of what awaits him but makes no attempt to resist. The steamer NIKOLAOS FUFOTOS has only just left behind the endless sandy expanse, and one can discern the first suburban villas of the town. A vague clamor is heard, like a cry emerging from millions of mouths and spreading everywhere: “. . . Gone . . . Forgotten.” Without any warning, the wind launches a severe attack. The steamer is tossed on the crests of the waves. Cerebral disturbances and vibrations traverse the firmament. The whirlwind carries off the hat of the traveler, who always remains resting on his armchair, staring straight ahead. Immediately, parts of his rich and now freed hair are ejected and lost, swept away by the wailing wind, carrying along with them portions of the skull’s skin, and often even of the skull itself. His beautiful moustache is noisily uprooted and eliminated. The part of the skull covering the brain has now been completely detached, and the vibrating folds of the encephalus appear, phos-

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phorescent and naked. The traveler’s left eye and two of his incisors are extracted. Immediately afterward, the violent tempest seizes and carries off into the horizon the ears, the nostrils, the right eye, the remainder of the denture, and the luggage of the traveler, in that order. Upon the central and highest sail of the steamboat is seated the Stork of Twilight. Eftychios, the Somnambulist They put Eftychios inside a room and had him chained on a bed to stop him from sleepwalking. And next day before dawn they dragged and pushed him through the courtyard, kicking his belly and beating him with a club. One of them broke all of his front teeth, with a well-balanced gloved fist. So they took him into the big warehouse on the other side of the courtyard, where they really got down to business. They hung him by his feet, upside down, and stretched him by tying his thumbs with wire, which they then pulled through an iron ring on the stone floor. They lacerated him with a whip of barbed wire. They soaked him in kerosene, then set him on fire, which they immediately put out with a fire extinguisher. His toasted and bloodied body was hanging unconscious. Shooting him with a cocktail of injections, they brought him back to a state of sensitivity that made his body vibrate with energy and nervous expectation, all the while never allowing his heart to stop. They then placed in his mouth and up his arse two metallic cylinders with a thorny surface, connected to a dynamo. They started feeding his ragged body with electricity. One of them, wearing rubber gloves, picked up a paring knife and, with regular motions, started cutting his ears, then his nose, then his lips, then his eyelids. Again they set him on fire and, after putting it out with ice water, started rubbing him with handfuls of salt. His senses were a continuous howl. They took the cylinder out of his mouth, filled the red-and-black hole with liquid cement, and sealed it by sewing his jaws with surgical thread. They took him down and threw him on a grooved marble table, where they sawed off his fingers, then his forearms up to the elbows and his legs up to the knees, then they started all over again, this time sawing his arms up to the shoulders and his thighs all the way to the pelvis, immediately applying a lot of hemostatic jelly to the wounds to stop the bleeding. And they flayed the burned skin off his skull and they crushed his eyeballs with a special instrument and they destroyed his genitals with a club, all the while stinging him with the syringes, bringing him back to his senses every time he lost them. So they just left him there, a mass of leftovers, yet fully sensitive, and went to take a breath of fresh air and have a cup of coffee at the canteen. When they returned, they fitted twenty-four electrodes to his naked skull and flooded his brain with every possible emotion all at once and at full

Panos Koutrouboussis    3 2 1

power. They opened up all that had remained of his torso and, armed with lancets, caressed his naked nerves with raw pain. So Eftychios finally understood how profoundly and absolutely correct they had been all along. He felt so inundated with ecstatic love that, hoping he might transmit it to them, he started communicating with them via the thought-screen: “Here in another port . . . and with eyes shut I still see . . . this is green . . . has everything . . . Surprises on every corner . . . Yet thus . . . lying-in-the-middle-of-fields-of-daisies . . . and . . . standing-still-hands-straight-forth-on-roads-with-an-other-vibratingEgo . . . and lowering our heads . . . or smiling all around . . . at all of this . . . did you look at me when I was not looking at you? . . . it was much more than I’d asked for . . . and thanks . . . for a vision of white-painted trains . . . in the station’s depot forever. . . .” “Say everything,” he was ordered by the accountants on the telecircuits, who were speaking to him through the machine, “tell us in every detail the whole truth about your sleepwalking, when you went and played erotic games in the Forests of Restoration.”

III. From Zolas’s Tavern (1997) The Things the Thing Left Behind At last the Thing did go away, and who can tell where it set off to. Truth is, it did not stay long, six days and that was it, but in the space of those six days nothing and no one could escape its clutch. Seeing as it could even gesticulate on a subnuclear level (in other words it was omnipotent), when the Thing first appeared, wrapped in its snow-white blackness, the first thing it did was go about performing its major works. So massive, however, was its intervention that the following examples can give but a mere idea of it. So then, along a strip of desert, stretching from the Western Sahara up to and including Egypt, it erected exactly two thousand and twenty giant geometrical forms, that is, pyramids, cubes, spheres, cones, cylinders, all impeccably designed and leveled, like a necklace on the hump of North Africa, and each of those Euclidian shapes was constructed out of the corpses of over 230 thousand—each, I repeat— Africans and some others who came by that way, and whom the Thing had lain in piles and then crammed, still alive, and packed—lacerated, choked, and beaten— just as one makes forms out of pieces of clay—until they assumed the precise shape desired in each particular case. And, upon standing very close, one could discern, now and then, escaping from the greasy, multicolored façades of the corpse-built geometrical volumes the odd spilt intestine, foot, buttock, broken skull and brain

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mingled with hair, but from some distance every single pyramid, sphere, etc. looked faultless in appearance, smooth and perfect, like a finely cut portion of jelly—especially when framed by the sunset. In another place, just outside New York, it uprooted the Statue of Liberty, and stuffed it full of people of all races, sexes, and ages, citizens of the said city, whom it had scooped up and then, by the same method of squeezing, had crushed some oneand-a-half-million pulped corpses within the hollow statue, blood and other juices flowing from all its cavities. Then it nailed it upside down on the very same spot and went on to do the same to all the skyscrapers of the district, that is, it uprooted them one by one and nailed them upside down, albeit not before banging them flat, along with the crowds who were inside, so that they ended up looking two-dimensional. Meanwhile, in Saudi Arabia, over the desert expanse called the Dead Quarter, which covers most of the surface of that land, it reaped all the peoples, from Turkey up to and including Afghanistan, then planted them in a line, upside down, upon the enormous sea of sand, those millions of men, women, and babies, heads cut off and stuck between their thighs, all facing east, in such a way that they looked like they had legs instead of arms raised up high as if in exaltation. Along the entire length of Asia, the Pacific, and North America, in the latitude of the fortieth parallel, the Thing erected an immense wall, six meters high and four meters thick, cutting straight across plains, mountains, lakes, rivers, ravines, towns, deserts, and even the inaccessible oceanic depths, with no cuts or passages, made out of a mixture of countless human carcasses, books, papers, and metallic garbage of all kinds and whose compact surface looks like a kind of rare marble, veins, clouding, and all. By many such horrible works and rearrangements on a colossal scale, the Thing adorned each part of the world, from one end to the other, but more numerous were its modest-sized constructions, less grandiose, albeit each one exceptional and original, such as the bridge uniting, by its extended arch, the two Athenian hills, made out of all the ancient marbles of the Acropolis monuments and the sculptures exhibited at museums, upon the entire length of which there are erected, like a tableau vivant of walkers and idlers, the carbonized corpses of many distinguished sociologists, lawyers, businessmen, godfathers of the underworld, intellectuals, and media celebrities, but also of other, common men, women, and children, according to need. Or, the big statue of the Indian goddess Chinamasta, who decapitated herself to drink her own blood, and in her four hands she holds the noose, the scepter with the skull, the sword, and the cut-off head, which the Thing constructed in its entirety and with diabolical craftsmanship by using nothing but the organs, intestines, and bones of skinned newborn babies from all the human races and which is erected upon some anonymous field in Belgium.

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All those countless works, whether of a colossal or of a smaller scale, for which almost the entire human race and its creations served as plastic material, were completed by the Thing in a mere couple of days. During that two-day period one could hear incessantly, coming from each corner of the Earth, something resembling a distant moan, billions of sighs escaping from the human souls which disappeared in all directions into the immensity of space, along with the heavy stench of mass decomposition. The Thing spent the remaining four days trying to find, one by one, those people who had survived, whether in small groups or by themselves, in deserts or dark hiding places or even in the fissures of rocks. With all of them, some ten thousand in number, what it did was uproot their heads and stuff them, compressed in pairs, irrespective of sex, into hats of all kinds which it had gathered from shop windows or storehouses; as for the corpses, it threw them all over the glaciers of the Antarctic. Yet, for all these terrible things it perpetrated, the Thing did not harm a single living being, humans excepted, nor did it damage the natural environment. And out of all human things, it did not so much as touch any graveyards and cemeteries whatsoever, any more than it did any aborted embryo in a jar of formaldehyde. Of all the living humans, though, not one was spared. Well, perhaps one or two at most. But these, too, if they exist, are doomed. How many days will they stand it, before they go and jump over a cliff in despair?

Eva Mylona (b. 1938)

​S e v e n t e e n

​A

member of the Pali group from the first issue on, Mylona published her first book of poetry much later, but she arguably never surpassed the freshness and cruel humor of these early prose pieces. She has translated selections of Baudelaire’s and Rimbaud’s prose poems. “Shuddering, I hear hollow sounds of human voices, of glasses standing on tables; I see ghosts of brilliant adverts” (Eva Mylona).

I. From Pali, no. 1 (undated issue, published February 1964) A King The king was very young. He wore a crown of Veronese green-colored ice. He lived at the bottom of a lake up north. That lake is covered with ice all year long, so no one has ever dipped one’s fingers into its waters. The king had many courtiers, a palace of tightly woven wild peppermints, and a loving friend. They were inseparable. They had the same blond hair, their eyes changed the same colors, they sported the same entrails of blue organzine. In the mornings they appeared at the window, and the people applauded with frantic cries, recognizing the king by his transparent green crown. In the evenings they swam together playing musical instruments of colored glass.

Eva Mylona    3 2 5

They observed the ceremonies and executions from the decorated royal box, holding hands. The king adored his friend. Yet one morning, as they were standing at the window together, the king took a deep bow to greet the crowd, and the green crown fell from his head. The people could no more tell the king from his favorite. Even he was unable to tell himself from the other. He felt fluid and soft. At the window shone two faces with the same crystalline beauty. The dizzied crowd applauded now one, now the other. The king now felt clearly that he did not have a face of his own anymore. A vertical vein on his forehead started trembling dangerously; a burning, metallic wrath flooded his cool entrails; he stretched his hands up to his friend’s neck; he squeezed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . He gave him a majestic funeral. He followed the coffin playing a sad tune on his colored-glass musical instrument. In the afternoon he called his advisors. One by one they approached the throne with a deep bow. Before him, on an oblong tray, the king had placed a row of shiny daggers. Methodically, carefully, he plunged the daggers, one by one, into the bent backs of the courtiers, who fell down, wriggling. When he had finished, he gave a sigh. And the king never again took any courtiers, and he shut the window. The Head It is a square in a petty bourgeois neighborhood, a small, nondescript square in the shape of a parallelogram. Two or three dusty trees (probably pepper plants), the ugly statue of some nonentity, surrounded by yellow flowers. Some benches. On one of them, two kids are playing quietly a game with strings, a fat nanny is holding a baby, talking to it in a low voice. On the opposite bench, a woman in black is knitting; although this is a winter afternoon, there is still some light. I am sitting on the bench, with my hands stuck to my sides. My elbows are tied to the back of the bench. This fact does not perplex me in the slightest. I am calm and feel a slight drowsiness. I am glad the children do not make any noise. So much so that I cast absentminded glances at them, with a sort of gratitude. The fading colors of the surroundings in the scarce winter light relax my eyes. An aged couple is

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walking slowly around the statue. They are holding hands like schoolkids. The street in front of the square is full of people, who must be leaving their workplaces at this time of day. I close my eyes. I am about to drift into sleep, but a creeping sound of feet and something resembling a whisper makes me reopen them. The square now assumes the guise of a gathering. A crowd, all sizes and ages, stands there as if waiting for something. I look at them, slightly surprised, wondering how all these people could fit in here, while they look at me with no sense of embarrassment. Now the kids, the nanny, and the woman in black have all stood up. I am clearly the object of their attention. There is such a throng that some are standing right in front of me and almost touch me. I begin to get impatient; I am annoyed by those strangers’ legs rubbed against my knees. I give a couple of hard kicks at random; they step back, with no indication of pain or anger, and in a moment’s time they regain their positions. My forehead is sweating. I cannot bear this contact. Suddenly there is a kind of commotion; some heads turn back. Someone is trying to make way. A little girl with bright blond hair, holding a red balloon, emerges, pushing the crowd with her elbows. Her skin is pure, and her white dress makes a strong impression beside the wornout and hardly clean clothes of the others. She points at me, smiling at those standing next to her, who immediately get out of the way; she climbs on my bench and, ignoring me, stands up and moves her hands about, waving the red balloon. I look toward the place she’s waving at. A man is sitting head down on the step under the statue. He was there all along, how did I not notice him? He gets up with a weary movement and walks toward me. His face is wrinkly and ash-colored. He carries a basket. He stands before me, stoops down, takes a knife out of his basket and places its edge on my neck. Everyone falls silent and stares. I do not feel any fear. I wait in curiosity and disbelief. The girl jolts her head backward and emits a false, provocative laugh; her blond hair falls over her eyes. She claps her hands gaily. I just about manage to take a look at her balloon going up, for she has let go of her string. So it is a gas balloon. The sound was painless. (The sound of scissors cutting a silken crepe). Likewise the head was separated neatly from the body, like a slice from a melon. They must have placed it in the basket, of course. I do not know at which exact

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moment that loud, demoniacal laughter started. It was piercing and overwhelmingly unpleasant. My cut-off head is laughing, mouth open up to the ears; the entire face is a contraction. Despite the running blood, its color is lively and fresh. The crowd shudders; it moves away at a firm pace. They do not dare run. The square is emptied, the light has now gone out, the head is still laughing.

Dimitris Poulikakos (b. 1942)

​E i g h t e e n

​H

aving organized the first Greek happenings, along with Koutrouboussis, Dimitris Poulikakos went on to meet Nanos Valaoritis, an event that led to the creation of Pali, to which Poulikakos contributed original texts (which testify to a remarkable grasp of surrealist narrative, while being wholly original in concept) as well as translations of Lautréamont, Ted Joans, Arrabal, and Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. After Pali’s demise, he became a proponent of the semiclandestine (under the junta rule) underground rock ’n’ roll scene, although little of his work has been recorded. Much later, he reemerged, bafflingly, as a familiar face and voice on films, TV sitcoms, and ads. His past work, never collected in book form, awaits rediscovery. “. . . we descend, mad, disheveled/win our laurels/and crack open the firmament’s virginity” (Dimitris Poulikakos).

I. From Pali, no. 1 “The Small Shoe-Seller’s” or later “Also Shoemaker’s Shop” A Novel (First Chapter)

I Those beastly characters who hang around all day in the streets and all the various neighborhoods saying prayers are very curious sorts indeed. Those prayers of theirs resemble some chests kept in certain villages, inside which people put their Sunday clothes and festive garments. They come out around 10 p.m., by which time it is quite dark. At first, the

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townsfolk used to get scared and lock themselves inside their homes; they dared not even peek through the grilles. Little by little—year after year—they took courage, opened the windows, and made an effort to hear those prayers. All in vain: they could not make out a single word. Why did they not understand? The prayers were recited fairly loudly, you could hear them thirty meters away. Were they speaking another language? Might they be foreigners? Or was it just the popular tradition that called this “prayer,” whereas what they in fact said was whatever gibberish came into their heads? That was known only by a certain gentleman of the legal profession who lived in the south part of the town. Yet nobody ever dared go ask him. After they finish their prayers, they take their shoes off, sit in a dark corner and wait. It is then that their eyes get swollen, inflated, pop out of their sockets, and then they run around the squares, first thing in the morning, advertising their wares. But this only happens very rarely. And if perchance a lady comes out to buy something, they grab her, tie her hands and feet and, after torturing her a bit, while she remains tied upon a post, lead her to the cave. Inside the cave, lined along its walls, from top to bottom, in all the corridors and halls, apart from three or four which are locked and whose contents we know nothing about, there are black wooden shelves, and, on those shelves, there are shoes of all kinds, also lined in order. They are arranged in pairs, and classified with meticulous detail. The black shoes. Two-sole here, three-sole there, one-sole elsewhere. Same goes for those with crepe and those with rubber. The two-sole shoes, divided into plain and patterned. Same with the one-sole shoes. The crepes. The rubbers. The amianthus. The brown shoes. Divided just like the black shoes.      With one difference Here according to shade as well. The gray shoes. Same here. The whites.

33 0    The Pali Group The two-coloreds. Then the plain and army boots. Divided into low and tall. Into those laced, zippered, or neither of these. I forgot to say that the same goes for plain shoes. Moccasins here, laces there. Further beyond, the bottines. With or without lace, plus some new ones, called “Chelsea boots,” or else high boots. The one thing missing is women’s shoes, but they may add them later, when they expand the shop. The curious thing is that, even though lots of people come and go all the time, nobody has ever thought of stealing (of course, the shoes are all nailed to their shelves), so not a single pair has ever left its place. I also have to report that there is not a single employee in sight, even though, according to the law, there should be one at the very least. However, since the death of the young man who had undertaken the task of classifying and arranging the shoes on the shelves, they have found no one to take his place.

II This young man, the deceased, was a lad around 28. About 1.83 m tall, quite hairy, he immediately created an impression. He had brown curly hair and a thick moustache. On the whole, of course, a rather vulgar sort, albeit great at his job. He was the offspring of rather wealthy parents. Yet shortly after his birth they lost all their money (they had a big butcher’s shop, which collapsed), and so, still a young child, he got into the racing world. There, he learned all sorts of tricks, how to dope horses and the like. Monkey business. When his father died, he was taken under an uncle’s care. That man’s house was truly ancient. A tower. Three floors with three turrets on top. On the middle one there was always a flagstaff complete with a flag, on which something was written. Inside, it was dark; only a few rays of light entered now and then. You had to pass through a railed gate bearing a curious inscription: “ARKADAN.” Then you went into the tower via a heavy wooden door with many thick engravings of children caressing each other. Inside, there were old paintings and old carpets on the walls, showing scenes of fox hunting and women of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Lining the corridors were some rusty armors and glass cases with old pistols, axes, swords, trombones, and ballistae. On the second floor, the bedrooms. Large beds, covers embroidered with gold

Dimitris Poulikakos    33 1

and canopies. From the canopies hung fringes. Somewhere, at the end of one corridor, there is a staircase. For years now, nobody has been anywhere near it. Indeed, nobody has so much as turned to look at it. “THE STAIRCASE THAT LED NOWHERE BUT THE STAIRS ALWAYS SOLID” It all started with the young man trying to ascend the staircase and see what was written on the flag. It was then that he presented the first symptoms. Then he abandoned everything—he was 18 by now—and embarked to Africa. No sooner had they reached the Atlantic than there was a strange plague on the ship. From inside the holds came some dreadful smells. And those who approached had scales grown on their hands. After seven-and-a-half hours, the scales fell down and on the hands there remained a soft greenness, like mold, which stank exactly like the holds. In three hours’ time they all ran like mad and, emitting repulsive curses, threw their hands into the sea. And, as they fell, maelstroms opened, dragging them into the untrodden darkness. Few escaped this fate. The young man disembarked secretly on the green cape and, after crossing the desert, reached Djibouti in the evening. He stayed there for one night only, taking all the necessary precautions. Next day, he left by train first thing in the morning and found himself in Congo. After staying for two-and-a-half hours in Léopoldville, he left on the same train for Angola. He settled down in one of the two or three big cities (its name escapes me right now), in a cheap hotel. He spent his first few days just wandering and loitering about the town. People were puzzled by his presence. “Why should he be wasting his youth in this accursed place?” Ten days later, at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac, he met a little old man who owned a tobacco shop. He found him very likeable. He would spend hours on end in the little shop, listening to his stories of when he too was young and traveled as a sailor to all corners of the earth. But that was not his main reason for hanging about in the old man’s store. The old man had a daughter, a fair daughter with bright blond hair. The youngster fell in love with her almost as soon as he first saw her. She never spoke. She stayed locked in her room all day, and only in the evening, when the little old man started his stories, did she come down to listen with a slight, permanent smile. Yes—he fell in love with her.

III Now, one night, the young man was sitting in a bar near the port. It was a typical cabaret for sailors, with a strip show and the like, and with low prices for

33 2    The Pali Group both the drinks and the whores. Around 2 a.m., when the place was packed, a brawl broke out. Two men stood up. The duel was to be next day, three km from town; the chosen weapon was pistols. The two men were Raiko and Giardin. Giardin challenged Raiko. Raiko had not yet accepted. He was thinking. Silence. Raiko was thinking. Raiko was the best. . . . . . . . . Silence. Thinking. Raiko was thinking. Silence. Raiko was the best shot in town, they said. Silence. He was thinking. Giardin was usually a quiet sort of fellow. Silence. Raiko was thinking. Why this challenge? He was thinking, Raiko was. Silence. . . . . . . the old man’s daughter. . . . . .the ship. . . . . . the illness. . . . . . . . . “ARKADAN”. . . . . . . . . . . . the young man. . . . . . . . . . . . was thinking. . . . . . . . . . . . the tobacco shop. . . . . . . . . . . . God my fingers. . . . . . . . . . . . .............................. Silence. Two things may happen: Either Raiko accepts, or he does not. If he does not, that is all right. But if he does, then two things may happen: Either he appears in the designated place to fight, or he does not. And if he does not, that is all right. But if he does, then two things may happen: Either the seconds appear, or they do not. And if they do not, that is all right (?). But if they do, then two things may happen: ............ . . . . . . . . . . the glass cases. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the armors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the pistols. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And if he does not shoot, that is all right. But if he does, then two things may happen: He either hits or misses. And if he misses, that is all right. But if he hits, then two things may happen: He either merely wounds him, or he kills him. And if he merely wounds him, that is all right. But if. . . . . . . . . .

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He accepted. Raiko thought carefully. And he accepted. He accepted. Next morning they buried Giardin. Next morning Raiko also vanished. Nobody ever saw him again. Next day the whole town was buzzing with the news of the young man (by the way, they had not even learned his name) also having suddenly vanished, taking along with him the little old man’s beautiful blonde daughter. He, too, was never seen again. Once it was heard that in Cape-Town he had abandoned the little old man’s daughter and that, one night, while he was fighting with someone in a bar, one of the whores in the joint had plucked out his eye. They then said that he retired and joined a mission in the jungle, where he lives alone in a cabin built on a low hill. But all these things were lies, rumors. Besides, in those places, correspondence is a complicated business. One can never be sure.

IV He reappeared only three years before his death. A villager saw him come out of the cave one morning. From that day on, people learned about the shop by hearsay, and this became one reason for his being hired as a permanent employee. He had been working full-time for three weeks now, when he was charged with the arrangement and classification of the shoes. This, as it turned out, was an extremely difficult task, for the shoes, being as they were accustomed to laziness and disorder, created all sorts of obstacles, always trying to escape and never giving the correct data. The result of all this was that the young man often came late for dinner. His diet was mostly frugal. Some herbs, the odd potato, meat twice a week and, rarely, five to ten mushrooms, picked by himself and cooked by his wife. The rumor about his having abandoned her was false, for she was the same one, the little old man’s daughter. Then there was another thing: the shoes kept hurting him. Finally, he consulted an orthopedist, who advised him to furnish them with soles. These soles proved to be very effective indeed. Not only did the shoes quit resisting him, they even got friendly with him. Thus his work continued, calmly and regularly, for a period of three years. On the day he finished, he notified the head of his department. The head of the department announced the news to the director, the director to the head of the division, the head of the division to the assistant director, the assistant director to the Director-in-Chief. The Director-in-Chief ordered the assistant director to have

334    The Pali Group the young man presented to him. The assistant director gave the order to the head of the division, the head of the division to the director, the director to the head of the department. The head of the department announced to the young man that he had to dress well for next day’s presentation. He was in his best attire when the head of the department took him along and presented him to the director. The director and the young man, followed by the head of the department, presented themselves to the head of the division. The head of the division and the young man, followed by the director, followed by the head of the division, presented themselves to the assistant director. The assistant director and the young man, followed by the head of the division, followed by the director, followed by the head of the department, presented themselves to the Director-in-Chief. The Director-in-Chief praised the young man’s qualities and congratulated him for being so good at his work. He, on his part, gave him his warmest thanks and shook his hand. After that, he shook the assistant director’s hand, as well as those of the head of the division, the director and the head of the department. Very touched, he returned to his tiny office and got ready to go home. On that day, the little old man’s daughter had cooked snails. He felt a sudden numbness in his right hand. Before he even had time to think of anything else, everything around him went black, and he fell down. The Director-in-Chief heard the news at once and was enraged. “Throw him away this minute.” Later, he calmed down. “Bring me the assistant director.” .................................................. “Let the proceedings go on as normal.” .................................................. The young man’s body was wrapped in a brown cloth and placed inside a metallic room. It was like an oven or a fridge. In the same room were also placed some sacks in a flashy red color, which seemed full. Shortly afterward, the door opened and they threw inside one more, empty. Then in a while two men dressed in black from top to bottom entered. They unwrapped the brown cloth, then, holding the young man’s body with great care, they put it down. They took off his shoes. Then his socks. With slow movements, they did the same with his coat, trousers, tie, shirt, underwear. They picked him up and placed him, naked, into the empty red sack. They tied a knot round the opening and put the sack on the pile of the other red immobile ones. Then they opened the door. Then they left. Then there was silence.      Silence It was such a late hour.      Silence In the neighborhoods. . . . . . . . . .

Dimitris Poulikakos    335

. . . . . . . . . . the closed shutters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the prayers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the eyes. . . . . . . THE EYES. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . crying. . . . . . . . . . . . . . late hour. . . . first thing tomorrow. . . . the same. . . . time. . . . the procedures as nor . . . mal . . . . the plowing. . . . the red sacks . . . little old . . . man’s . . . daughter . . .the door was shut . . . . . . . . . . . . . silence . . . . . . . . . . . . .      Silence . . . . . . . . . . thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the snails . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a b s o l u t e . . . . . . . . . . . . .     Silence Silence also the next day when they came to pick up the sacks. Now they are loading. Now they are traveling. One day. Now they are unloading. Here there are no trees all around. There are no houses. No people. There is no vegetation whatsoever. There are no hills. No rivers. No roads. THERE IS NOTHING. NOTHING. The ground is immense, absolutely smooth. It is steaming with heat. Immense. And steaming. Yet there is something. Six rows of seats. 80m long. 3m high. 4m wide. And from a distance, a stain was seen. Coming near. And high up in the sky, something kind of black. Not a cloud. Coming near. And the spot kept coming near. Oblong. And the black spot kept coming near. In a triangular shape. . . And the spot came near. And its nature was revealed. And they had these tiny pointed ears, as long as their body. And they were pecking on the seeds. They opened the sacks. And the stain moved away. The black spot too. They emptied the sacks. And they arrayed all the bodies in re gu lar in ter vals. And they awaited on the seats. STANDING. In re gu lar in ter vals. Now the bodies stirred. The heat. The heat. Now the hands. THE HANDS.

33 6    The Pali Group Now they formed a circle. High up. In couples. The heat. The eye cannot see anywhere. And the heat. Unbearable. And the hands. Unbearable. And THE EYES. Unbearable when they rose up high. Now they were looking at the platform. Now the capillary vessels of the white went red. . . . . .      Silence . . . . . . . . . .in the neighborhoods. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . closed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . prayers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the eyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . now. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the heat.                        Silence . . . . . . . . . are crying. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . flooded . . . . . . . . . . and such a late hour. Flooded and dripping tears on the hot, immense, smooth ground. Each tear a flower. Each tear a transubstantiation. Each tear, a cactus. Strange flowers, strange cacti, strange plants around the arrayed bodies. Each body a flower. Each body a cactus. A transubstantiation. In the hot Burning. On the immense, smooth ground. . . . . . . . . . .such a late hour. . . . . . . . . . . .           Silence . . . . . in the neighborhoods. . . . . the platform. . . . . 80m long. . . . . . . . . . . . . .and the heat. . . . . . . . . . . . the heat . . . . . . . . . . . back, back. . . . . . . . BACK. . . . . . . . 3m high. . . . . . To the Director-in-Chief. . . . . . . back. . . . . . . . transubstantiated. . . . . . into heat . . . . . . . . . CACti. . . . . . . . . . the shutters. . . . . . .CLOSED. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and the housewives. . . . . . .          Silence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . absolute. . . . . . . . . . . .            Silence HEAT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . into heaT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . into Hea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .into hE. . . . . . . .iNto h . . . . . . . Into. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .int . . . . . . . . . . . . . . in. . . . . . . . . . . . .......................i................... ..............................

Afterword

The importance of Pali, which has only recently begun to inspire some good-faith academic study, has been rather underplayed in Greece, for the simple reason that critics have shown a profound and indeed stubborn ignorance of the actuality of surrealism. Yet the journal’s heritage involved a dual movement: besides posing the issue of continuity, it encouraged a reappraisal of the earlier surrealists, one that extended beyond the options of hostile rejection or mute admiration. This is primarily due to Nanos Valaoritis, who inaugurated the mature period of surrealist theory, often focusing on the early works of Greek surrealists, examined for the first time with any degree of thoroughness. The climate of the era certainly helped: after the restoration of the parliamentary system in 1974, surrealism and Dada emerged vaguely in the context of Greek counterculture as precursors of May ’68, the situationist movement, beat literature, etc., while the indigenous surrealist writing was freshly appreciated via reprintings. Yet, as Valaoritis noted in a text included herein, no significant study of Embirikos’s work was written during his lifetime (he died a year after the junta’s downfall). This may not be irrelevant to the equally crucial fact that the actual texts of international surrealism were completely ignored and that, despite the gradual emergence of books from the French group’s early days, they continue to be so to a considerable extent. This fact may, as noted, be readily witnessed in certain recent accounts which, while purporting to assess Greek surrealism from the momentarily assumed viewpoint of the international movement, actually reveal only the faintest of acquaintances with certain early texts by Breton. And even though the latter’s thought did at last become partly available, this often happened in the context of

33 8    Afterword

a facile pigeonholing: thus, for instance, a vogue in the seventies and eighties that gave rise to a vulgarization of situationism allowed surrealism some room as a dead and somewhat discredited precursor. Significantly, while a fair number of publishers put out certain “classics” of surrealism, only one, Parallelogram Editions (which sadly folded too soon), with a tiny output and limited distribution, was exclusively devoted to surrealist works and relevant studies, even though, in that case too, the stress was placed on early French texts. Crucially, the postwar phase of the movement has been by and large ignored, with the exceptions of Octavio Paz (especially post-Nobel) and Joyce Mansour (mostly thanks to Hector Kaknavatos’s efforts). But even early surrealism is approached with a curiously selective attitude: not a single book by Benjamin Péret was published until very recently, while the introduction of Antonin Artaud and Georges Bataille to a largely receptive young Greek public followed for the most part the line of disengaging their works from surrealism owing to their brief disputes with Breton. Pali’s intentions regarding the coverage of old and new surrealism alike were thus not fulfilled. Frangiski Abatzopoulou’s anthology of Greek surrealism, published in 1980, purported to be the first academic work to place the phenomenon firmly in its international context; yet despite including rare material by certain “forefathers,” the anthology coupled a brief account of surrealism’s principles via early French polemics and essays with a vague introduction and a near-random selection of Greek names bearing a certain debt to surrealism—in some cases an almost invisible one. Given that Greek writing (poetry in particular but also a great deal of prose and drama) has, as mentioned, displayed a strong surrealist influence over the years, albeit one that veers toward a sanitized, mildly lyrical, and politically dubious version of the movement’s poetic conquests, this double focus served to confuse rather than enlighten. Notable book-length studies have since been provided by such writers as Z. I. Siaflekis and Victor Ivanovici, along with a plethora of essays and articles by younger writers. At the same time, the fortunes of Greek surrealism in the English-speaking world have left much to be desired. Following the extreme conservatism of those AngloSaxon publishers who showed some interest in Greek poetry in the immediate aftermath of World War II, certain translations of Elytis were the only ones that had any impact to speak of. This situation was reinforced much later by Elytis’s Nobel, which has resulted in the availability of virtually his entire poetic output in English, albeit with little emphasis on his surrealist period, his early essays in particular. The first true achievement of Greek surrealism on this count, however, was the publication in 1966 in London by Alan Ross of Embirikos’s Writings or Personal Mythology, under the title Amour-Amour. The volume, prefaced by Valaoritis and translated by Ross and the late Nikos Stangos of the Pali group, has been recently (2003) reprinted in

Afterword    339

the United States by Green Integer in Los Angeles. Embirikos, along with Valaoritis (but, sadly, not Engonopoulos), has also been represented in Michael Richardson’s two-volume anthology of surrealist narratives (1993, 1994) as well as in a recent (2004) anthology of Modern Greek fantasy, edited by David Connolly with an Engonopoulos cover (all three volumes published in Britain by Dedalus). Apart from some poetry by Greek surrealists that has appeared over the years in anthologies and journals, there have also been two short Sahtouris collections, now out of print, while Valaoritis’s latest book of English surrealist proses, My Afterlife Guaranteed (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1990), is still available; yet the absence of an Engonopoulos work has hardly been redressed by certain scattered translations. The heritage of Greek surrealism has lived on in periodicals and works, rather as a development and expansion of some possibilities evoked by Pali, albeit now deprived of the centrality that the surrealist perspective maintained in the Pali group. Meanwhile, the actuality of contemporary surrealism has only recently begun to be acknowledged in new, mostly fanzine-shaped periodicals; meanwhile, the supposed dissolution of the “historical” movement on the eve of World War II or, at most, in its aftermath is still taken for granted, even by those sympathetic writers of the academy who may contribute the odd homage to Embirikos. Yet there are now the first visible signs of systematic surrealist activity, on the part of young people who remain unconnected to academic research. The sole Athens periodical covering current surrealism with a clearly stated commitment (Farfoulas, edited by Diamantis Karavolas) was recently replaced by Klidonas, the instrument of the newly formed Surrealist Group of Athens. Another group, that of Ioannina (formed in 2000), produced the leaflet Allegories of an Objective Past Perfect in December 2002. This was followed by the group’s declaration in late 2004 and the publication, in April 2005, of Penetralia, the first issue of the group’s official journal. The Athens group’s declaration was issued in May 2005. Of particular note in the current groups’ activities is their emphasis on collective creation, an aspect whose relative lack (despite the early experiments by Embirikos, Elytis, and their friends described in “Art-Chance-Risk”) constitutes a major peculiarity of the Greek surrealist “canon”: the early treatment, by conservative and socalled left-wing critics, of surrealists as bourgeois invalids whose purely subjective works gave rise to a repertory of pathological profiles has had the regrettable consequence of partly succeeding in its goal—that is, isolating those writers’ individual voices, even within their small circle. Significantly, while early Greek surrealism made its mark first and foremost via its poetry, the Ioannina group started out by purposely avoiding the publication of anything susceptible to being taken as “literature.” This is a sign that attests to a conscious decision to break away from the

34 0    Afterword

academic framework too often reserved for the past of Greek surrealism; also, perhaps, an example of the leaps and breaches by which the history of a phenomenon chooses to proceed. For, in all probability, surrealism was introduced in Greece too early to have a fully operational form from the beginning. The Ioannina group’s first leaflet ended with a declaration signed by V. (Vangelis actually), whence the following excerpt: Poetry destroys the values of the existing civilization. Poetry’s mouth is bleeding. Poetry is the community of desire. . . . Poetry is a revolver turned toward the crowd. . . . Poetry is a well full of hungry Gorgons. Poetry saws bourgeois groins. Poetry invents constellations upon stretched fingers. . . . Poetry is an ever-suspended enigma. . . . Poetry finishes poetry off, finishes with poetry. . . . Poetry is an overdose of proletarian sadism. Poetry sows discord in married couples. It kills their offspring night after night. . . . Poetry is, after Auschwitz more than ever, critical history. . . . Poetry is above all antinational. Poetry is the stolen scepter of god whom we sent guffawing back to the guillotine. Poetry is the Music of goblins. . . . Poetry is eternity—never immortality. Poetry is man and woman when, lying on their backs, they act the train whistle, while a video fast forwards their image within a black wooden box. Poetry is the tiger that jumps into the past. Poetry recomposes, under the light of an indiscernible alchemical writing, the body torn to pieces by cogwheels. . . . We are everything that was reborn by the deluge. . . . We demand nothing but total freedom!1 If the easy option is to dismiss the above as a kind of tired rhetoric (not so much a repetition of a past moment as a move that comes too late to make its mark), it is exceedingly oppressive, let alone dubious, to pass judgment on a youthful, collective, and clearly heartfelt expression, thereby condemning it to a mute existence in the

Afterword    34 1

persistent shade of forefathers. Whether other, similar groups are in existence, about to make their presence felt, or whether the interested parties are still isolated is a matter of speculation; so are the duration and value of their possible ventures. In any case, what the preceding pages have purported to show was where it all began and what general directions it took. The future is still open-ended.

Notes

Introduction

1. In Συντέλεια (Synteleia), Spring–Summer 1991, no. 4–5, p. 112.

I. The Founders 1. According to his interview with Andromachi Skarpalezou, posthumously printed in Ηριδανός (Heridanos), February–March 1976, 13–15. 2. The most comprehensive source is Σωτήρης Τριβιζάς: Το Σουρρεαλιστικό Σκάνδαλο (Sotiris Trivizas, To Sourrealistiko Scandalo [The Surrealist Scandal]), (Athens: Καστανιώτης (Castaniotis), 1996). 3. “Prolegomena to a Third Surrealist Manifesto or Not”; in Manifestoes of Surrealism, trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1972), 287. 4. In Νικόλαος Κάλας: Δεκαέξι Γαλλικά Ποιήματα & Αλληλογραφία με τον Ουίλιαμ Κάρλος Ουίλιαμς (Nicolaos Calas, Dekaexi Gallika Poiemata & Allilografia me ton William Carlos Williams [Sixteen French Poems & Correspondence with William Carlos Williams]) (Athens: Ύψιλον (Ypsilon), 2003), 31–32. 5. In Τα Νέα, “Πρόσωπα” (Ta Nea, “Prosopa” [“Faces”]), 27 May 2000, 20–21. 1. Andreas Embirikos

1. The subtitle of this book is in fact lifted from a work by the French surrealist Maxime Alexandre (Mythologie personnelle). The title of the book’s English translation (also the title of its first text), was Amour-Amour, a reference to the Rumanian river, whose name has also inspired Roger Caillois. 2. Actually, the lecture took place on January 25, 1935. 3. Given these contentions, it would be wrong to assume, as many have done, that Embiri-

344    Notes to pages 34–53 kos’s more “lyrical” pieces in Hinterland may have been incorporated in an attempt to “water down” the impact of his earlier work. In fact, those critics who called for a certain degree of “tolerance” toward surrealism, owing to the lyricism of some of its works, were mostly name checking Elytis. 4. “Amour-Amour” was written in 1939. (Author’s note) 5. Pindos: the biggest mountain range in Greece; Sarakatzans: nomadic cattle breeders scattered over the Greek mainland; Drapetsona: district in Piraeus. 6. “Ταν ή επί τας”: “With it [victor] or on it [dead]”: The proverbial advice given by Lacaedemonian mothers to their sons going to war, while handing them their shields. 7. Bracketed words were deleted in the original edition. 8. Bamberg: where Otto and Amalia, Greece’s first royal couple (1832–1862), went to live after being dethroned. 9. This refers to the birth of Andreas and Vivika Embirikos’s only child, their son Leonidas. “Marie” is Nanos Valaoritis’s companion, the surrealist painter Marie Wilson. 10. Embirikos was at the time contemplating possibilities for the publication of The Great Eastern. After the surrealist periodical Le Surréalisme, Même folded, thoughts of publication in English or French also came to nothing (in a recent work, the late Jacques Lacarrière, who had attempted a French translation, falsely claimed it was clandestinely published in English). The book underwent several phases of rewriting until well into the 1960s, by which time it had evolved into the longest and most explicit novel, as well as the best-kept secret, of Greek literature, read by the author at private gatherings. Embirikos’s fears about the social impact its publication might have on his young son do not seem to imply that he abandoned publishing prospects. Thus, when the 1967–1974 military junta crushed any such hopes, a few pages had been printed in Valaoritis’s journal Pali, as mentioned above. The work was finally published in eight volumes between 1990 and 1992; no translation has emerged yet. The mostly negative critical reaction offered a neat repertory of misconceptions along with certain fruitful insights; the former ranging from Embirikos’s dissociation from surrealism on the supposed grounds of the latter’s at once “asexual” and “authentic” (!) rather than “erotic” view of love to the very “postmodern” identification of Embirikos and surrealism with a body-centered, quasi-“fascist” aesthetic, a “suppressive” call for freedom and so forth—an attack showcasing the “antiauthoritarian” feelings professed by figures of the academic establishment. 11. “Only the works in which common or vulgar denominations for sexual acts and organs appear, are persecuted. If the terms used are those of science, or even of the eighteenthcentury vocabulary . . .” 12. The book later known as L’Histoire d’O, by Pauline Réage, first published in English— to avoid censorship—in Paris, 1957, by the Olympia Press (Nanos Valaoritis’s note, 2002). 13. This translation has never appeared. 14. Perhaps Elytis’s best-known work (via its evolution into a “folk oratorio” by Mikis Theodorakis—cf. Calas’s rather ironic line from Nikitas Randos St.: “laryngitis [plays] at Axion Esti”), still unpublished at the time of this correspondence. Nanos Valaoritis has recounted this story elsewhere, implying that Breton might have had personal misgivings about Elytis (to whom he had been introduced in the mid-1940s by Julien Gracq), perhaps because of the Greek poet’s connection at some point with Paul Éluard. However, in a communication to this writer, Mr. Valaoritis specified that the real reason for which Breton did not get to publish a piece by Elytis was simply that the magazine folded—a version corroborated by the evidence provided herein.

Notes to pages 53–62    345

15. Cf. also on this point Nanos Valaoritis’s “Introduction to Surrealism” (1965) in the present volume. 16. Embirikos was working on a “Personal Dictionary,” which remains unpublished. 17. English in the original. 18. English in the original. 2. Nicolas Calas

1. This early text is of particular interest insofar as it marks one of Calas’s earliest explicit references to surrealism—and the first in which surrealism is evoked to point toward a solution regarding revolutionary cultural production. This evocation, however, is still a timid one, indeed one that does not yet seem to have fully internalized the movement’s full significance vis-à-vis other currents; an imperfection that will be admitted by Calas himself in the 1937 text that follows.   Up until 1932, Calas was propagating an ardent, if not particularly original, defense of “politically engaged” art (in other words, socialist realism), whose supposed heroic didacticism he juxtaposed to the decadence of modern, “psychological” bourgeois literature, his pet bêtes noires being Valéry, Proust, and Joyce—the first two of whom will continue to be so in much later essays. Calas’s first official encounter with surrealist-related work was his translation, a few months before this article, of Aragon’s “Front Rouge,” as an example of engaged, if modern, poetry; paradoxically, considering what “Front Rouge” signified for its author’s development, this notorious poem was for Calas the first stage of an alignment that very quickly led him to reject realism and study surrealism’s first principles in depth. A side effect of this activity was a dramatically reconsidered stance toward psychology.   In early 1932, Calas published one of the earliest important studies on C. P. Cavafy (1863– 1933), today perhaps the best-known modern Greek poet, whose idiosyncratic work had only just begun to attract critical interest (Calas was the first to point out Cavafy’s influence on T. S. Eliot). In complete contrast to the often simplistic axioms contained in his earlier polemics against “decadent” art, Calas treated Cavafy as an important bourgeois poet, insofar as his poetry provided illuminating insights on the destiny of his class; in other words, Calas employed a fully legitimate method of Marxist criticism, albeit one hardly acceptable in the monolithic surroundings of 1930s Greek left-wing cultural writing. Perhaps more crucially, Calas’s essay made an early, and particularly brave (considering the conditions), attempt to employ psychoanalytic thought in literary criticism, an attempt that was not irrelevant to his contemporary discovery of surrealism (which he evokes briefly in the Cavafy study). Over the following years, Calas will also be groundbreaking in his rejection of novelistic narrative in favor of poetry. 2. Thalis Rhetoridis, editor of the journal in question, was early on regarded as a Greek surrealist, translating poems by Georges Hugnet and Guy Rosey in the 1938 collective volume Surrealism Αʹ, beside translations by Calas (Péret, Prassinos), Orestis Canellis (Crevel), Dimitris Carapanos (Dalí), Elytis (Éluard), Embirikos (Breton), and Engonopoulos (Tzara). On the back cover of that book a surrealist collection by Rhetoridis was announced, along with a catalogue of works already printed (Embirikos’s Blast Furnace, hors commerce works by Elytis and Calamaris/Calas, and Elytis’s classic translations of Éluard) and future publications from Elytis, Embirikos, and Engonopoulos. A second collective volume, this time consisting of original surrealist works by Calas, Canellis, Elytis, Embirikos, Engonopoulos, and Rhetori-

34 6    Notes to pages 62–64 dis, was also announced but never materialized because of the Greco-Italian war and the Nazi Occupation. 3. Costis Palamas (1859–1943): Extremely influential, “national” poet, critic, and member of the Academy. Calas was always hostile to his work, regarding it as the expression of a tardily developed bourgeoisie: “In politics: demagogy; in poetry: verbalism, d’Annunzio, Palamas, in Asia: Tagore. . . . Hollow nationalism, miserable love of labor, inane lyricism, Palamas.” (From a review of a Palamas collection; Νέοι Πρωτοπόροι (Neoi Protoporoi), no. 10, October 1933, 318–321, signed Spieros.) 4. Dimitrios Mentzelos: Suffering from tuberculosis (which finally caused his early death), this obscure writer spent time at the Lausanne sanatorium Source, where he met René Crevel, by whom he was introduced to surrealism. In 1931 Mentzelos gave a lecture on the movement and published the study “Surrealism and Its Tendencies” in Angelos Terzakis’s journal Logos, yet death prevented him from laying claim to being the first Greek surrealist. 5. This never happened; besides, only one such lecture by Embirikos is known to have taken place. 6. Prestigious conservative daily newspaper. 7. Calas is, of course, referring to David Gascoyne’s A Short Survey of Surrealism (1935). 8. In fact, and despite certain scattered translations of essays and poems (most systematically via Nanos Valaoritis’s journal Pali in the 1960s), the first Breton book in Greek—a translation of the Manifestos of Surrealism—was published as late as 1972; more works by Breton followed in the 1980s, albeit with a bias in favor of his prewar writings, presumably to provide a false historical background for the parallel introduction of beat and situationist works (e.g., the Greek version of Surrealism and Painting stops at 1941; similarly, the patchy “selected works” What Is Surrealism? has made free use of Franklin Rosemont’s homonymous Breton anthology while ignoring the post-1930s pieces contained therein). 9. Constantine Tsatsos (1899–1987): University professor, critic, philosopher, Academy member, and conservative politician. President of the State in 1975–1980. Particularly hostile to surrealism in his critical writings. With his brother-in-law Yorgos Seferis and his ex-student Odysseus Elytis, he conducted two “Dialogues on Poetry” (in 1938 and 1944, respectively), in which he epitomized the most retrograde tendencies in aesthetic and literary theory. Petros Haris (1902–1998): Writer, editor of the conservative literary journal Nea Hestia (and not Nea Grammata); member of the Academy. 10. Theodoros Dorros (and not Dorrou): Until very recently one of the unsolved mysteries of Greek literature, Dorros is a figure of surrealist lore, although his work has rather little to do with surrealism, as Calas points out. His only collection of poetry, Stou Glytomou to Hazi (which may be roughly translated as In the Pastime of Salvation), was printed privately in 1930 and mailed to certain young writers, thereby giving rise to a minor cult. The publishing details supplied in the book consisted of two addresses (in Paris and New York) from which it could be ordered free of charge. To start with, then, Dorros appeared to have been a cosmopolitan Greek, whose language (like Calas’s own) was often careless, a possible result of his living abroad; of course, although his poetry reveals awareness of presurrealist currents, the extent of his knowledge of surrealism itself is an open question.   After Calas’s death, Nanos Valaoritis hazarded the guess (which he soon retracted) that Dorros had been one of his many aliases. Yet Dorros’s book predated the first poems of Calas/ Randos, who, having yet to come across surrealism, would remain a supporter of “proletarian” as opposed to “modern” art until 1932; besides, the repeated miswriting of Dorros’s name seemed a genuine error on Calas’s part.

Notes to pages 64–79    34 7

 

More recent research has brought to light new evidence on Dorros’s existence, including the knowledge that he died in a suicide pact with his wife in 1954 as well as a 1936 essay written in English. No photograph of him has surfaced yet. 11. Anastasios Drivas (1899–1942): Forgotten today, Drivas was among the very first Greek poets to write in free verse. His only book publication is the collection Mikra Elegeia (Short Elegies) (1931), but his most important work is the series of poems “A Sheaf of Rays in the Water,” published between 1936 and 1939 in the journals Trito Mati and Nea Grammata. Drivas apparently died of hunger during the Nazi Occupation. 12. Yorgos Sarandaris (1908–1941): Poet and essayist. Died of hardships in the GrecoItalian war. 13. Orestis Canellis (1910–1979): Painter, particularly close to Embirikos and Elytis. Translator of excerpts from Crevel’s Mon Corps et Moi (see note 2). 14. One should keep in mind that Engonopoulos, whose first exhibition took place in Calas’s house in 1939, has yet to appear. This also pertains to Calas’s notes on Greek surrealist poetry. 15. Gerasimos Steris: Painter. Elytis remembered his early work with great affection (“reminiscent of no one, neither Greek nor European . . . , a mythic world, full of originality, both as poetic vision and as plastic realization”). Faced with critical hostility, Steris emigrated to the United States and was never heard from again, thereby becoming a semilegendary figure, until his death in 1987. 16. Nikos Hadjikyriakos-Ghikas (1906–1994): World-renowned artist, pioneer of abstract painting in Greece; became an Academy member. 17. Yorgos Gounaropoulos (1889–1977): Painter, who experimented with the abolition of three-dimensional space and volume, his blurring of outlines via an idiosyncratic use of light and color being a particular key to Calas’s assessment. Friend of Embirikos. 18. Angelos Terzakis (1907–1978): Novelist, essayist, and playwright. Later an Academy member. 19. Calas may be referring to René Crevel, whom he claimed to have known—to the point of maintaining that he was one of the very last people who saw Crevel on the day of his suicide. There is no documentation of their acquaintance. 20. Calas, a veteran of left-wing polemics who came to surrealism via his political commitment rather than vice versa, can hardly be accused of downplaying surrealism’s directly social aspect; if there are no explicit references to the movement’s political stance in the text, one should keep in mind that by 1937 Greece was under a dictatorial regime, complete with Nazi links. 21. This book ended up being the notorious Foyers d’Incendie (1938), a work admired by Breton and attacked vehemently by Raymond Queneau, then undergoing his antisurrealist period. By that time, Calas was an active surrealist in Paris, depriving Embirikos of his polemical and administrative qualities (apparently Calas and Embirikos never met again and kept in touch only through Nanos Valaoritis). Both political and personal reasons may be held responsible for Calas’s immigration. 22. The reference is clearly derogatory. In Foyers d’Incendie, Calas concluded a long discussion of Proust’s work with the war cry, “Burn Proust, as we burn churches!” 23. Emmanuel Rhoidis (1836–1904). Celebrated writer, whose scandalous novel The Papesse Jeanne was translated by Alfred Jarry and his friend Dr. Saltas and became a favorite with early surrealists. 24. The inclusion of selections from that volume, despite its lying outside of Calas’s Greek

34 8    Notes to pages 83–109 activity, is due to the poems’ historically crucial positioning and unavailability in either French or English editions, although some of them, not included here, have been translated in English by W. C. Williams and printed in 1941–1942. 3. Nikos Engonopoulos

1. Panagis Koutalianos: a proverbial strongman of late-nineteenth/early-twentiethcentury Athens. 2. In his notes to the new edition (1965) of his first two collections, Engonopoulos points out the similarities between this poem and André Breton’s “L’Union Libre,” which he claims not to have read at the time. 3. Engonopoulos misquotes this verse by Swinburne (“feet” instead of “lips”), following its citation by D. H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterley’s Lover). 4. The Story of Belthandros and Chrysanza: Greek novel in verse, probably written in the thirteenth century. 5. Alexander Caramanlakis: Pioneer of Greek aviation, died in an airplane accident in the Corinthian Gulf. 6. Comte de Lautréamont. 7. Antonios Kyriazis: (Author’s note) Rigas Ferraios or Vellestinlis (1757–1798): Representative of the Greek Enlightenment, poet and precursor of the Greek Revolution. Alexandros Kalfoglou: In Engonopoulos’s words, “A not negligible poet of the eighteenth century, with a certain degree of prosaicism, like most poets of his time. Just think of his French contemporaries.” 8. Turkish for “chimney sweep.” (Author’s note) 9. The first motto comes from Plutarch (referring to the supposed presence of Theseus’s ghost at the battle of Marathon, 490 BC). The second, from Gabriele d’Annunzio’s book: “Le dit du Sourd et Muet qui fut Miraculé en l’An de Grâce 1266.” But, being in quotation marks, it is rather unlikely to be by d’Annunzio himself, even though no source is cited. (Author’s note) 10. Odysseus Androutsos (1790–1825): Greco-Albanian fighter in the Greek Revolution, from Ithaca, like his Homeric namesake. Engonopoulos calls him “one of the foremost figures in world history.” 11. Celebrated Greek district in Constantinople. As Engonopoulos puts it, “The Turks managed to exterminate it, radically, fundamentally, in the period between the two World Wars.” 12. Saronicos: Gulf between Attica and Peloponnesus. 13. Monemvasia: Medieval town of Laconia, in Peloponnesus. 14. “Missiri”: Egypt. (Author’s note) 15. Castoria: Town in west Macedonia. 16. “I remember, when Engonopoulos read ‘Bolívar’ to us, during the Occupation, in Embirikos’s house, I was convulsed with laughter when the poet reached . . . the line: ‘Bolívar, you are beauteous as a Greek.’ That laughter was not an insult directed at the poem, but rather a compliment. The poem had amassed within me a tension, owing partly to its paradoxical content and partly to the inimitable tone of the poet’s voice as he read it, a restrained ironic sarcasm.” (Nanos Valaoritis, 1985) 17. Phanar: District of Constantinople. 18. [A] neighborhood in Phanar, thus named after a certain chapel “of Monguls” that is built there. (Author’s note)

Notes to pages 109–130    349

19. Constantine Paleologos: The last Byzantine emperor, who perished in the fall of Constantinople in 1453. (Translator’s note) There is a popular belief . . . , according to which Constantine Paleologos is not killed, has not perished. He is hiding somewhere, waiting for the recapture of his capital in order to reappear. (Author’s note) 20. Boyaka, Ayacucho, Lescovic: Sites in Colombia, Peru, and Albania/North Epirus, respectively; Lescovic evokes the poet’s war experiences. 21. Kormovitis: Constantine Lagoumitzis, or Lagoumitzis Kormovitis, from Kormovo of Epirus, a mechanic of the time of the Revolution, famous for his “lagoumia,” the mines he dug beneath the enemies’ camps, to blow them up. He perished during the Exodus of Mesolonghi. (Author’s note) 22. Vrass: “Fire” in Albanian. Ali Passa shouted it in the destruction of Gardiki. . . . It was also shouted by the sea-fighters of ’21 [1821, year of the Greek Revolution]. . . . (Author’s note) 23. Philippopolis: Ancient city of Thrace, which today belongs to Bulgaria. 24. Aconcagua: The highest pitch of the Cordillera of Andes (Chile). A volcano. (Author’s note) 25. Alavanda: Ancient town of Minor Asia (Karia). It produced marble used by ancient sculptors. I preferred it to the Pentelian marble, because that “Pentelian marble,” what atrocities has it not given rise to, so many times! (Author’s note) 26. Vlahernes: Renowned Byzantine monastery, near the palace of the same name, with a subterranean “holy fountain,” whence spring miraculous waters. (Author’s note) 27. Sikinos: Island of the Cyclades. 28. Cyrillos Loukaris (1572–1638): The great Patriarch. One of the wisest men of the Renaissance. Enemy of the Jesuits and the Uniti. (Author’s note) 29. Apollonius: Tyaneus. (Author’s note) 30. Antonios Economou (1785–1821): Pioneer of the Greek Revolution. Engonopoulos calls him “The pioneering and modest Hydran hero.” 31. Pasvantzoglou: Semi-independent ruler and subsequently rebel in the region of Vidin. Friend of Ferraios. (Author’s note) 32. It is Isidore Ducasse, comte de Lautréamont. Cf.: “. . . C’est le Montevidéen qui passe!” (Comte de Lautréamont, Les Chants de Maldoror). (Author’s note) 33. English in the original. 34. Anapli, or Nauplion: Town in Peloponnesus, the first capital of the liberated Greece. 35. It goes without saying that the scandal denounced in the conclusion was provoked by the town’s “peace-loving”  b o u r g e o i s  inhabitants. (Author’s note) 36. Merkourios Bouas: Sixteenth-century mercenary of Albanian origin who served the Habsburg dynasty and became knight of the Holy Roman Empire as well as the protagonist of an epic poem. 37. Apostolos Melachrinos (1880–1952): Poet and journal editor from Constantinople. 38. Poems are lived, not “written.” (Author’s note) 39. The critic referred to is Markos Augeris (1883–1973), who wrote from the standpoint of socialist realism. His essay “Surrealism and the Crisis of Forms” (1944), printed in the journal Grammata, dismissed surrealism as a decadent movement: “Surrealism has spread widely among our young poets, bringing a great deal of confusion to ideas regarding poetry and diverging it toward antipoetic and sterile fields. . . . [It] renders the poetic art accessible to everyone. But this kind of freedom it gives to poetry is the freedom of suicide. . . . This movement is antisocial and retrogressive, for it excludes the majority from the aesthetic civilization

35 0    Notes to pages 130–142 and the benefits of culture, thereby depriving the people of their major cultural centers. . . . [B]y automatism it abolishes intellectual energy and abandons itself to blind chance. . . . The spirit that moves surrealism is fully opposed to the present, and even more to the future, conditions of wide communication between the members of society, of the public’s participation in the cultural goods, of the cultural community spanning all layers of society. . . .” Augeris’s commonplaces were somewhat timidly answered by Elytis in his text “Old Accounts, New Beginnings,” partially translated here. 40. Mimika Cranaki (1922–): Greek writer and professor of philosophy in France. 41. Robert Levesque’s anthology of modern Greek poetry Domaine Grec was published in 1947 by the Éditions de Trois Collines (Paris-Geneva). As Engonopoulos notes, a few years later the collection was reprinted as a special issue of Cahiers du Sud, omitting all mention of him. Engonopoulos maintains that the latter journal’s director, Jean Ballard, was unaware of this “modification” and later apologized to the poet, the implication being that the omission was related to personal enmity borne toward Engonopoulos on the part of certain established poets and critics of the so-called ’30s generation. 42. “The reaction was much more violent than elsewhere. The very title, not all that provocative, of Engonopoulos’s poetry collection The Clavichords of Silence raised waves of hysteria.” I was happy to realize that this virtue of provoking “des vagues d’hystérie” has yet to be exhausted. Some time ago, an article (dated February 9, 1962!) was brought to my attention, in which an aged newspaper columnist expresses his outrage after 24 (twenty-four) years, no less, upon reading my book. . . . [H]e also expresses his sorrow (how elegant!) at not having some dog-poison to throw at me, or a wet plank to beat me with. (Author’s note) 4. Odysseus Elytis

1. Elytis’s terminology at this point is highly problematic. He in fact seems to be falling into the same trap that he rightly discerns in the “aesthetic” view of surrealism: namely, the fallacy according to which surrealism’s degree of supposed “politicization” (presumably attained by means of compromises to socialist realism, suppression of poetry, etc.) is proportionate to the extent to which it can be regarded as a left-wing movement. 2. Elytis was a frequent contributor to Νέα Γράμματα (Nea Grammata), the modernist journal edited by Yorgos Katsimbalis (1899–1978), better known as “The Colossus of Maroussi,” after inspiring Henry Miller’s homonymous book. Despite Calas’s and Embirikos’s initial misgivings, Nea Grammata provided an outlet for some surrealist writing, in the absence of more radical publications. The first writings of second-generation surrealists such as Miltos Sahtouris and Nanos Valaoritis were published there, and Engonopoulos, who (according to Elytis) long resisted collaboration, finally yielded to pressure in 1944. 3. This slippage from surrealism to “all poetry” is typical of Elytis and quite pertinent to Calas’s remarks on his friend’s “imperfect” commitment in “On Greek Surrealism.” 4. Theophilos Hatzimikhail (1873–1934): Posthumously celebrated “naif ” artist from Mytilene, regarded as the Greek equivalent of douanier Rousseau, although his technique (apparently often involving paint made of urine) is vastly different from that of his French counterpart. Sadly, the painter’s fate much resembles that of Robert Johnson, given that he died just as his discoverers were searching for his whereabouts. The Theophilos cult is a typical case of a surrealist project being appropriated and distorted by others: although it was Seferis and Elytis who were mostly credited for bringing Theophilos to the world’s attention (by means of their related studies, which, it must be said, gave rise to an ethnocentric inter-

Notes to pages 143–168    35 1

pretation that has now regrettably rendered his name synonymous with chauvinistic kitsch), the truth is that they both first heard of him from Embirikos; he, in turn, had been alerted by the enthusiastic words of Eugene Tériade (Eleutheriadis), the Greek art expert and publisher of Minotaure, who had come across some of the works by chance. Both Embirikos and Engonopoulos wrote poems in honor of Theophilos, Embirikos’s in particular being one of the very earliest texts on the painter and indeed one rather consciously reminiscent of Breton’s poem on the postman Cheval. “Fustanella” is the traditional Greek kilt worn by Theophilos. 5. Either Orestis Canellis or Takis Eleutheriadis. 6. Elytis is referring here to “katharevousa,” that is, the “literary”/“archaic,” as opposed to “demotic,” idiom recognized as official and taught at Greek schools until the 1970s; it is this linguistic schism that impressed the ex-surrealist Raymond Queneau to the point of informing his effort to reproduce “spoken” language in his novels. However, Calas, Embirikos, and Engonopoulos (but not Elytis, at least in his poetry collections as opposed to the fragments of juvenilia contained herein) wrote in a mixed dialect that utilized elements of “katharevousa” in an often richly humorous vein; for Calas in particular, the linguistic dogma of “demoticism” was a form of purism that supplied a pseudoprogressive alibi to politically conservative writers (Seferis being a case in point). Elytis here implies that “katharevousa” may occur spontaneously in automatic texts, presumably even in those of a self-styled “demoticist,” depending on the writer’s personal and educational background (this was certainly the case with Embirikos, a demoticist in his unpublished presurrealist poetry, who in his later texts often seems to recall and subvert certain phrasal stereotypes of the official idiom); one, of course, is entitled to presume that the opposite may also happen, so that a “katharevousa” purist might end up writing in “demotic.” Yet Elytis’s point is not so clear, for it also maintains that his own (early) language was influenced by that of his friends, in other words, that its automatism was in fact limited. More problematically, in the following paragraphs Elytis claims to have attained at once a more authentic voice and a more aestheticized form in his last “automatic” texts. 7. As the reader will have noticed by now, Elytis has an obsession (also very much apparent in later works) with the magic number 7, which accordingly influences the shape of his conclusions! It is no accident that the poem that follows is divided into seven sections. 8. Angelos Sikelianos (1884–1951): Celebrated poet and essayist, inclined toward a paganist conception of nature. His influence is discernible in Elytis’s work as well as in that of Embirikos—especially in Embirikos’s latter-day attempt to restore Christian myths to their pagan origins. The first selection of Sikelianos’s poems in French was prefaced by Paul Éluard. 9. “. . . save for in the succession, in the chain of all the subjective elements, of which the poet is, until further notice, not the master but the slave.” 5. Nikos Gatsos

1. “The eyes and ears are bad witnesses for people whose souls are barbarous.” “Heraclitus.” 2. Theodoros Colokotronis (1770–1843): One of the leaders of the Greek Revolution. 3. This and other references that follow (e.g., the “handkerchiefs of Calamata”) derive from folk songs. 4. Maniates: The inhabitants of the Mani area, in southwest Peloponnese, stereotypically notorious for their troublesome nature, their “vendettas,” etc. 5. Golfo: Bucolic drama heroine.

35 2    Notes to pages 170–251

II . T h e S e c o n d G e n e r a t i o n 1. This evocation of Péret serves as a counterpoint to the much-publicized involvement of the by then fully Stalinized Paul Éluard in the scene of the Greek Civil War, by means of visits and “occasional” poetry to celebrate a cause unofficially betrayed by the very center that was supposed to support it. 2. . . . a book whose motto, lest we forget, was taken from Breton’s 1942 lecture at Yale, and reaffirmed surrealism as a revolutionary movement as yet unsurpassed. 3. In Νάνος Βαλαωρίτης, Για μια Θεωρία της Γραφής (Nanos Valaoritis, Gia mia Theoria tis Grafis [Toward a Theory of Writing]) (Athens: Εξάντας (Exantas), 1990), 269–270. 6. Matsi Hatzilazarou

1. Φόρμιγξ: Forminx = ancient harp. The original Greek is retained in both of the author’s versions. 8. Hector Kaknavatos

1. Andreas Karantonis (1910–1982): Famous literary critic, largely responsible for catapulting Yorgos Seferis to poetic stardom. His relations with surrealism were ambivalent at best. 9. Nanos Valaoritis

1. A notorious judgment of Yorgos Seferis. 2. By contrast, the Pound/Eliot school, which established—let us say—the “free modern verse,” with no evident limitations of a dialectic control combining the criticism of content with that of form, while abolishing all but the purely subjective aesthetic criteria, has given rise to a much greater deal of “bad writing” and arbitrariness—as well as to an unbearable “intellectualism”—in modern poetry, especially in Greece and the United States, where, in the past fifteen years, the uncontrolled productivity has been orgiastic. (Author’s note) 3. Holophrasis is speech not yet divided into separate parts. . . . Helen Harrison identifies holophrasis with the Dionysian and primitive gods, as opposed to the individualized Olympians. . . . The gods of mysteries and of the Nether World, the demons, have an undistinguishable, undifferentiated personality and symbolize the primeval unity with something else (the world, nature), before the separation and the fall. All of this fits perfectly the holophrastic technique of Embirikos, who does appear to be a Dionysian, indeed a mystic visionary. (Author’s note) 4. What is meant by abolition here is of a rational order. If there is disintegration of speech in Embirikos, it concerns meaning, the semantic rather than the syntactic sector. There is, however, an overloading of the subject-object structure of the sentence with adjectives, adjuncts, and relative explanatory subsentences. . . . Such an overloading weakens the main sentence to the point of literally sinking it amid the secondary adjuncts. This constitutes the deceptive element of that kind of writing, which attracts our attention toward the partial, making us forget the thread of the sentence. . . . [T]his construction . . . evokes . . . psychoanalysis and the mystical tendency toward the reconstruction of a pre-Oedipal plenitude,

Notes to pages 272–295    353

whereby enmity toward the father takes an ideological turn and becomes a sighting of the primal intercourse, which thus attains a mythic character. It is thus that language itself, with holophrasis, participates in the intercourse that abolishes differences. . . . (Author’s note)

III . T h e P a l i G r o u p 1. Ανάτυπο Πάλι (Anatypo Pali [Reissue of Pali]) (Athens: Σήμα [Sima]), no date given (1975), no pagination. 2. Crucially, “Pali” is Sanskrit for “canon” and Greek for “again”: a “canon” of recurring rupture? 3. Printed on the back cover of Πάλι (Pali), no. 1, undated issue (1963). 4. Thus, in a recent “Greek Surrealism” special in a prestigious newspaper, the editor enumerates a few early French, Belgian, and North American surrealist (-related) periodicals, before stating flatly: “Later, and totally inopportunely, there was published by Nanos Valaori‑ tis the journal Pali, perhaps in memory of, but also strongly influenced by, a movement which, in the European context [sic!], had by then died.” She then goes on to limit Greek surrealism to the ’30s generation, and concludes by stating that “the dialogue [sic] on surrealism has begun again, [so] let us have another look at that truly revolutionary movement, which aimed [my emphasis] toward a different vision of the world.” [Καθημερινή, “Επτά Ημέρες” (Kathimerini, “Epta Imeres” [“Seven Days”]), July 7, 2002, 3] Given that Pali was not published “in memory of ” anything, but instead constituted a groundbreaking (and still influential) attempt toward the representation of the most radical ideas available at the time, how can it be deemed a “nostalgic” venture, in the same breath as declaring surrealism a “truly” revolutionary movement? The message is actually clear: make sure that surrealism has been dead since 1935 or thereabouts—then it can be “discussed” indefinitely. One wonders why, in such a case, it could be a remotely fruitful topic today. 5. In Ανάτυπο Πάλι, op. cit., no pagination. 6. In Πάλι, no. 5, November 1965, 92–94. 13. Yorgos V. Makris

1. This notorious declaration (an exceptionally bold move at a time when Nazi occupiers professed a love of classical Greece, while participants in the Resistance often resorted to patriotic clichés) was written in Athens, on November 18, 1944, following discussions between Makris and a group of friends; a few typed copies were produced, signed by “Y. V. M., General Organizer of S.A.S.A. (Society of Aesthetic Saboteurs of Antiquities) and poet.” The gap in the text reproduced herein was effected by E. Ch. Gonatas, editor of Makris’s Writings and possibly one of the participants in the declaration’s conception, who decided to omit certain articles referring to the practicalities of the sabotage. 14. Alexander Skinas

1. Poem-collage from French paper cuttings, originally published in French. 2. First published in Pali, no. 2–3 (undated issue—1964) in the original French of the articles used and under the title: “Points Noirs dans un Rêve d’éléphant”—Tragi-comé-rama psycholo-musi-coréen. Author’s note: [C]onstructed entirely from plot descriptions of fifty-

354    Notes to pages 298–340 plus cinematic works over three issues of a weekly French periodical. In the rearrangement of the material the following conditions were fulfilled: No writing instruments were to be used, but only scissors and glue. The entire vocabulary of the plot descriptions of all the films presented in the said issues (with the inevitable exception of a few particles) was to be utilized, and indeed if possible by gluing in the original sentences. All the plots, meaning the activities and adventures of various personages, would be attributed to a single hero. Let us note in passing that the strict observance of these conditions transformed the appropriation of other people’s ideas into a commendable exercise in inspirational and expressive selfrestriction. Thus the reconstructor is exempted from both reproach and praise for the pleasant or unpleasant (according to individual circumstance) results of this method, given that these have occurred automatically. The most characteristic of these results are: Certain repetitions, which were inevitable, given that some films were shown concurrently in two theaters, and their plots were repeated word for word at the respective points of the film features pages of the periodical. Certain expressions pertaining to love, also inevitable given that the hero had to assume female roles as well. Certain abrupt alternations, inevitable again, because the appropriation by him of the life experiences of dozens of different people rendered a normal life impossible to him. And this, after all, constitutes the most remarkable of the fortuitous results of this posterior world construction. The confluence of disparate biographies into the life of a multisynthetic hero renders more palpable the texture of the world from which their original ingredients have derived. 3. First published in Pali, op. cit., in a somewhat different form. 16. Panos Koutrouboussis

1. Alexandros Mavrokordatos (1791–1865): A leading figure in the Greek Revolution. 2. First published in Pali, no. 1 (undated—February 1964), in a slightly different form and with the subtitle “The Sphinx Protects Solitude.” 3. Fufotos: A nonexistent name, commonly used as rhyming slang for “uncapped cock.” Perhaps (given the text’s Embirikian aspects) a joking reference to Embirikos’s “phallic ship” in The Great Eastern. 4. In place of this, the original in Pali had: “SHORT MAN IN BLACK WITH WALKING STICK, AVOIDING running THE HORRIBLE GREEN ENORMOUS GHOST WHICH WHILE LAUGHING—WITH WAVING ARAB ROBE: BLOWING MASSES OF MUDDIED SOUNDS OF CLAY THAT REMAIN BEHIND” or “ASTRONAUT IN INFERTILE BROWN—GREEN FLAT PLANET, KNEELING IN PRAYER, LOOKING BEHIND WHILST . . . FLYING BIRD-CONSTRUCTIONS, NATIVES OF THE PLANET, TRAVERSE INFINITY”

Afterword 1. Αλληγορίες Αντικειμενικού Υπερσυντέλικου (Alligories Antikeimenikou Ypersyntelikou), no. 1, December 2002, 11–12.

Bibliography

Andreas Embirikos (ΑΝΔΡΕΑΣ ΕΜΠΕΙΡΙΚΟΣ) Ενδοχώρα (Endohora) (Hinterland). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1980. Γραπτά ή Προσωπική Μυθολογία (Grapta I Prosopiki Mythologia) (Writings or Personal Mythology). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1980. Ο Μέγας Ανατολικός (O Megas Anatolikos) (The Great Eastern). 8 vols. Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1990–1992. Νικόλαος Εγγονόπουλος ή το Θαύμα του Ελπασσάν και του Βοσπόρου και Διάλεξη για τον Νίκο Εγγονόπουλοs (Nikolaos Engonopoulos I to Thauma tou Elbassan kai tou Vosporou kai Dialexi gia ton Niko Engonopoulos) (Nikolaos Engonopoulos or the Miracle of Elbassan and Bosporus and Lecture on Nikos Engonopoulos). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1999. Οκτάνα (Oktana). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1980. Η Σήμερον ως Αύριον και ως Χθες (I Simeron os Aurion kai os Cthes) (Today as Tomorrow and as Yesterday). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1984. Υψικάμινος (Ypsikaminos) (Blast Furnace). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1980.

Nicolas Calas (ΝΙΚΟΛΑΟΣ ΚΑΛΑΣ) Γραφή και Φως (Grafi kai Fos) (Writing and Light). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1983. Δεκαέξη Γαλλικά Ποιήματα & Αλληλογραφία με τον Ουίλλιαμ Κάρλος Ουίλλιαμς (Dekaexi Gallika Poiemata & Allilografia me ton William Carlos Williams) (Sixteen French Poems and Correspondence with William Carlos Williams). Athens: Ύψιλον (Ypsilon), 2003. Κείμενα Ποιητικής και Αισθητικής (Keimena Poietikis kai Aisthitikis) (Texts on Poetics and Aesthetics). Athens: Γαβριηλίδης (Gavriilidis), 1989?. Οδός Νικήτα Ράντου (Odos Nikita Randou) (Nikitas Randos St.). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1977.

35 6    Bibliography Nikos Engonopoulos (ΝΙΚΟΣ ΕΓΓΟΝΟΠΟΥΛΟΣ) Ποιήματα (Poiemata) (Poems). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1999.

O d y ss e u s E l y t i s ( Ο Δ Υ Σ Σ Ε Α Σ Ε Λ Υ Τ Η Σ ) Ανοιχτά Χαρτιά (Anoikta Hartia) (Cards on the Table). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1974. Προσανατολισμοί (Prosanatolismoi) (Orientations). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1987.

N i k o s G a ts o s ( Ν Ι Κ Ο Σ Γ Κ Α Τ Σ Ο Σ ) Αμοργός (Amorgos). Athens: Πατάκης (Patakis), 1987.

M a ts i H a t z i l a z a r o u ( Μ Α Τ Σ Η Χ Α Τ Ζ Η Λ Α Ζ Α Ρ Ο Υ ) Ποιήματα 1944–1985 (Poiemata 1944–1985) (Poems 1944–1985). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), [no date].

Miltos Sahtouris (ΜΙΛΤΟΣ ΣΑΧΤΟΥΡΗΣ) Ποιήματα 1945–1971 (Poiemata 1945–1971) (Poems 1945–1971). Athens: Κέδρος (Kedros), 1977. Ποιήματα (Poiemata 1980–1998) (Poems 1980–1998). Athens: Κέδρος (Kedros), 2001.

H e c t o r K a k n avat o s ( Ε Κ Τ Ω Ρ Κ Α Κ Ν Α Β Α Τ Ο Σ ) Ποιήματα Αʹ 1943–1974 (Poiemata Aʹ 1943–1974) (Poems Aʹ 1943–1974). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1990. Ποιήματα Βʹ 1978–1987 (Poiemata Bʹ 1978–1987) (Poems Bʹ 1978–1987). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1990. Χαοτικά Ι (Chaotika I ) (Chaotics I ). Athens: Άγρα (Agra), 1997.

Nanos Valaoritis (ΝΑΝΟΣ ΒΑΛΑΩΡΙΤΗΣ) Ανδρέας Εμπειρίκος (Andreas Embirikos). Athens: Ύψιλον (Ypsilon), 1989. Για μια Θεωρία της Γραφής (Gia mia Theoria tis Grafis) (Toward a Theory of Writing). Athens: Εξάντας (Exantas), 1990. Παραμυθολογία (Paramythologia) (Paramythology). Athens: Νεφέλη (Nefeli), 1996. Ποιήματα I (Poiemata I ) (Poems I ). Athens: Ύψιλον (Ypsilon), 1983. Η Πουπουλένια Εξομολόγηση (I Poupoulenia Exomologisi) (The Downy Confession). Athens: Ίκαρος (Ikaros), 1982.

D i m i t r i s P a p a d i ts a s ( Δ Η Μ Η Τ Ρ Η Σ Π Α Π Α Δ Ι Τ Σ Α Σ ) Ποίηση (Poiesi) (Poetry). Athens: Μέγας Αστρολάβος-Ευθύνη (Megas Astrolavos-Euthyni), 1997.

Bibliography    35 7

E . C h . G o n ata s ( Ε . Χ . Γ Ο Ν Α Τ Α Σ ) Οι Αγελάδες (Oi Agelades) (The Cows). Athens: Στιγμή (Stigmi), 1992. Το Βάραθρο (To Varathro) (The Chasm). Athens: Στιγμή (Stigmi), 1984. Η Κρύπτη (I Krypti) (The Hiding-Place). Athens: Στιγμή (Stigmi), 1991.

Mando Aravantinou (ΜΑΝΤΩ ΑΡΑΒΑΝΤΙΝΟΥ) Γραφές (Grafes) (Scripts). Athens: Μαραθιάς (Marathias), 1998.

Y o r g o s V. M a k r i s ( Γ Ι Ω Ρ Γ Ο Σ Β . Μ Α Κ Ρ Η Σ ) Γραπτά (Grapta) (Writings). Athens: Εστία (Estia), 1986.

Alexander Skinas (ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΣ ΣΧΙΝΑΣ) Αναφορά περιπτώσεων (Anafora Periptoseon) (Case Studies). Athens: [Private publication], 1989.

T a ss o s D e n e g r i s ( Τ Α Σ Ο Σ Δ Ε Ν Ε Γ Ρ Η Σ ) Ακαριαία (Akariaia) (Instantly). Athens: Ύψιλον (Ypsilon), 1985.

P a n o s K o u t r o u b o u ss i s ( Π Α Ν Ο Σ Κ Ο Υ Τ Ρ Ο Υ Μ Π Ο Υ Σ Η Σ ) Ev Αγκαλιά de Κρισγιαούρτι y otros ταχυδράματα y Historias Περίεργες (En Aggalia de Krishyaurti y otros tachydramata y Historias Perierges) (In the Arms of Krishyaurti y otros Tachydramas y Historias Bizarros). Athens: Απόπειρα (Apopeira), 1987. Στον Θάλαμο του Μυθογράφφ (Ston Thalamo tou Mythographh) (In the Chamber of Mythographh). Athens: Απόπειρα (Apopeira), 1992. Η Ταβέρνα του Ζολά (I Taverna tou Zola) (Zola’s Tavern). Athens: Ιστός (Istos), 1997.

Further Reading Ιβάνοβιτς (Ivanovici, V.). Υπερρεαλισμός και ‘Υπερρεαλισμοί’—Ελλάδα-Ρουμανία-Ισπανόφωνες Χώρες (Yperrealismos kai ‘Yperrealismoi’—Ellada-Rumania-Hispanophones Hores) (Surrealism and ‘Surrealisms’—Greece, Rumania, Hispanophone Countries). Athens: Πολύτυπο (Polytypo), 1996. Σιαφλέκης (Siaflekis, Z. I.). Από την Νύχτα των Αστραπών στο Ποίημα-Γεγονός—Συγκριτική Ανάγνωση Ελλήνων και Γάλλων Υπερρεαλιστών (Apo tin Nychta ton Astrapon sto PoiemaGegonos—Syνκitiki Anagnosi Ellinon kai Gallon Yperrealiston) (From the Night of Lightning to the Poem-Fact—Comparative Readings of Greek and French Surrealists). Athens: Επικαιρότητα (Epikairotita), 1989.

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index

Page numbers in boldface indicate actual material by the person indexed. Abatzopoulou, Frangiski, 203, 338 Aldama-Juquel, Éliane, 170 Alexandre, Maxime, 343n1 Androutsos, Odysseus, 107, 348n10 Angelopoulos, Theo, 170 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 2, 64, 88, 95, 180 Apollonius, 111, 349n29 Aragon, Louis, 69, 133, 171, 235, 345n1 Aravantinou, Mando, 172, 274, 276, 279, 282–287 Argyriou, Alexandros, 56 Argyropoulos, Spilios, 9, 78 Arrabal, Fernando, 277, 328 Artaud, Antonin, 237, 245, 338 Auden, W. H., 235 Augeris, Markos, 349–350n39 Augustine, 91 Bachelard, Gaston, 141 Bakunin, Mikhail, 238 Ballard, Jean, 350n41 Bataille, Georges, 9, 277, 338 Baudelaire, Charles, 14, 240, 324 Bédouin, Jean-Louis, 277 Béguin, Albert, 67, 68

Beiles, Sinclair, 225 Benjamin, Walter, 276 Benoît, Jean, 277 Berdiaev, Nikolai, 153 Bergson, Henri, 70 Blake, William, 72, 200 Bolívar, Simón, 13, 106–113 Bonaparte, Marie, 7 Borges, Jorge-Luis, 211, 277, 309 Bosch, Hieronymous, 71, 77 Bouas, Mercourios, 125, 349n36 Brancusi, Constantin, 72 Brauner, Victor, 8 Breton, André, 1, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 33, 52, 53, 54, 62, 63, 67, 68, 69, 77, 78, 113, 132, 133, 136, 152, 211, 234, 237, 238, 239, 271, 276, 277, 279, 288, 337, 338, 344n14, 345n2, 346n8, 348n2, 350–351n4 Breton, Elisa, 52, 78 Brion, Marcel, 69 Buñuel, Luis, 242 Byron, Lord, 317 Caillois, Roger, 9, 69, 343n1 Calamaris, Nikos. See Calas, Nicolas

3 6 0    Index Calas, Nicolas, 2, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 21, 56– 81, 82, 121, 145, 163, 172, 211, 273, 274, 279, 281, 343n4, 344n14, 345nn1–3, 346n7, 346n10, 347n14, 347n17, 347–348nn19– 24, 350nn2–3, 351n6 Canellis, Orestis, 65, 345n2, 347n13, 351n5 (chap. 4) Caramanlakis, Alexander, 91, 348n5 Carapanos, Dimitris, 345n2 Carrington, Leonora, 9, 277 Cavafy, C. P., 345n1 Césaire, Aimé, 277 Char, René, 195 Chazal, Malcolm de, 277 Chenier, André, 77 Cheval, Ferdinand, 350–351n4 Churchill, Winston, 169 Cocteau, Jean, 235 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 259 Colokotroni, Vassiliki, 9, 78 Colokotronis, Theodoros, 164, 351 Connolly, David, 339 Cranaki, Mimika, 130, 350n40 Crevel, René, 64, 133, 237, 346n4, 347n13, 347n19 Dalí, Salvador, 67, 72, 134, 136, 235, 245, 289, 345n2 d’Annunzio, Gabriele, 346n3, 348n9 Dante Alighieri, 14 Darien, Georges, 240 da Vinci, Leonardo, 60 Debord, Guy, 245 de Chirico, Giorgio, 11, 13, 134 de Miomandre, Francis, 67, 68 Denegris, Tassos, 272, 309–310 de Rais, Gilles, 240 Dominguez, Oscar, 8, 78, 143 Donne, John, 72 Dorros, Theodoros, 64, 346–347n10 Drivas, Anastasios, 64, 347n11 du Bos, Charles, 69, 70 Ducasse, Isidore. See Lautréamont, Comte de Duchamp, Marcel, 9, 77 Duprey, Jean-Pierre, 211, 237, 277 Duthuit, Georges, 9

Economou, Antonios, 111, 349n30 Eisenstein, Sergei, 60 Eleutheriadis, Takis, 351n5 (chap. 4) Eliot, T. S., 345n1, 352n2 (chap. 9) Éluard, Paul, 7, 64, 65, 131, 133, 136, 171, 174, 235, 274, 344n14, 345n2, 351n8, 352n1 (part II) Elytis, Odysseus, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 35, 52, 53, 64, 65, 70, 71, 131–161, 163, 169, 171, 172, 173, 235, 271, 272, 274, 338, 339, 344n3, 344n14, 345n2, 346n9, 347n13, 347n15, 349–350n39, 350–351nn1–4, 351nn6–8 Embirikos, Andreas, 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14–55, 56, 62, 63, 64, 71, 82, 130, 143, 145, 155–156, 163, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 208, 210, 211, 247–252, 256, 271, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 281, 282, 288, 339, 343–344n3, 344nn9–10, 345n16, 345n2 (chap. 2), 346n5, 347n13, 347n17, 347n21, 350n2, 350–351n4, 351n6, 351n8, 352–353n4, 354n3 (chap. 16) Embirikos, Leonidas A. (father), 27 Embirikos, Leonidas (son), 344n9 Embirikos, Vivika, 32, 52, 55, 344n9 Empedocles, 72 Engonopoulos, Nikos, 1, 2, 3, 8, 11, 12, 13, 14, 48–50, 82–130, 163, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 182, 207–210, 211, 259, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 311, 339, 345n2, 348nn2–3, 348nn10– 11, 348n16, 349n30, 350nn41–42, 350n2 (chap. 4), 350–351n4, 351n6 Ernst, Max, 8, 9, 133, 136, 143, 250, 311, 347n14 Estorach, Soledad, 170 Etiemble, René, 9 Euclides, 60 Fonda, Jane, 309 Forneret, Xavier, 277 Foucault, Michel, 207 Fourier, Charles, 11, 238, 245 Freud, Sigmund, 33, 53, 54, 69, 133, 155, 238, 239, 240, 248, 251, 291 Friedrich, Caspar David, 133 Gascoyne, David, 63, 346n7 Gatsos, Nikos, 12, 162–168, 169, 171, 213, 279

Index    3 6 1

Giacometti, Alberto, 180 Gide, André, 63, 64, 68, 69 Godard, Jean-Luc, 242 Goll, Yvan, 259 Gonatas, E. Ch., 169, 171, 172, 257, 259–269, 274, 288, 290, 353n1 (chap. 13) Gorky, Arshile, 237 Gounaropoulos, Yorgos, 24, 65, 347n17 Gracq, Julien, 195, 240, 344n14 Green, Julien, 69 Hadjidakis, Manos, 162 Hadjikyriakos-Ghikas, Nikos, 65, 347n16 Haris, Petros, 63, 346n9 Harrison, Helen, 352n3 (chap. 9) Hatzilazarou, Matsi, 155–156, 169, 171, 173, 174–181 Hatzimikhail, Theophilos, 142, 350–351n4 (chap. 4) Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 34, 52, 54, 60, 72, 238, 291 Heidegger, Martin, 153 Heisenberg, Werner Karl, 322 Hénein, Georges, 9, 78 Heraclitus, 72, 164, 351n1 Herodotus, 249 Hervey de Saint-Denys, Marquis, 155 Hugnet, Georges, 345n2 Huxley, Aldous, 277, 328 Ivanovici, Victor, 338 Jaloux, Edmond, 69 Jarry, Alfred, 116, 227, 347n23 Joans, Ted, 274, 277, 328 Jouffroy, Alain, 211, 277 Joyce, James, 345n1 Jung, Carl, 312 Kafka, Franz, 171, 293 Kaknavatos, Hector, 169, 171, 172, 182, 195– 210, 257, 338 Kalfoglou, Alexandros, 105, 116, 348n7 Karantonis, Andreas, 208–209, 352n1 (chap. 8) Karavolas, Diamantis, 339 Karyotakis, Kostas, 172, 173

Katsimbalis, Yorgos, 350n2 Kerouac, Jack, 14 Kierkegaard, Søren, 70, 153, 291 Kormovitis, Constantine Lagoumitzis, 110, 349n21 Koutalianos, Panagis, 83, 348n1 Koutalis, Vangelis, 340 Koutrouboussis, Panos, 272, 273, 279, 280, 311–323, 328 Kropotkin, Piotr, 238 Kyriazis, Antonios (Rigas Ferraios or Vellestinlis), 105, 111, 348n7, 349n31 Kyrou, Ado, 4 Lacarrière, Jacques, 52, 344n10 Lamantia, Philip, 14, 277 Lautréamont, Comte de, 14, 72, 82, 83, 102, 131, 227, 240, 244, 247, 274, 277, 328, 348n6, 349n32 Lawrence, D. H., 348n3 Legrand, Gérard, 277 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 60 Levesque, Robert, 350n41 Lorca, Federico García, 82, 131, 163 Loukaris Cyrillos, 111, 349n28 Lovecraft, H. P., 277 Luca, Ghérasim, 225 Mabille, Pierre, 9, 133 Magloire-Saint-Aude, Clément, 277 Makris, Yorgos V., 13, 169, 172, 273, 274, 280, 288–292, 353n1 (chap. 13) Malherbe, François de, 106 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 68, 180 Manina, 277 Mansour, Joyce, 195, 211, 277, 338 Marx, Karl, 238, 291 Masson, André, 9, 78 Maturin, Charles Robert, 240, 277 Mavrokordatos, Alexandros, 317, 354n1 (chap. 16) Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 82, 131 Melachrinos, Apostolos, 126, 349n37 Mentzelos, Dimitrios, 7, 63, 64, 65, 66, 346n4 Michaux, Henri, 277 Michail, Savvas, 202 Miller, Henry, 52, 350n2

3 6 2    Index Mingus, Charles, 291 Miró, Joan, 277 Monglond, André, 67, 68 Mylona, Eva, 272, 324–327 Neruda, Pablo, 171 Nerval, Gérard de, 72 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 241, 291 Novalis, 68, 69, 70, 133, 224 Paalen, Wolfgang, 237 Palamas, Costis, 62, 346n3 Paleologos, Constantine, 109, 349n19 Panizza, Oskar, 277 Papaditsas, Dimitris, 169, 171, 195, 257–258, 259 Pascal, Blaise, 60, 69, 70 Pasvantzoglou, 111, 349n31 Pauvert, Jean-Jacques, 52 Paz, Octavio, 211, 274, 277, 288, 309, 338 Péret, Benjamin, 8, 9, 11, 56, 64, 66, 133, 136, 170, 208, 274, 277, 288, 338, 345n2, 352n1 (part II) Picasso, Pablo, 14, 82, 134 Plutarch, 348n9 Poe, Edgar Allan, 72 Porchia, Antonio, 259 Poulikakos, Dimitris, 272, 274, 279, 328–336 Pound, Ezra, 352n2 (chap. 9) Prassinos, Gisèle, 4, 8, 56, 345n2 Proust, Marcel, 68, 69, 345n1, 347n22 Pythagoras, 72 Queneau, Raymond, 69, 347n21, 351n6 Randos, Nikitas. See Calas, Nicolas Ray, Man, 133 Réage, Pauline, 52, 344n11 Reich, Wilhelm, 240 Reverdy, Pierre, 257 Rhetoridis, Thalis, 62, 345n2 Rhoidis, Emmanuel, 76, 347n23 Richardson, Michael, 339 Richter, Jean-Paul, 72 Rigaut, Jacques, 288

Rimbaud, Arthur, 72, 131, 180, 227, 291, 324 Ritsos, Yannis, 171, 272 Robespierre, Maximilien de, 56, 77, 111 Rosemont, Franklin, 346n8 Rosey, Guy, 345n2 Ross, Alan, 338 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 83 Rossi, Tino, 72 Rousseau, Henri, 142, 350n4 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 68 Roussel, Raymond, 218, 277, 293 Sade, Marquis de, 52, 68, 240, 247, 277 Sahtouris, Miltos, 169, 171, 172, 173, 182–194, 274, 288, 339, 350n2 Saltas, Jean, 347n23 Sarandaris, Yorgos, 64, 66, 67, 347n12 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 240 Savinio, Alberto, 82 Schwob, Marcel, 195 Seferis, Yorgos, 13, 170, 171, 211, 235, 271, 272, 279, 346n9, 350–351n4, 351n6, 352n1 (chap. 8), 352n1 (chap. 9) Seligmann, Kurt, 9, 237 Shakespeare, William, 72, 259 Shelley, Mary, 277 Siaflekis, Z. I., 338 Sikelianos, Angelos, 152–154, 351n8 Sinopoulos, Takis, 171 Skarpalezou, Andromachi, 343n1 (part I) Skinas, Alexander, 172, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 293–308 Solomos, Dionysios, 14 Soupault, Philippe, 133 Stalin, Joseph, 169 Stangos, Nikos, 338 Stanwyck, Barbara, 311 Steris, Gerasimos, 65, 347n15 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 348n3 Tagore, Rabindranath, 346n3 Taktsis, Costas, 276, 277 Tanguy, Yves, 8, 23, 143 Tardieu, Jean, 211 Tériade, Eugene, 350–351n4

Index    3 6 3

Terzakis, Angelos, 65, 346n4, 347n18 Themelis, Yorgos, 208 Theodorakis, Mikis, 272, 344n14 Thrakiotis, Costas, 62, 64 Three Stooges, The, 311 Thucydides, 249 Trismegistus, Hermes, 78 Trivizas, Sotiris, 343n2 (part I) Trotsky, Leon, 7, 172 Tsatsos, Constantine, 63, 346n9 Tzara, Tristan, 64, 82, 277, 345n2 Ungaretti, Giuseppe, 64, 66 Vaché, Jacques, 9, 288 Vakalopoulos, Takis, 125 Valaoritis, Nanos, 2, 4, 9, 52–53, 56, 70, 71, 82, 131, 163, 169, 171, 172, 182, 195, 211–256, 271, 272, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 281, 282, 288, 291, 293, 328, 337, 338, 339,

344n9, 344n12, 344n14, 345n15, 346n8, 346n10, 347n21, 348n16, 350n2, 352n3 (part II), 353n4 Valéry, Paul, 63, 66, 69, 345n1 van Eyck, Johannes, 77 Vermeer van Delft, Johannes, 72 Vilató, Javier, 174 von Arnim, Achim, 68, 133 von Kleist, Heinrich, 72 Wilde, Oscar, 154 Williams, William Carlos, 79, 347–348n24 Wilson, Marie, 52, 211, 275, 277, 278, 279, 344n9 Wols, 259 Xenophon, 249 Zeno of Elea, 311 Zola, Emile, 61