In order to be famous, "one has to plunge oneself into blood ... have lots of money ... or, if you don't have money, you have to resort to murder. The end justifies the means."
That's a passage from Maldoror, written by the grandaddy of all of Surrealists, the Comte de Lautréamont. It was written 140 years ago, and it seems like things haven't changed all that much. It's a pretty good description of the activities of the Bush administration. It seems to me that the Surrealists, with all of of their zany artistic antics, always did have much more sense than the so-called Establishment. Dada and Surrealists were a reaction to the mania of war. Most thought they acted like lunatics and didn't give a damn about anybody. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's because the artists such as André Breton, Tristan Tzara, and Marcel Duchamp were the ones who really cared enough to be outraged. As you walk into City Lights book store, you'll see Surrealist literature prominently displayed near the front door. It's easy to understand why. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, ebullient at 88 years of age, had a reading at his shop the other night. He reminds us that the Surrealists were among the first to rail against the all-too-common human appetite for blood, money and murder -- that is, war. It's the absurd answering the insane.
By the way, I have a Marcel Duchamp joke. No such thing, you say?
The USA Today has to explain it all. "Marcel Duchamp (who painted 'Nude Descending A Staircase') ..." Oh, THAT Marcel Duchamp. But does anyone know about his lesser-known masterpiece, "Nude Going Back Upstairs Because We Have Guests"?
Perhaps not.
I read Maldoror when I was a kid. It's part horror/part poetry. But at the heart of its outrageousness, I sensed there was humor. If the Surrealists -- or the rest of us -- have no ability to laugh, then we really are insane. Ever notice how none of the presidential candidates has an ability to be the least bit funny? Except Stephen Colbert, and he makes more sense than any of them. I don't mention this because this ghastly war in Iraq and the general rapid deterioration of our country is amusing. I mention it because humor usually indicates a bit of intelligence and maybe a sense of soul.
Resorting to murder is the order of the day. Even the little murders that are committed in the name of politics here in San Francisco. There's a gleeful rubbing of hands together when someone falls from grace. I have sympathy for Ed Jew because there were times when I wasn't sure what my home address was either. San Francisco Schadenfreude. Yes, when one gets enjoyment from another's pain. I have long waited for the word Schadenfreude to appear in the Marina Times. In politics, it's an occupational hazard. Just ask Sen. Larry Craig, poster boy for hubris, airport restrooms -- and Schadenfreude. The hat trick of ignominy. He's going to need a sense of humor.
All this talk about unnatural acts reminds me of an encounter I once had with the Marquis de Sade. Let me explain.
During a less-temperate time in my life, I met a gal in a local saloon who was named Justine.
"Ah, Justine, a great novel by Lawrence Durrell, " I declaimed. "There's a bookstore nearby, I'll get you a copy."
"I never heard of it," slurred the colleen.
"I'm sure they have a copy at the bookshop right next door," said I, grandly, slightly drunkenly, and not really interested in the girl's literary tastes. Off I went, in search of Durell's Justine.
But there was no Justine in the store. I recalled that there was a Justine written by the Marquis de Sade -- and, naturally, it was an unspeakably unnatural, lurid tale of debauchery & violence. So I got a collection of de Sade, bought it, and trundled it back to the saloon, just a few doors away.
"Look, Justine," I announced proudly. "I've brought you the Marquis de Sade."
By now a few of the bar patrons were getting interested in the little melodrama.
But Justine of Ireland was not impressed. Beyond that, a nice Irish Catholic girl wants nothing to do with world-famous smut, especially when others are watching. Undaunted, I told her that it was actually an autographed copy.
"Autographed?" she said, "whatta ya mean?"
"Here."
And I signed the frontispiece of the book in broad strokes of my pen: "Dear Justine, all good wishes. Yours, most sincerely, the Marquis de Sade, Charenton, Dec. 1, 1814."
The Irish girl did not think this funny at all.
Bruce Bellingham is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. He'll be pleased to autograph a copy for anyone who asks. In fact, he'll sign a book written by any other author, too.
His e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
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