Maniac Eyeball Read Free

emotion.
    This is how the passion for death became a spiritual joy. Which is typically Spanish. Not for me to “keep reason,” as was said by Montaigne, whom I scorn for his petit bourgeois mind, his grotesque attempt to beautify death, deprive it of its sap, and over come its horror.. I would rather look death in the eye. I make my own the sublime outburst of St. John of the Cross: “Come, O Death, so well hidden that I feel you not, for the pleasure of dying might restore me to life.” In the face of such a stand, how skimpy indeed the advice for falsification given by Michel de Montaigne. I hope for my death to come into my life like a thunderbolt, to take me entire like a spasm of love and flood my body with the totality of my soul.
    In advance I can savor my desperation. My powerlessness to know on the other hand elates me, and my fright imbues me with the audacity of defiance. The prick of death bestows a new quality on my life and my passions. When Gala, the miracle of my life, underwent a serious operation in 1936, we spent our time in a state of apparent unconcern still creating Surrealist objects the day before the surgery. She amused herself at bringing together amazing dis parate ingredients for the fabrication of what seemed to be a mechanico-biological apparatus. Breasts with a feather in the nipple and topped by metal antennas dipping into a bowl of flour (this assem blage being an allusive reference to her forthcoming operation). But it happened that, while in the taxi taking us to the hospital – we had planned to stop off at Andre Breton’s and show him Gala’s invention – an unfortunate bump knocked the contraption askew, dousing us with flour. You can imagine what we looked like when we arrived at the hospital.
    What is to be underlined is that, later that evening, entirely engrossed in my own invention – a hypnagogical clock made up of a huge baguette of French bread into which twelve inkwells filled with ink had been implanted with a quill-pen of a different color stuck in each – I had eaten a hearty dinner, without for one second thinking of Gala’s operation.
    Until two in the morning, I continue to perfect my clock by adding to it sixty inkwells painted in watercolors on cardboards that I hang from the bread. I fall asleep, but at five in the morning, my tensed-up nerves awaken me, I am in a sweat and break into sobs of remorse. I get up unsteadily, weeping, my mind exalted by the images of my adored Gala in the various phases of our life, and I dash over to the hospital to shout my anxiety. For a week, I am overcome with sobbing, with death grabbing at my throat. Finally, the ill is overcome. I go into Gala’s room, take her hand with all the tenderness in the world, and say to myself, “Now, Galushka, I can kill you.”
    My soul battens on what crushes it and finds sublime orgasm in what denies it. Weakness itself becomes my strength, and I am enriched by my contradictions. I live with eyes lucid and wide open, unashamed, without remorse, and emerge as spectator of my own existence.
     
    Is Scatology Noble To Dalí?
    Do you think it is coincidence that the flights of the great mystics were so often associated with defecation and flatulence? The fact is that the anus, raised on high by Quevedo in his In Praise Of The Arsehole, is mainly a symbol for the purification of our acts of cannibalism. All that is human when transcended by the spirituality of death becomes mystical. After the birth of the Dauphin, heir to the throne of France, his excrements were collected at Court, in the presence of all the Nobles of the Realm, and the greatest of artists were called in, that their palettes might take inspiration from the royal shit. The entire Court was dressed in the color of caca-dauphin. That is noble. It is the acceptance of man in his entirety, his shit as well as his death. Moreover, the excrementitious palette enjoys infinite variety, from gray to green and from ochers to browns, as