Mon corps et moi

by René Crevel

"Telle fut ma folie que, sur la route morne, à chaque créature rencontrée, j'ai demandé non le divertissement, non quelque exaltation dont l'amour essayé eût pu me faire tangent, mais l'absolu. L'absolu ? Je me perdais. Fallait-il m'accuser d'orgueil ou dire au contraire pour ma défense que je cherchais dans les êtres la révélation d'une âme universelle ? Hélas ! à peine de temps en temps, pouvais-je à nouveau découvrir ce petit tas d'os, de papilles à jouir, d'idées confuses et de sentiments clairs qui portaient mon nom."

Genres: Fiction, Poetry, France, French Literature, Literature, Philosophy, Queer

122 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1925

About the author

Crevel was born in Paris to a family of Parisian bourgeoisie. He had a traumatic religious upbringing. At the age of fourteen, during a difficult stage of his life, his father committed suicide by hanging himself.

Crevel studied English at the University of Paris. He met André Breton and joined the surrealist movement in 1921, from which he would be excluded in October 1923 due to Crevel's homosexuality and Breton's belief that the movement had been corrupted. During this period, Crevel wrote novels such as Mon corps et moi ("My Body and Me").

In 1926, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis which made him start using morphine. The 1929 exile of Léon Trotsky persuaded him to rejoin the surrealists. Remaining faithful to André Breton, he struggled to bring communists and surrealists closer together. Much of Crevel's work deals with his inner turmoil at being bisexual. Crevel killed himself by turning on the gas on his kitchen stove the night of 18 June 1935, several weeks before his 35th birthday.
-from wikipedia.org

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

He wants to discover his own self… He wants to understand the nature of his ego…

I entered places where people dance and drink, greedy for alcohol, for jazz, for anything that intoxicates, and got drunk, indifferent to what I heard, danced and drank, but happy to hear, to dance, to drink, so I might forget the others who had confined me but had not yet saved me.

He’s torn between the material and spiritual world… He believes that only loneliness can help him…

Alone in a hotel room. 
It is now that the moment should arrive, if it is ever to arrive, when, freed of any presence, it is possible for a man to be rid of memory itself. 
So why am I reminded of the existence of others? Is it that I like myself so little – at least not enough to satisfy myself, to stand being with myself. Solitude, the loveliest festival, will your miracle arrive?

He muses on existence… But solitude torments him… And his consciousness becomes a series of impressionistic images…

Dress of time, dress of space, let my life range from royal blue to bishop’s purple, from bishop’s purple to cardinal red, from cardinal red to canary yellow, from canary yellow to emerald green and – with the help of songs and the layer cake of grass, stone, ice, sky – unveil the presence of the mountain and assert itself like hot and cold.

Reality as it is and reality as we perceive it are two different things.

[Eddie Watkins · Rating 4 out of 5]

For many of us, that is those of us who seriously think on things, the greatest problem to overcome in life is the activity of our own brains; not political corruption or poorly paid jobs or gas pains or the daily bastards we encounter, but the sparkings of our own grey matter. Our brains dictate the tenor of our lives. They can create prisons and paradises and everything in between. They are the worlds we each live in and are in continuous flux, but within this flux are inherent tools to alter its course and solve problems encountered and shape the very world we live within, though the flux remains and there is no final solution. This life within this world created by our brains is an unending ride in a vehicle with a variable accelerator but no brake pedal, though there is an emergency brake located somewhere deep in the debris between the seats - beneath the condoms and coffee cups, the maps and unpaid tickets, bagel crumbs and baby vomit, there is suicide. Rene Crevel ultimately yanked up this emergency brake by cranking up the gas in his stove, but before he did this he created a highly articulate road map toward his destination. My Body and I was one of the first installments of this map, and what made it so haunting and moving for me was that suicide had not yet been decided upon as an option to overcome the problem of his brain, considered, sure, but not intentionally and consciously predestined. This book is an honest and detailed account of Monsieur Crevel attempting to solve the problem of his own brain, and to read it is to take a convoluted interior journey through his life thus far; a swarm of memories drawing everything in its wake from his father’s suicide to his love affairs with fat singers to his self-prostitution to his tormenting dreams. He tries to solve his problem by achieving total aloneness, but everywhere he turns he encounters memories and dreams and objects that make this perfect aloneness impossible. In the end he is alone, but it’s not a perfect aloneness, not a transcendent aloneness, but rather an aloneness still besieged by the problem of his own brain, and it would be ten years before he pulled the brake; ten years of Surrealism, black humor, politics, sexual torment, high society cocktails, and ceaseless thinking and dreaming.

[Skyelis Tyler · Rating 5 out of 5]

oh my god. you ever feel like you've already read, or at least heard of and contemplated, every good book you'll ever read in your life? maybe working in a bookstore did that to me. but this! this book! where had it been all my life? i'd never heard of it, and yet from the first sentence to the last i was stunned and overjoyed by both its substance and its style, amazed that somebody had written, and so well articulated, all those thoughts that play out like fireworks in my mind at my darkest moments and most exalted states. PERFECT

[Zeynep T.]

DNF (didnotfinish). 161 sayfalık kitabın 50 sayfasını okudum. Geldiğim yere kadar puanım 3 yıldız olurdu. Sevdiğim yerleri olmakla birlikte epey içe dönük, kişisel kısımlar olduğunu düşündüğüm satırlar boğdu beni. Bu kadar kapalı ve bireysel metinleri okuyamıyorum.

René Crevel'in Bedenim ve Ben kitabı için yeni romancılardan (Nouveau Roman) çeyrek yüzyıl önce yazılmış karşıt roman, Proust'un madlenine yapılmış hüzünlü bir nazire deniliyor. Kitap ne hakkında derseniz kendini otel odasına kapatan bir adamın bedeniyle ilişkisi ve hayatı hakkında iç dökümü diyebiliriz. İngilizce tanıtımda meditasyon kelimesi kullanılmış.

Klaus Mann anılarında yazarın delilik meselesini saplantı haline getirdiğini, bunda da babasının intiharının etkili olduğunu söylemiş. Metin için ayrıca "iflas etmek üzere olan bir zihnin imdat çığlığı" yorumu var ki zaten René Crevel 34 yaşında hayatına son vermiş.

Çevirmen Emre Ağanoğlu'nun, editör Emre Tokcael'in, son okumayı yapan Mustafa K. Aydın'ın, kitabın yayımlanmasına katkı sunan herkesin emeğine sağlık.

[İlke · Rating 4 out of 5]

"İnsanlarla, kendimi yalnız hissetmemi önleyecek tek bir ilişki olsun kuramadım."

[Banu Yıldıran Genç]

bangır bangır gelen bir intihar anlatısı olarak da okunabilecek “bedenim ve ben” sürrealist rené crevel’in dönemi için çok erken sayılabilecek kadar kişisel iç dökümü.
otokurmacanın bu denli yaygınlaşması çağımızın bir sonucu ama bakmayın old school edebiyatçılar yazarların her şeyi böylesine ortaya dökmelerinden pek de memnun değil. ki bugünlerden bahsediyorum. 1920’lerde kişisel olanın gizli kaldığı, edebiyatta duyguların ancak semboller ve sürreal imgelerle anlatıldığı bir dönemde bedenini, bedeniyle ilişkisini böylesine açık anlatmak çok cesur bir tavır.
açık anlatmak derken elbette dönemine göre diyeyim çünkü yine de çözmek için metni epey didiklemeniz gerekiyor. ama rené crevel’in çocukluğundan itibaren ölüm fikrine yaklaşımı, aldığı sıkı dini eğitim, sonrasında biseksüelliğini fark etmesi ve başının bununla dertte olması, anbean ölüme yaklaştığını hissetmesi okudukça ve tabii yazarın sonunu bildikçe insanı epey etkiliyor.
cinsiyetin hiçbir biçimde ikili sisteme sığmadığını artık bildiğimiz bugünlerde ve bu gerçeğin üstünü bastırmak için canhıraş aile yılı ilan eden hükümetler döneminde crevel’ı anlıyoruz. bir arkadaşının dediği gibi “insanın kendisi hakkında çok şey bilmesi günahtır, benliğine karşı işlediği bir günah.” keşke bu kadar bilmeseydi rené crevel ve keşke bu satırları yazdıktan 10 yıl sonra intihar etmeseydi diye düşünmemek elde değil.
emre ağanoğlu’nun pürüzsüz çevirisiyle yüz yıl önceden gelen bir imdat çığlığı.

[Metin Dirim · Rating 4 out of 5]

Psihe’nin aşkı tanımak isteyince onu kaybettiği söylenmiyor mu? Yapmak fiilini bilmek fiiliyle değiştirirsek, karşımızda bütün çiftlerin hikâyesini buluruz.

[Michael A. · Rating 4 out of 5]

A sober psychological examination on the subjects of solitude and depression among ruminations about bisexuality. Beautiful writing every other paragraph or so.

[Iván · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Así y todo, mi inteligencia es grande y clara. Habito en ella y a través de ella lo veo todo, aunque los vidrios tristes que la defienden del frío y el calor, de la lluvia y el sol, condenen a mi cuerpo y a mi corazón a la anemia. Detrás de la inteligencia y sus fronteras se vive en perpetuo exilio. Queremos vivir. Y no tenemos la sensación, la certeza, de estar viviendo (...)
Si escuchara la voz subterránea que siempre tiene razón frente a todas mis razones, me arrodillaría al instante".

[Beauregard Bottomley · Rating 5 out of 5]

Refutes cogito ergo sum with unsettling bird's eye perspective of emotional happenings in a non-conforming identity.

[belisa · Rating 3 out of 5]

ilginç bir monologdu, bir şey anlatmıyor ama bir şeyler hakkında konuşuyor...

[Castela]

"A felicidade nascerá dos golpes desferidos ou dos golpes recebidos? E a infelicidade dos que não foram desferidos, dos que não foram recebidos. Estranha pergunta para fazermos a nós próprios com as pálpebras fechadas, quando viemos pedir a mais íntima e solitária das metamorfoses ao sol de junho, ao ar dos glaciares. Ai de mim! Um corpo exige sete anos para se renovar. A montanha, essa, muda insensivelmente de cor. Mas de que valem os símbolos de um alpinismo primário e reconfortante, se esta noite não vou chegar ao azul, a esse azul chamado, muito a propósito, azul-celeste?"

[Brook Miscoski · Rating 4 out of 5]

An introspective work by a very suicidal author. It has its ups and downs but I like the way he observes objects and people.

[kitabimkahvem · Rating 5 out of 5]

“İliğimdeki gül, yirmi dört saat sonra, diş fırçamın durduğu bardakta kuruyup kıvrılmış, zavallı bir şeye dönüştü. Ama acımak yok. Fotoğrafı nasıl yırttıysam, gülün de yapraklarını öyle koparıyorum. Mukavva yıldızlar gibi bu yapraklar; kazakların, kitapların üzerine acınası bir yağmur gibi yağıyorlar.”

Tanrım…
Yalnız kalmak istiyor, yalnız kalmak ve Crevel’ın beyin kıvrımlarının arasında dolaşmak istiyorum. Kırgınlıkları, yaşama tutunmak isteyip tökezlediği anlar, bedeni ile ruhu arasında bedeninin mağlup olacağını önceden bildiğim düşman hafıza, iç çatışmalar, mimozalar ve şehvet çiçeği,…

“Ruh, güzel gizemim benim, neden bedenim, etten mürekkep bu ağırlık beni kurşun ayak tabanları, dalgıçlar gibi, gerisingeri girdabın dibine düşmeye zorluyor?
Bedenim ve ben mi? Bedenler ve ötekiler mi?”

Kimilerine göre ‘Sürrealist Proust’, Salvador Dali’ye göre sürrealistler içindeki tek gerçek komünist, herkesin hemfikir olduğu ��zere kısacık hayatında arkasında muazzam eserler bırakan asi bir ruh, René Crevel.

1921’de Andre Breton ile tanıştıktan sonra sürrealist harekete katılan Crevel sürrealistleri ve komünistleri birbirine yakınlaştırmak için mücadele etti. Eserlerinde bireyin iç karmaşasını kendine özgü üslubuyla ele alan Crevel eşcinsel kimliğini hiç gizlemedi ve eserlerine de yansıttı. 1935’te sürrealist grup içindeki anlaşmazlıklar ve yaşadığı sağlık sorunlarının da etkisiyle hayatını sonlandırdı. Bıraktığı intihar notunda “Lütfen bedenimi yakın, nefret ediyorum.” yazıyordu.

‘Bedenim ve Ben’i okumak çok kolay olmadı. Ben de tıpkı Marcel Proust’un eserlerini okumadan önce yaptığım gibi Crevel’nin hayatı hakkında bilgi edindikten sonra okumayı tercih ettim. İşte o zaman yazdığı her şey yerli yerine oturuyor. Çok enteresan bir ruh Crevel. Eseri Fransızca aslından dilimize kazandıran @emre.aganoglu ‘na teşekkür ederim. Umarım diğer eserlerini de okuyabiliriz.

[Jesús de la Garza · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mi cuerpo y yo de René Crevel es, utilizando los términos propios de la época, una antinovela, es decir, una narrativa sin argumento central, con pocos personajes y muchas digresiones de índole filosófica y onírica. En la obra, seguimos las reflexiones del protagonista, una suerte de desdoblamiento de Crevel, respecto al suicidio, al sexo y a lo que entendemos por Yo. Más que un texto surrealista (movimiento al que Crevel perteneció), se nos ofrece una experiencia que ronda el existencialismo y el sinsabor.

Esta edición en particular está acompañada de miscelánea escrita por Crevel entre 1922 y 1926: sus poemas, varios artículos publicados en revistas, cartas, un texto escrito mientras estaba hipnotizado, una diatriba contra André Breton, entre otros.

Leo a Crevel porque hace unas semanas soñé con él sumergido en el mar. Sólo me había acercado a algunos de sus poemas compilados en una antología surrealista y a una monografía que escribió respecto a la obra de Salvador Dalí. Me quedo con una frase que Crevel recupera de Breton, y que Breton toma de algún otro escritor: el suicidio es una palabra mal concebida, pues no es el mismo el que mata que el que muere.

[Andrew]

This is the sort of thing the French do better than just about anyone else, dreamlike and subtle and somehow profoundly surreal but also grounded in a very muddy reality. I know that sounds like a whole lot of nothing, but stick with me. This is the equivalent of cycling through the minutiae of daily life, all your failures, all your cruelties, all the late-night rumination as you wait to fall asleep, wondering if you should take a couple hits of weed or if that'll just make things worse. This is the bitter shit you mutter in the mirror the morning after... not getting any younger are you, and her, in the bed... why is she even here?

Is it fiction or nonfiction? Does it matter?

You may say that sounds like navel-gazing. Well, yeah, kinda. But certain writers have particularly interesting navels.

[Saul Walt · Rating 5 out of 5]

Absolutely beautiful. Will definitely re-read many times.

[Brian · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Rare are those who will help me discover something of myself." Here is a meditation on solitude and the human condition. This anti-novel contains some of the most profound musings ever written; Crevel does trace the contours of the body, the "geography of the body" in words that are devoid of substance and meaning. When I first decided to read this work, I immediately discarded it and shoved it back into the empty slot on my shelf. Its abstruse and difficult pages were hard to comprehend and (regretfully) I labeled it as nonsense. After a complete and thorough reading, I'll admit that this one particular book will undoubtedly reshape your entire approach in finding meaning in this life.
Crevel, bisexual and suicidal, attempts to delve into his psyche, which is in conflict, and return to the surface with Truth and understanding. The origins of this anxiety felt by the author, I believe stem from his sexuality; everything in the external world (objects/ people) are infused with a memory that subsists within the mind. One can never escape oneself, one can never find solitude since we are made up of certain moments that fleeing would only create new moments. Unable to satisfy the self, how can we satisfy others? These are some of the ideas that fill this book. So death is the ultimate response. Once we commit an action we have to live, continue, in doubt or certainty. There is nothing, but our fabricated desires, our lies, and our false truths. We deform our memory, change shape to exteriority through subjectification. How can we ever be certain of something? I felt that Crevel was disgusted with himself, disgusted with his body's desires since they didn't correspond to his spiritual essence. The language of this book is a lyric, a beautiful poem that reaches everyone; "Mon Corps et Moi," a surreal voyage into the landscapes of the self. Here is a litany for all who know how to judge.

[Sonia]

I pulled this off my shelf today instead of dozens of other unreads, mainly because it fits into the pocket of my duffel coat. It is great--someone aptly called him one of the accessible surrealists--and full of current interest since I am almost the age Crevel was when he committed suicide.

[Dylan Kiewel · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Art? Don't make me laugh."

containing such richly simple (or simply rich?) "chapter" titles as "Solitude, the pain no one can heal", "Memory, the enemy" and "Truly alone" this book lapped against me like little waves at my feet. a 25 year old a century ago wrote words to the same effect another 25 year old would reach 50 years later through even simpler (and thus more cathartic) means whirling around like a dervish howling and blaspheming at an assembled crowd ; that the body is a tomb to break out of, that consciousness is to be blamed for its own demise since we can't help always wanting more (understanding, sympathy, love, pleasure take your pick), that the temporary oblivion of dreams is all we can hope for.
crevel decides that a clear memory is not to be desired declaring "I won't reassemble the pieces of my memory. The sky fissured with puzzles will never bring enchantment back to life." Having concerningly bad memory myself this argument comforts me.
As someone who has often contemplated suicide, as a human being that is, Crevel's dissatisfied ruminations are comforting. A lengthy quotation for illustration : "It is said that one commits suicide because of love, or fear, or syphilis. This is not true. Everyone loves or thinks they love, everyone is afraid, everyone is more or less syphilitic. But in fact, why shouldn't I see suicide as a means of selection? ... No love, no hatred is likely to be fair or final. But the esteem I am obliged to feel, quite in spite of myself and a despotic moral and religious education, for someone who is without fear and does not limit his vitality, his deadly vitality, leads me each day to envy, more and more, those whose anxiety was so great that they were unable to continue to accept only episodic amusements. Human success is the currency of apes, the grease of rocking horses. If earthly happiness allows us to remain patient, it does so, negatively, like a soporific. The life I accept is the worst argument against myself. The death that has often tempted me exceeded in beauty this fear of dying, essentially a question of jargon, that I could just as easily refer to as a timorous habit. I wanted to open the door but did not dare. I was wrong, I feel it, I believe it, I want to feel it, believe it, for finding no solution in life, in spite of my struggle to do so, will I have the strength to try again if I don't perceive, in that final, ultimate act, the solution? Be that as it may, for me the fear of suicide will no doubt remain the best and worst guarantee against suicide." The life I accept is the worst argument against myself. What a line. Those angry young men, god bless em.
In a book long rumination on what meaning or lack thereof there is in having a body, having a mind, having a body and a mind, Crevel of course gets to the question of sex and again does not disappoint with his disappointment ; "As for me, once the voluptuous panting is over, as soon as it's time to come back to earth, and to come back without the armor of cynicism or the shield of frivolity, too many problems assail me for me not to be tempted to look for a solution that would justify my actions. Yet no matter how brilliant the fire that burned through my limbs, my chest, my eyes, I am forced to acknowledge that the act, it's principle, revealed nothing essential to me. And yet, it was not my body but my mind that demanded a mirror." and elsewhere but complementary "My confusion is such that I continue to assume that the most beautiful eyes are intelligent, and the beings who have haunted me have haunted me like thoughts..." Same brother. Same. I too am looking for my mirror with beautiful eyes that haunt me like thoughts. How true. i want to forget my body and yours, i want to move past even forgetting, i want to see a beautiful reflection that awakens me like a dream, that haunts me like a phantom. So fitting his name was a letter off from being a slangy way of saying to die that also contained the word for dream.

[yo JP · Rating 3 out of 5]

Je to takové filozofování light; experiment, kde Crevel popisuje autobiografické momenty, bez toho, aby jakýmkoliv postavám dával jména a tak se tak nějak zaměřujete na tělo, cit, vzájemné vnímání, interakci, dvou složek; text, kde se fyzicky jedná a dělá, vyjadřuje, ale taky jde a cítí pod povrchem. Definitivně zvláštní probádávání vlastní identity. Do toho tam sází, co se mu stalo, čemu byl vystaven, něco o soudobé Francii, o jeho vnitřním světě. Připomnělo mi to mě samotného v začátcích, kdy jsem taky nechtěl na nic a na nikoho odkazovat a proto jsem dával jména, co nebyly jména, nebo věci popisoval tak, abych nemusel zmínit, o co jde. Je v tom ta mladická upřímnost, zápal, že všechno změníte (protože vy víte a oni neví), ale taky zápal jistého sebepohrdání, zmíněného hned několikrát, nicméně nepůsobícího samoúčelně "nesnáším se protože se nesnáším, protože stojím za hovno" (logika), ale důvod, postup, zajímavý postoj k otázce a pohledu na sebevraždu. Neměl bych s tím problém, spíš jde o to, že tuhle krátkou knížečku sráží ten obsah, kde se zmíní opravdu jen tu a tam pár odstavců, co vás zaujmou, aby se to pak po zbytek knihy tak nějak balamutilo v nekonzistenci těch těl a jednoduchých pohybů o ničem. Experiment, co mi tak trochu připomněl Beckettovo 'Tso' (Watt) a to už je taky nějaký pátek, co jsem to četl. 'Moje tělo a já' jsem rozečetl a poté současně rozposlouchal Klause Manna a jeho 'Bod obratu', kde Klaus Crevela hned několikrát zmínil, přišlo mi to jako zvláštní náhoda. Opět, velmi mladý a pohledný člověk, co zemřel brzy, ale aktuálně, ano, si říkám, rád bych si tohle někdy přečetl znova, zároveň ale nevím, jestli mi René má co říct a dát, hlouběji - čekal jsem surrealismus, nicméně zrovna v pětadvacátém roce svého života byl ze surrealistického hnutí Crevel vyhozen a tenhle text je toho do jisté míry odrazem. Paměť. Samota. Sny. Zmínění sebe sama, Crevela, v závěru textu. Silné opravdu, v momentech a rozmezích vět, odstavců, tu a tam. Jinak se to plahočí, jako slasher film, u kterýho jen čekáte, až se objeví záporák a někoho odpraví.

"Měl jsem rád dámu s obnaženým krkem, a měl jsem ji rád proto, že to byla dáma s obnaženým krkem." (str. 13); Kafka?

"Že jsem, plyne jen z toho, co mě vzdaluje druhým a činí mě zrovna tak nesrozumitelným pro náhledy jejich inteligence, jako činí je nesrozumitelnými pro mě." (str. 26)

*Sebevražda (str. 74-75)

"... když moje zuby narážejí do jiných, cizích zubů, nakonec aspoň na pár chvil uvěří ve sdílenou důvěrnost koster."

"Když nad sebou vítězím, nebo mám na několik minut ten dojem, moje vítězství je obyčejné vítězství Pyrrhovo.
Bitva utichne, komedie skončí, jsem sám, s prázdnýma rukama, s prázdným srdcem.
Jsem sám." (SCORPION: WELCOME to the club)

[Andrea Muraro · Rating 1 out of 5]

“Per sfuggire al disagio iniziale dell’incontro con il mio io, seguitava ad accettare delle presenze. E così, perché potesse meglio svaporarsi la prima angoscia del contatto con me stesso, quando finalmente arrivava l’ora del sonno cercavo qualcun altro per lasciare che, senza un modo prestabilito, sfuggisse, si trasponesse, la parte più segreta, più reale del mio essere la cui rivelazione mi era stata data da condizioni e non da immagini o da sensazioni.”
—————————
“Il mio corpo ed io” è un romanzo dell’inquietudine, dell’angoscia e della lotta incessante tra le parti che, più o meno velatamente, sono dentro di noi.
René Crevel attinge al repertorio narrativo del suo tempo (1925) per portare all’attenzione del lettore lo scavo psicologico ed esistenziale di un uomo, se stesso, che oscilla tra la carne e la sua soddisfazione da un lato e il desiderio di solitudine dall’altro. Il tutto, nella ricerca di un fondamento morale quanto più utile possibile.
La trama quindi scompare, lasciando spazio al flusso di coscienza e ad una sintassi complessa.

[Ines Moreira · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Nascerá a felicidade dos golpes deferidos ou dos golpes recebidos, e a infelicidade dos que não foram deferidos, dos que não foram recebidos? Estranha pergunta para fazermos a nós próprios com as pálpebras fechadas, quando viemos pedir a mais intima e solitária das metamorfoses ao sol de Junho, ao ar dos glaciares. Ai de mim! Um corpo exige sete anos para se renovar. A montanha, essa, muda insensivelmente de cor. Mas de que valem os símbolos de um alpinismo primário e reconfortante se esta noite não vou chegar ao azul, a esse azul muito a propósito chamado azul-celeste?"

são infinitas as citações que poderia inserir aqui. que bela descoberta! René crevel, não sei se este livro me salvou ou destruiu, mas veio com certeza em tempo certo.

[MT · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Permitirá o silêncio ao coração que ele oiça as suas pancadas?
Antigamente, quando este coração batia (desculpai-me o romantismo), quando o meu coração batia por outros, para outros, entre outros, embora não fosse o metrónomo de si próprio casa pancada sua só designava um momento de desordem.
Sim, voltarei a dizê-lo: todas as minhas tentativas foram pretextos para me dissolver, perder. Se ao correr das noites me devotei a certos corpos, foi para esquecer o peso do meu; e se eu sentia curiosidade pelas almas que passavam e me despertavam é porque a minha, precisarei de confessá-lo, era incapaz por si própria de exaltantes surpresas.”

[Abel · Rating 5 out of 5]

Crevel is sadly underrated, forgotten and left out from too many studies on Surrealism. His writing grips you at the throat from the very first words to the very last. You cannot help but feel for him - in other words, Crevel as a writer succeeds in sharing with us his thoughts, feelings, and experiences.

[Maz Castillo · Rating 5 out of 5]

me fascina "mi cuerpo y yo" de René Crevel. te lleva, te empuja, te imbuye en una espiral de pensamiento, de angustia, soledad y tabúes rotos que tan solo te queda recibir como a una tormenta de verano

[Matt]

“It is said that one commits suicide because of love, or fear, or syphilis. This is not true. Everyone loves or thinks they love, everyone is afraid, everyone is more or less syphilitic.”

[Sophie]

read again over three months, a text i will forever be reading

[didi · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Between the sheets, two unclothed bodies and curious
fingers are called passion. I see that I am going to be paid in kind. I allow myself to be manipulated. I wait for the void in me to form….”

[Chrizzi Heinen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Misogyne Dauersequenzen nerven etwas, aber die Absätze über Tod und Selbstmord sind gut und gerne lesbar.