Essay On Antonin Artaud

Essay On Antonin Artaud-87
Supposed that each of my pondered instants is on certain shaken by these deep tornadoes which are not betrayed by anything external. If only I had the strength, I would sometimes indulge myself, in thought, in the luxury of subjecting to the mortification of such pressing pain any prominent mind, any writer, young or old, who produces and whose new-born thought carries weight in order to see what remained of him.

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Writers, as the (brilliant) introductory Sontag essay references, such as Sade and Reich attempt to traverse within this nebulous territory of writing in extremis.

With Artaud, what he is trying to communicate, even though it borders on the edge on the possibility of language, is the intense suffering he is going through.

GIRL [lower still]: You love me and everything is fine. It is a sort of suction cup on the soul, whose acridity spread like acid into the furthermost bounds of the senses. Reading Artaud is a very draining experience and a difficult process.

There isn't a linear goal with a narrative with premises leading to a conclusion.

To understand Artaud is to undergo a process where he tries to induce his psychological state onto the reader; it is interesting that this type of writing borders on the edge of what writing is capable of doing.

Writers, as the (brilliant) introductory Sontag essay references, such as Sade and Reich attempt to traverse within this nebulous territ Reading Artaud is a very draining experience and a difficult process.

I would recommend this book to anyone interested in volatile minds, explosive language, experimental writing, surrealism (which Artaud has beef with, he's a nice sort of counterpoint to surrealism rather than a surrealist himself), spirituality, or psychoanalysis. It becomes immediately apparent that Artaud was not one who was situated at the fringes of all things--of society, of his associations, of his self--but one who had breached the borders andbecame utterly lost within the dangerous territory that lay beyond.

His severe mental illness seems evident in the bizarre associations hemakes between two concepts, although the strength of his prose is born of his peculiar brand of perverse lyricism. For all of Artaud's evident strangeness, it seems ironic t It becomes immediately apparent that Artaud was not one who was situated at the fringes of all things--of society, of his associations, of his self--but one who had breached the borders andbecame utterly lost within the dangerous territory that lay beyond.

We cannot know it is a lie that masks the truth; all art lies- Artaud.

He has this moralistic principle of what art ought to be that is written in the most honest prose possible.

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