A new translation of Tristan Tzara's Dada anti-masterpiece, Le coeur à gaz , with an introduction, commentary, and notes on staging by the translator, Eric v.d. Luft.
Romanian-born French poet and essayist known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.
The Dadaist movement originated in Zürich during World War I; Tzara wrote the first Dada texts - La Premiére Aventure cèleste de Monsieur Antipyrine (1916; "The First Heavenly Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine") and Vingt-cinq poémes (1918; "Twenty-Five Poems") - and the movement's manifestos, Sept manifestes Dada (1924; "Seven Dada Manifestos").
In Paris he engaged in tumultuous activities with André Breton, Philippe Soupault, and Louis Aragon to shock the public and to disintegrate the structures of language. About 1930, weary of nihilism and destruction, he joined his friends in the more constructive activities of Surrealism. He devoted much of his time to the reconciliation of Surrealism and Marxism and joined the Communist Party in 1936 and the French Resistance movement during World War II. These political commitments brought him closer to his fellow human beings, and he gradually matured into a lyrical poet. His poems revealed the anguish of his soul, caught between revolt and wonderment at the daily tragedy of the human condition.
His mature works started with L'Homme approximatif (1931; "The Approximate Man") and continued with Parler seul (1950; "Speaking Alone") and La Face intèrieure (1953; "The Inner Face"). In these, the anarchically scrambled words of Dada were replaced with a difficult but humanized language.
"...this is the only and the biggest fraud of the century-in three acts. It will bring joy only to industrialized imbeciles who believe in the existence of geniuses."
"The void drinks the void: the air has arrived with its blue eyes, and that is why it is always taking cachets of aspirin."
"Your eyes are pebbles because they see nothing except the rain and the cold."
EYE: Imagine, dear friend, that I no longer love someone. EAR: But of whom do you speak? EYE: I speak of her whom I once loved a lot.
Tristan Tzara invented shitposting, and I love it.
Yes, I am currently taking a class in grad school called “War and the Avant-Garde,” and this was mandatory reading for said class — but coincidentally, for personal reasons, Dadaist literature is really hitting the spot right now. lol.
Mindless babble intended as a troll on the theater, nothing more. A waste of an hour to read. The opening note declares this to be the biggest fraud of the century and instructs the actors to treat the author with no respect, noting that the script brings no technical innovations to the theater.
I take the author at his word.
The more entertaining story is the first performance, which seemed designed to purposely provoke and anger certain writers in Tzara’s clique, which it did. Breton rushed the stage, beat the actors and writers with his walking stick, and broke Massot’s arm in the process. The police were called and arrests were made. Reading about the first performance is far more enjoyable than reading the play.
"everybody does not know me. i am alone here in my wardrobe and the mirror is blank when i look at myself. also i love the birds at the ends of lit cigarettes. cats, all animals and all vegetables. i love cats, birds, animals, and vegetables which are the projection of clytemnestra in the courtyard, bedding, vases, and meadows. i love hay. i love the young man who makes such tender declarations to me and whose spine is ripped asunder in the sun."
This was a very interesting work, and hard to wrap my head around at first. A great introduction to avant-garde drama, and definitely does a great job at undoing all the standard dramatic elements. Very interesting text, and I’ll be working to better understand its context (and try to understand its material less).
Nothing makes sense in the face of war. (as if I knew) Returning from the muddy trenches, perhaps without a nose, or a leg, or the lower jaw, or the basic human ability to connect. (as if I knew) Finding your hometown blurred, wrapped in ethanol vapours, short skirts and endless, dissociated fun. A mouth talks, an eye stares, and nothing reaches. Nothing connects.
Tangerine and white from Spain / I'm killing myself Madeleine Madeleine.
"If this is what war does to people, why the fuck do we keep doing it."
Sorry folks but I didn’t get it. Well I get that it’s taking the piss but I probs don’t know enough about what it’s taking the piss out of, and also I would imagine it would be better to see it as a play actually being performed (duh) rather than reading it off my laptop.