(revised from a translation by Stephen Marletta)
My soul is a sacrilegious temple
in which the bells of sin and crime
voluptuous and perverse,
loudly ring out revolt and despair.
These words written in 1920, give us a glimpse of the promethean being of Renzo Novatore.
Novatore was a poet of the free life. Intolerant of every chain and limitation, he wanted to follow every impulse that rose within him. He wanted to understand everything and experience all sensations—those which lead to the abyss and those which lead to the stars. And then at death to melt into nothingness, having lived intensely and heroically so as to reach his full power as a complete man.
The son of a poor farmer from Arcola, Italy, Abile Riziero Ferrari (Renzo Novatore) soon showed his great sensibility and rebelliousness. When his father wanted him to plow the fields he would flee, stealing fruit and chickens to sell so that he could buy books to read under a tree in the forest. In this way he educated himself and quickly developed a taste for non-conformist writers. In these he found reasons for his instinctive aversion to oppression and restriction, to the principles and institutions that reduce men to obedience and renunciation.
As a young man he joined the Arcola group of anarcho-communists, but he was not satisfied with the harmony and limited freedom of the new society they awaited so eagerly. “I am with you in destroying the tyranny of existing society,” he said, “but when you have done this and begun to build anew, then I will oppose and go beyond you.”
Until he was fifteen years old, Renzo included the church in his poetry. After that, freed and unprejudiced, he never planted any roots in the gregarious existence of his village, but often found himself in conflict with both men and the law. He scandalized his respectable family, who wondered what they had done to deserve such a devil…
…Novatore, who was influenced by Baudelaire and Nietzsche, asserted that we had needs and aspirations that could not be satisfied without injury to the needs and aspirations of others. Therefore we must either renounce them and become slaves, or satisfy them and come into conflict with Society, whatever kind it may be, even if it calls itself anarchist. Novatore:
Anarchy is not a social form, but a method of individuation. No society will concede to me more than a limited freedom and a well-being that it grants to each of its members. But I am not content with this and want more. I want all that I have the power to conquer. Every society seeks to confine me to the august limits of the permitted and the prohibited. But I do not acknowledge these limits, for nothing is forbidden and all is permitted to those who have the force and the valor.
Consequently, anarchy, which is the natural liberty of the individual freed from the odious yoke of spiritual and material rulers, is not the construction of a new and suffocating society. It is a decisive fight against all societies—christian, democratic, socialist, communist, etc., etc. Anarchism is the eternal struggle of a small minority of aristocratic outsiders against all societies which follow one another on the stage of history.
Those were the ideas expressed by Novatore in Il Libertario of La Spezia, L’Iconoclasta of Pistoia, and other anarchist journals. And these were the ideas that then influenced me as I was well-prepared to receive them.
During World War I Novatore refused to fight for a cause that was not his own and took to the mountains. Astute, courageous, vigilant, his pistol at the ready the authorities failed at every attempt to capture him. At the end of the war the deserters were amnestied and he was able to return to his village where his wife and son were waiting for him.
I was sixteen years old and had run away from home and my studies, freeing myself from my bourgeois family, who had done everything they could to stop my anarchist activities. Passing through Saranza on my way to Milan, I stopped to get to know Novatore, having read his article “My Iconoclastic Individualism”. Renzo came at once to meet me together with another anarchist called Lucherini.
We passed unforgettable hours together. Our discussions were long and he helped me fill gaps in my thinking, setting me on my way to the solution of many fundamental problems. I was struck by his enthusiasm.
His appearance was impressive. Of medium height he was athletic in build, and had a large forehead. His eyes were vivacious and expressed sensibility, intelligence and force. He had an ironic smile that revealed the contempt of a superior spirit for men and the world. He was thirty-one years old, but already had the aura of genius.
After two months wandering around Italy with the police at my heels, I returned to Arcola to see Renzo again. But Emma, his wife, told me that he was also hunted and that I could only meet him at night in the forest.
Once again we had long discussions and I was able to appreciate his exceptional qualities as a poet, philosopher and man of action even more. I valued the power of his intellect and his fine sensitivity which was like that of a Greek god or a divine beast. We parted for the last time at dawn.
Both of us were existing under terrible conditions. We were in open struggle against Society, which would have liked to throw us in jail. Renzo had been attacked in his house at Fresonaro by a band of armed fascists who intended to kill him, but he had driven them off with home-made grenades. After that he had to keep a safe distance from the village.
Despite being an outlaw, he continued to develop his individualist anarchist ideas in libertarian papers. I did the same and we aroused the anger of the theoreticians of anarcho-communism. One of them, Professor Camillo Berneri, described us in the October, 1920 issue of L’Iconoclasta as “Paranoid megalomaniacs, exalters of a mad philosophy and decadent literature, feeble imitators of the artists of opium and hashish, sirens at so much an hour.”
I could not reply because in the meantime I had been arrested and shut up in a House of Correction. But Renzo replied for both of us and took “this bookworm in whom it is difficult to find the spirit and fire of a true anarchist” to task.
More than a year later I was provisionally released from prison, but I could find out nothing regarding the whereabouts of Renzo. Finally I received the terrible news that he had been killed.
He was at an inn in Bolzaneto, near Genova, along with the intrepid illegalist S.P., when a group of carabinieri arrived disguised as hunters. Novatore and S.P. immediately opened fire and the police responded. The tragic result was two dead, Renzo and Marasciallo Lempano of the carabinieri, and one policeman wounded. This was in 1922: a few months before the fascist march on Rome.
So a great and original poet, who, putting his thoughts and feelings into action, attacked the mangy herd of sheep and shepherds, died at the age of thirty three. He showed that life can be lived in intensity, not in duration as the cowardly mass want and practice.
After his death it was discovered that, together with a few others, he was preparing to strike at society and tear from it that which it denies the individual. And in the Assizes Court where his accomplices were tried, a prosecuting counsel acknowledged his bravery and called him “a strange blend of light and darkness, love and anarchy, the sublime and the criminal.”
A few friends collected some of his writings and posthumously published them in two volumes: Above Authority (Al Disopra dell’Arco) and Toward the Creative Nothing (Verso il Nullo Creatore). Other writings remained with his family or were lost.
So an exceptional man lived and died—the man I felt was closest to me in his ideals and aspirations. He described himself as “an atheist of solitude” He wanted to “ravish the impossible” and embraced life like an ardent lover. He was a lofty conquistador of immortality and power, who wanted to bring all to the maximum splendor of beauty.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta renzo novatore. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta renzo novatore. Mostrar todas las entradas
domingo, 5 de junio de 2011
Black Flags by Renzo Novatore
I
Black flags in the wind
stained with blood and sun
Black flags in the sun
howling of glory in the wind
We need to return to the origins. To drink at the ancient fountains.
We need to return to heroic anarchism, to individual, violent, reckless, poetic, decentering audacity…
And we need to return with every bit of our modern instinct, every bit of our new conception of life and beauty, every bit of our healthy and lucid pessimism, which is not renunciation or powerlessness, but a thriving flower of exuberant life. We are the true nihilists of reality and the spiritual builders of ideal worlds
We are destructive philosophers and creative poets.
We walk in the night
with a sun in our mind
and with two huge golden stars
in our blazing eyes
We walk…
II
Several years ago, all the earth’s kings, all the world’s tyrants crossed the threshold of time, and—turning their backs on the dawn—called in a great voice—the ghosts of the past, of the gloomiest past!
The voices of the tyrants and kings were joined by the raucous voices of all the great misers of the spirit, of art, of thought and of the idea!—And in the voices of the tyrants, kings and misers, ghosts and phantoms were raised from their tombs and came to dance among us…
The “state,” the “race,” the “fatherland” were macabre storm clouds assailing the heavens, ghastly phantoms darkening the sun; they threw us back into the dark night of distant medieval times.
III
Death!
Who still recalls the macabre dance of the baleful and monstrous god of war?
Who still recalls the war?
Much time has passed between then and now, but upon this wretched yet noble earth, fertilized with sterile corpses and bloated with infertile blood, not a single ideal, virgin flower, made of spirituality and purity, still sprouts today.
No, the flowers that are born now on the dry clods of this earth, so vainly bathed in blood, are not flowers of flourishing life, capable of great hope, virile struggle, vigorous thought; they are rather flowers of death, born in the shadow, growing in the anguish of the unconscious, swept away in the hurricane, borne along in the drift of the river of oblivion…
…
I am not a sentimentalist… but I have a horrible memory of the war.
It is the reason that I ended up hating and then despising men. Before despising and hating them though, I collected all the tears of humanity in my heart and locked all the sorrows of the world in my vast mind-synthesis…
…
Even the spirit of the great Zarathustra—who is war’s truest lover and the warrior’s most sincere friend—must have been horribly nauseated by this war…
He must have been horribly nauseated, because I heard him cry out: “You must seek your own enemy, fight your own war, and for your own ideas!”
And if your idea succumbs, may your rectitude cry out in triumph.
But, alas! the heroic preaching of the great liberator came to nothing!
The human herd didn’t know how to distinguish its own enemy or to fight its own war for its own ideas. (The herd has no ideas of its own!)
And not knowing his own ideas that he might make triumph, Abel died at Cain’s hands once again.
He was called to die, and he went, like always. So!
Without knowing how to say either Yes or No! He goes as a coward, as a robot, like always.
If he had at least had the capacity to say the Yes of enthusiastic obedience—if he didn’t have the heroic power to pronounce the titanic No of tragic negation—he would at last have shown that he believed in the “cause” for which he died, fighting…
but he didn’t know how to say yes or no!
He went!
As a coward, like always!
So…
And when he left, he went toward death.
He went toward death without knowing why.
Like always!
And death did not wait…
It came!…
It came and danced.
It danced and laughed!
For five long years…
It laughed and danced over the muddy trenches of the entire world’s fatherlands.
A macabre dance!
Oh, how idiotic and vulgar—how savage and brutal—is this death that dances without the wings of an idea on its back.
Without a violent idea that smashes and destroys.
Without a fruitful idea that generates and creates.
What a stupid and horrendous thing, dying as cowards, without knowing why.
We saw it—as it danced—Death.
It was a black Death, opaque, without any of the transparency of light.
It was a Death without wings!…
How ugly and vulgar it was.
How clumsy its dance was!
And how it mowed them down—dancing—all the superfluous, those of whom there were more!
Those for whom—the great liberator says—the state was invented.
But, alas, it didn’t only mow these down…
Yes! Death—to avenge the state mowed down those who were not useless, those who were necessary…
It also mowed down those for whom life was a profound poem where sublimated sorrow sang a playful refrain…
But those of whom there were not more, those who were not superfluous, those who fell crying out the rebellious and forceful titanic No!: they will be avenged.
We will avenge them!
We will avenge them because they were our brothers; because they died with stars in their eyes; because as they died, they drank the sun.
The sun of the Dream.
The sun of Battle.
The sun of Life.
The sun of the Idea!
IV
The war!…
What has the war renewed?
Where is the heroic transfiguration of the spirit?
Where have the phosphorescent tablets of new human values been hung?
In what sacred temple have the miraculous gold amphorae, containing the flaming hearts of creative geniuses and dominating heroes, that the frantic supporters of great war promised?
Where does the majestic sun of the great new dawn shine?
Frightful rivers of blood washed all the turf in the world and went howling through all the paths of the earth.
Terrifying torrents of tears made their heartrending, anguished lament echo through the darkest, most remote eddies of all the world’s continents.
Mountains of human bones and flesh rotted everywhere in the mud, and cried everywhere in the sun.
But nothing changed—it was useless!
The worm-ridden bourgeois belly just belched with satiety! and that of the proletarian howled from too much hunger!
And enough!
If with Christ and christianity, the human spirit was suspended in the cold and empty void of the afterlife, with Karl Marx and socialism, it was made to descend into the intestines…
The roar that sounded across the world after the war, shaking humanity, was nothing but a belly roar that socialism betrayed, stamped out, smothered, strangled, as soon as it noticed that this roar had begun to take on a bit of the color of an ideal content…
This supreme, nameless cowardice used up, the blackest, bleakest, most baleful reaction was born and grew tremendously.
It was logical—natural—fatal!
It was human…
V
Our time—despite empty and contrary appearances—is already lying on all fours under the heavy wheels of a new History.
The bestial morality of our bastard christian-liberal-bourgeois-plebeian civilization turns toward the sunset…
Our false social organization is collapsing fatally—inexorably!
The fascist phenomenon is the surest, most indisputable proof of it.
In Italy as elsewhere…
To show it, one would only have to go back in time and question history. But even this isn’t necessary!—The present speaks eloquently enough…
Fascism is nothing but a cruel, convulsive spasm of a decaying society that tragically drowns in the quagmire of its lies.
Because it—fascism—indeed celebrates its bacchanals with flaming pyres and malicious orgies of blood; but the dull crackling of its livid fires doesn’t give off a single spark of vivid innovative spirituality; meanwhile, may the blood that pours out be transformed into wine, that we—the forerunners of the time—silently gather in red goblets of hatred setting it aside as the heroic beverage to pass on to the children of the night and of sorrow in the fatal communion of great revolt.
We will take these brothers of ours by the hand to march together and climb together toward new spiritual dawns, toward new auroras of life, toward new conquests of thought, toward new feasts of light; new solar noons.
Because we are lovers of liberating struggle.
We are the children of sorrow that rises and thought that creates.
We are restless vagabonds.
The boldest in every endeavor; the tempter of every ordeal.
And life is an “ordeal”! A torment! A tragic flight.—A fleeting moment!
VI
Our will is heroic!
We’ll stir everything up in a flurry of hatred at the heart of the world, and we’ll transmute everything into a storm of the abyss.
Into a hurricane of the peaks.
Into cries of the mind.
Into howls of freedom!
By celebrating the social evensong, we will try to fully realize individual life, of the free and great I.
So that the night no longer triumphs.
So that the shadow no longer coils around us.
So that the never-ending fire of the sun becomes eternal and perpetuates its feast of light over land and sea!
Because we are fiery dreamers of the impossible, dangerous conquerors of the stars!
VII
Fascism—despite empty and contrary appearances—is something far too ephemeral and impotent to prevent the free, unbridled course of rebel thought that overflows and expands, impetuously bursting beyond every barrier, and furiously spreads beyond every limit—as a powerful, animating, driving force—drawing behind its gigantic steps the vigorous and titanic action of hard human muscle.
Fascism is impotent, because it is brute force.
It is matter without spirit.
It is body without mind.
It is night without dawn!
It—fascism—is the other face of socialism…
They are lightless mirrors. Two spent stars!
Socialism is the numerical—material—force that, by acting in the shadow of a dogma, resolves and dissolves itself in a miserable spiritual “no” that empties it of any unchained, willful, heroic, ideal resilience. Fascism is an epileptic child of the spiritual “no” that is brutalized by striving—vainly—toward a vulgar material “yes.”
In the field of moral values, they are equal. Fascism and socialism are two worthy brothers. Even if you call the latter Abel and you call the former Cain. A common Dream unites them. And that dream is called Power.
VIII
Black flags in the wind
stained with blood and sun
Black flags in the sun
howling of glory in the wind
What the war didn’t and couldn’t do, revolution can and must do!
Oh, black flags carried
in a man’s rebellious fist
as he focuses his gaze intensely
beyond the ruling lie
—fluttering in the sun and wind
fluttering in the wind and sun
Victory smiles in the distance!
In the distance—in the distance—in the distance!
In the glory of the sun and wind!
IX
Fascism and socialism are bandages of the time, delayers of the deed!
They are rabidly crystallized fossils that willful dynamism—with which we animate history as it passes—will sweep away into the common grave of the times.—Because in the field of spiritual and ethical values the two enemies are the same.
They are two sides of the same coin.
They both lack the light of eternity!
Only great intellectual vagabonds—carriers of the black flag—can be the luminous animating fulcrum of eternal revolution that pushes the world forward.
X
Our willful soul is multiform…
The fiery throbbing of the sun and the tremulous shudders of the stars pass through it!
We are rebel poets and philosophers of destruction.
We are anarchists.
Iconoclasts!
Individualists,
atheists,
nihilists!
We are the carriers of black flags.
We walk in the night
with a sun in our mind,
and with tow huge golden stars
shining in our blazing eyes!
We walk on!…
And in the theater of humanity, our place is at the most extreme of all extreme lefts.
XI
Behind the gigantic, black thundercloud that still covers the sky, a red twilight flashes.
The tragic celebration of the red evensong is near.
The last black night will become red with blood.
With blood and fire.
Because blood demands blood.
It’s an old story…
And then our children—the children of the Dawn—must be born from blood and forged by fire.
Because new individual ideas must be born, more virginal and beautiful, from the great social tragedies, from the turmoil of new hurricanes!
And it is only from the great, fiery, bloody catastrophe that the real, profound Antichrist of humanity and thought will be born. The real child of earth and sun able to climb over the peaks and probe the abysses.
Because the Antichrist is Eagle and Serpent.
He inhabits the peaks and the depths.
He—the spirit of the new man—will pass through the smoking ruins of the old, destroyed world to rise toward the magnificent mystery of the coming virgin dawn.
Beautiful and superb—he will stand upon the threshold of the new morning saturated with the wild, scintillating strength of superhuman beauty, saying to reluctant men: Onward, onward!
We rush beyond every system
We rush beyond every form
We fly toward the highest freedom
Toward extreme ANARCHY!
XII
We—free spirits—vagabonds of the idea—atheists of solitude—demons of the unseen desert.
We—luminous monsters of the night—we have already gone to the peaks.
We walk in the night
with a sun in our mind,
and with tow huge golden stars
shining in our blazing eyes!
And—with us—everything must be driven to its highest consequence.
Even hatred.
Even violence.
Even “crime”!
Because hatred gives strength that dares.
Violence and “crime” are the genius that destroys and the beauty that creates.
And we want to dare.
To destroy—to renew—to create!
Because all that is low and vulgar must be broken up and destroyed.
Only what is great shall remain.
Because what is great belongs to beauty.
And life should be beautiful.
Even in sorrow.
Even in the hurricane!…
XIII
We have killed the “duty” of solidarity, so that our free lust for spontaneous love and voluntary parenthood acquires a heroic value in life.
We killed pity because it is a false christian emotion and because we want to create noble, unacknowledged generous egoism.
We strangled false social rights—creator of the humble, cowardly beggars—so that man will dig up his deepest, most secret “I” to find the power of the Unique.
Because we know it ourselves.
Life is tired of having stunted lovers.
Because the earth is tired of being uselessly trampled by huge hordes of stupid, chanting, praying, christian midgets.
And finally because we are also tired of these carrion “brothers” of ours who are incapable of peace or war. Inferior in hatred and in love.
Yes! We are sick and tired!
Humanity must be renewed.
We need a epic and barbaric song of new and virgin life sounds over the world.
We’re the carriers
of blazing torches.
We’re the kindlers
of crackling pyres.
Our flag is black.
Our road is the infinite.
And our highest ideal
is the peak and the abyss.
We walk on!…
We walk in the night
with a sun in our mind,
and with tow huge golden stars
shining in our blazing eyes!
We walk on…
And if our dream is an illusion?
And if our struggles are useless and vain? And if the renewal of humanity is impossible to accomplish?
Ah, no! We will walk on just the same.
For our own dignity.
For the love of our ideas.
For the freedom of our spirits.
For the passion of our mind.
For the necessity of our life.
Better to die as heroes in an effort of liberation and self-elevation than to vegetate as impotent cowards in this repugnant reality.
Oh black flags,
oh black trophies,
emblems and symbols
of eternal revolt.
You who are the bloody evidence of all human audacity:
You who are the destroyers of all prejudice:
You who are the only real enemies of all human shame—of all sinister lies!
You who sing eternal revolt, soaked in sorrow and blood!
I grip it in my strong fist
and in the midst of windy storms
I raise it in the glory of the sun.
In the glory of sun and the wind…
Of wind and sun and light.
from Proletario #2, July 1922
With Sincere Pity by Renzo Novatore
I
Oh, good “Goliard”, come—come to me!
Come and listen to the sublime verses of my perverse, cursed lyre. Come and listen to the laughter of my melancholy…
What are you afraid of? What are you afraid of ?
Could you be afraid of the livid, yellow fires of my sulfurous hells?
Could you be afraid of the mysterious winds of my symbolic peaks?
Don’t you understand me?
“Couldn’t I be a false chord in the divine symphony, thanks to the consuming irony that shakes and bites me?”
But you, who are you?
Could you be some spectacled professor who still has old polemical-theoretical accounts to settle with me?
But let it go, oh Goliard, let go of ancient regrets and old torments that trouble your heart. Today is my spiritual Easter feast, my table is set…
So come—oh Goliard—to my table, drink and be quiet!
II
I am a “well of truth, black and shining, where the livid star, the ironic, hellish beacon, the torch of satanic charm, sole glory and comfort—the awareness in evil—flickers!”
But you—who are you?
“Lucky for them, the workers don’t know Baudelaire.” What did you say? Is that how it is, true Goliard? “Long live ignorance and Anarchy. Death to intellectuality, Thought and Art.” Is this what you mean, true Goliard?
But doesn’t “Goliard” signify the rebellious and dissolute student of the Middle Ages?
Ah, poor, grotesque parody!
Oh! pity… pity!
III
Certain that the good Umanitá Nova will absolve and that the Sacred Vestal Virgin—of whom you are the zealous priest—will pardon you, I—the “perverse” and “cursed” poet—invite you into my sad, melancholy oasis where unknown springs gush coolly.
Oh! Come, come!
My demon sleeps too much today and so do my pure Furies.[3]
Come, come…
I will show you the purest flowers of evil in the human garden of my heart, under the fruitful sun of my tormented soul. They are flowers of pity and sorrow, they are roses of blood and love, they are shudders and tears.
Tears of flesh and shudders of the ideal—music of urgent life, flights of spirituality…
Oh, come, come…
Today, in my hell, there is Paradise—come, oh Goliard, it is time!
IV
Here is the “damned Woman” whose sorrowful beauty I artistically—anarchically, humanely, sensitively—sang, whose tortured mind I raised—in song. Look at her, look at her. Do you see her, oh Goliard?
Do you hear her?
Look! There are the ones “laid on the sand, like a thoughtful herd, who turn their eyes toward the mountainous horizon,” and others are “deep in the woods stammering the loves of timid childhood.” Do you see them?
Watch, oh Goliard, as they “walk through rocks full of phantasms!” That is where Saint Anthony saw the blushing naked breasts of his temptation rise like lava…
And then there are those with “howling fevers” who call on Bacchus to drown their regrets, and others who “hide a horsewhip under their dresses” to then—in the dark forest and on solitary nights—“mix the froth of pleasure with their tears and torments.” And I—oh, Goliard of Umanitá Nova, who tried to make unconscious mockery and irony about what I wrote that you couldn’t understand—I wanted to sing of one of these “damned women”—all women are, in this sense, more or less “damned”—one of those who, like the poet, is able to say, “Skies, lacerated like seahores, my pride is reflected in you.
“Your vast clouds, in mourning, are the funeral cars of my dreams, and your glimmerings are the reflections of the Hell in which my heart revels.”
V
Charles Baudelaire, the man who—“lucky for them”—“the workers don’t know.” The marvelous poet who, without the treasury of the U.A.I. in his pocket, was able to get intoxicated with the most exquisite—even though dangerous—deep, luminous, refined sensations. The singular genius whose “mysteriously half-opened lips seemed to guard sarcastic secrets.” The strange, cursed, god-like poet who had no horror of bending down in the mud to humanely gather the Flowers of Evil and sublimate them through the tragic glow of his Art, so that he sang those “damned women” over the tremulous bow of his magical lyre.
“Oh virgins, oh demons, oh monsters, oh martyrs, great spirits, contemptuous of reality, thirsty the infinite, devotees and bacchantes, now full of howls and tears, you, who my spirit has followed into your hell, poor sisters, I love you as I sympathize with you, with your dark pain, with your unsatisfied thirst and the urns of love that fill your great hearts!”
VI
And I too—like Baudelaire—on of the great dead ones whom I secretly love—I desired—in the columns of this paper of ours—that is guilty of being called Proletario—to sing—humanely and anarchically—the tragedy, the tears, the laughter, the crying, the sorrow, the torment, the good, the evil, the sin and the hope of one of these women so that anarchists will know that, among us, not everyone is willing to throw mud and shit on those who, through an excessive thirst for the infinite, have fallen headlong into the abyss with their eyes fixed on the sky and their minds intoxicated by the stars.
And I have written this all with a pen that is my own, with a language that is my own, with a style that is original, that is my own, and that no goliardic—poorly goliardic—irony could persuade me to change by turning from my path.
VII
Some comrade—writing privately to another comrade—once characterized Renzo Novatore as “Anarchy’s Guido da Verona.”[4]
Without pausing to refute the accusation, I will say to you, as Guido da Verona had to say to his critics: “Say what you will about me, I will always give you fragrant roses… even if born in sorrow, even if germinated in tears.”
VIII
Today, my anarchist heart is full of infinite kindness. My winged mind wanders round and round through the sky of the idea.
My free spirit dances merrily in the sad oasis of my solitude—where my mysterious melancholy sings.
Come, oh Goliard—come!
Today my demon is sleeping, as are my Furies…
Come drink at the unknown, virgin springs of my infinite pity…
Tomorrow, the satanic creatures of my volcanic hell could awaken, and I could be furious…
You know? I am a strange, many-sided man.
from Proletario #3, August 15, 1922
[1] A Goliard was a wandering clerical student in medieval Europe disposed to conviviality, license, and the making of ribald and satirical Latin songs.
[2] The paper of the Italian Anarchist Federation. I believe it is still being published and has generally followed a Malatestan line
[3] A reference to the Erinyes or Furies of ancient Greek mythology, dark, primal goddesses of vengeance.
[4] Guido da Verona (1881-1939) was a poet and erotic novelist who eventually got into trouble with the fascist authorities for his writings and committed suicide to escape death at their hands.
Oh, good “Goliard”, come—come to me!
Come and listen to the sublime verses of my perverse, cursed lyre. Come and listen to the laughter of my melancholy…
What are you afraid of? What are you afraid of ?
Could you be afraid of the livid, yellow fires of my sulfurous hells?
Could you be afraid of the mysterious winds of my symbolic peaks?
Don’t you understand me?
“Couldn’t I be a false chord in the divine symphony, thanks to the consuming irony that shakes and bites me?”
But you, who are you?
Could you be some spectacled professor who still has old polemical-theoretical accounts to settle with me?
But let it go, oh Goliard, let go of ancient regrets and old torments that trouble your heart. Today is my spiritual Easter feast, my table is set…
So come—oh Goliard—to my table, drink and be quiet!
II
I am a “well of truth, black and shining, where the livid star, the ironic, hellish beacon, the torch of satanic charm, sole glory and comfort—the awareness in evil—flickers!”
But you—who are you?
“Lucky for them, the workers don’t know Baudelaire.” What did you say? Is that how it is, true Goliard? “Long live ignorance and Anarchy. Death to intellectuality, Thought and Art.” Is this what you mean, true Goliard?
But doesn’t “Goliard” signify the rebellious and dissolute student of the Middle Ages?
Ah, poor, grotesque parody!
Oh! pity… pity!
III
Certain that the good Umanitá Nova will absolve and that the Sacred Vestal Virgin—of whom you are the zealous priest—will pardon you, I—the “perverse” and “cursed” poet—invite you into my sad, melancholy oasis where unknown springs gush coolly.
Oh! Come, come!
My demon sleeps too much today and so do my pure Furies.[3]
Come, come…
I will show you the purest flowers of evil in the human garden of my heart, under the fruitful sun of my tormented soul. They are flowers of pity and sorrow, they are roses of blood and love, they are shudders and tears.
Tears of flesh and shudders of the ideal—music of urgent life, flights of spirituality…
Oh, come, come…
Today, in my hell, there is Paradise—come, oh Goliard, it is time!
IV
Here is the “damned Woman” whose sorrowful beauty I artistically—anarchically, humanely, sensitively—sang, whose tortured mind I raised—in song. Look at her, look at her. Do you see her, oh Goliard?
Do you hear her?
Look! There are the ones “laid on the sand, like a thoughtful herd, who turn their eyes toward the mountainous horizon,” and others are “deep in the woods stammering the loves of timid childhood.” Do you see them?
Watch, oh Goliard, as they “walk through rocks full of phantasms!” That is where Saint Anthony saw the blushing naked breasts of his temptation rise like lava…
And then there are those with “howling fevers” who call on Bacchus to drown their regrets, and others who “hide a horsewhip under their dresses” to then—in the dark forest and on solitary nights—“mix the froth of pleasure with their tears and torments.” And I—oh, Goliard of Umanitá Nova, who tried to make unconscious mockery and irony about what I wrote that you couldn’t understand—I wanted to sing of one of these “damned women”—all women are, in this sense, more or less “damned”—one of those who, like the poet, is able to say, “Skies, lacerated like seahores, my pride is reflected in you.
“Your vast clouds, in mourning, are the funeral cars of my dreams, and your glimmerings are the reflections of the Hell in which my heart revels.”
V
Charles Baudelaire, the man who—“lucky for them”—“the workers don’t know.” The marvelous poet who, without the treasury of the U.A.I. in his pocket, was able to get intoxicated with the most exquisite—even though dangerous—deep, luminous, refined sensations. The singular genius whose “mysteriously half-opened lips seemed to guard sarcastic secrets.” The strange, cursed, god-like poet who had no horror of bending down in the mud to humanely gather the Flowers of Evil and sublimate them through the tragic glow of his Art, so that he sang those “damned women” over the tremulous bow of his magical lyre.
“Oh virgins, oh demons, oh monsters, oh martyrs, great spirits, contemptuous of reality, thirsty the infinite, devotees and bacchantes, now full of howls and tears, you, who my spirit has followed into your hell, poor sisters, I love you as I sympathize with you, with your dark pain, with your unsatisfied thirst and the urns of love that fill your great hearts!”
VI
And I too—like Baudelaire—on of the great dead ones whom I secretly love—I desired—in the columns of this paper of ours—that is guilty of being called Proletario—to sing—humanely and anarchically—the tragedy, the tears, the laughter, the crying, the sorrow, the torment, the good, the evil, the sin and the hope of one of these women so that anarchists will know that, among us, not everyone is willing to throw mud and shit on those who, through an excessive thirst for the infinite, have fallen headlong into the abyss with their eyes fixed on the sky and their minds intoxicated by the stars.
And I have written this all with a pen that is my own, with a language that is my own, with a style that is original, that is my own, and that no goliardic—poorly goliardic—irony could persuade me to change by turning from my path.
VII
Some comrade—writing privately to another comrade—once characterized Renzo Novatore as “Anarchy’s Guido da Verona.”[4]
Without pausing to refute the accusation, I will say to you, as Guido da Verona had to say to his critics: “Say what you will about me, I will always give you fragrant roses… even if born in sorrow, even if germinated in tears.”
VIII
Today, my anarchist heart is full of infinite kindness. My winged mind wanders round and round through the sky of the idea.
My free spirit dances merrily in the sad oasis of my solitude—where my mysterious melancholy sings.
Come, oh Goliard—come!
Today my demon is sleeping, as are my Furies…
Come drink at the unknown, virgin springs of my infinite pity…
Tomorrow, the satanic creatures of my volcanic hell could awaken, and I could be furious…
You know? I am a strange, many-sided man.
from Proletario #3, August 15, 1922
[1] A Goliard was a wandering clerical student in medieval Europe disposed to conviviality, license, and the making of ribald and satirical Latin songs.
[2] The paper of the Italian Anarchist Federation. I believe it is still being published and has generally followed a Malatestan line
[3] A reference to the Erinyes or Furies of ancient Greek mythology, dark, primal goddesses of vengeance.
[4] Guido da Verona (1881-1939) was a poet and erotic novelist who eventually got into trouble with the fascist authorities for his writings and committed suicide to escape death at their hands.
Of Individualism and Rebelion by Renzo Novatore
There are those who maintain that the human being is by nature a social being. Others maintain that the human being is by nature anti-social.
Well, I admit that I have never been able to clearly understand what they meant by their “by nature,” but I have understood that both sides are wrong, since the human being is social and anti-social at the same time.
Need, want, affection, love and sympathy are the elements that push him toward sociability and union.
The craving for independence and the desire for freedom push her toward solitude and individualism. But, while individualism operates and is realized against society, society defends itself from its attacks. The war between “societarianism” and “individualism” is thus a fertile war of vitality and energy. But, while the individual is necessary to society, this in its turn is necessary to him.
Individualism couldn’t possibly exist if there was no society against which it could affirm itself and live, expand itself and rejoice.
***
Among human beings—only the rebel is the most beautiful figure and the most complete being. He knows how to be the potential tool of his desiring will. He knows how to obey himself and command himself, to preserve himself and destroy himself. Because the rebel is the one who has learned the secret of living and the art of dying.
***
The one who falls rebelling against each and all, prevails even while falling.
And prevailing means instilling the flame of her thought and imposing the light of her ideas in others.
But the fallen rebel’s truest follower is the one who, when falling, knows how to rebel even against the “rebellion” of the already fallen hero.
***
Anyone who wants the spirit of rebellion to become eternal must want the child’s rebellion not to change in its turn into the father’s tyranny.
***
If my father rebelled against my grandfather so as not to be a slave of the paternal faith, I rebel against my father so as not to be a slave of the faith that made him rebel in his turn.
How could it make my son be tomorrow what I am today?
***
Only from the ruins of everything the rebel has destroyed can the creative genius be born.
But what does the creation of the genius prepare if not a new rebellion?
***
I agree with Nietzsche in believing that there has never been any need to question a martyr to know the truth. But desiring force, daring audacity and skillful creative will are treasures inherited only from the genius, the rebel, the hero.
***
I have seen a genius “steal” and an idiot throw a deadly bomb at a state minister.
The first stole so as to live independently and create in freedom. The second killed because of a hidden personal hatred and the will to die.
The first carried out a “vulgar, common crime” and is a “common criminal.” The second carried out a “political crime” and is a “noble and generous political criminal.” I now ask all subversive, political people in general, and anarchists in particular—if in facing this fact, it is a chance to raise another “political crime” up into the splendor of glory and the feasts of the sun so as to cast “common crime” into the mud.
***
Alas! There are still too many who look at the work. But before looking at the work, I look at the creator. Yet even for many—so many—anarchists, it seems that the individual counts for little…
The majority of them are still among the rabble who say: “Human beings don’t count. Events and ideas count.” And this is why, even among us, many higher, sublime beings have been cast into the mud, while many idiots have been raised up in the sun.
***
I deny the right to judge me to all those who don’t understand the voice of my yearnings, the howl of my needs, the flights of my spirit, the sorrow of my mind, the thrill of my ideas and the anguish of my thought. But only I understand all this. Do you want to judge me? Okay then! But you will never judge my real self. Instead you will judge the “me” that you yourself have invented. When you believe you have me between your fingers to crush me, I will be up there, laughing in the distance.
from Proletario # 4, September 17, 1922
Well, I admit that I have never been able to clearly understand what they meant by their “by nature,” but I have understood that both sides are wrong, since the human being is social and anti-social at the same time.
Need, want, affection, love and sympathy are the elements that push him toward sociability and union.
The craving for independence and the desire for freedom push her toward solitude and individualism. But, while individualism operates and is realized against society, society defends itself from its attacks. The war between “societarianism” and “individualism” is thus a fertile war of vitality and energy. But, while the individual is necessary to society, this in its turn is necessary to him.
Individualism couldn’t possibly exist if there was no society against which it could affirm itself and live, expand itself and rejoice.
***
Among human beings—only the rebel is the most beautiful figure and the most complete being. He knows how to be the potential tool of his desiring will. He knows how to obey himself and command himself, to preserve himself and destroy himself. Because the rebel is the one who has learned the secret of living and the art of dying.
***
The one who falls rebelling against each and all, prevails even while falling.
And prevailing means instilling the flame of her thought and imposing the light of her ideas in others.
But the fallen rebel’s truest follower is the one who, when falling, knows how to rebel even against the “rebellion” of the already fallen hero.
***
Anyone who wants the spirit of rebellion to become eternal must want the child’s rebellion not to change in its turn into the father’s tyranny.
***
If my father rebelled against my grandfather so as not to be a slave of the paternal faith, I rebel against my father so as not to be a slave of the faith that made him rebel in his turn.
How could it make my son be tomorrow what I am today?
***
Only from the ruins of everything the rebel has destroyed can the creative genius be born.
But what does the creation of the genius prepare if not a new rebellion?
***
I agree with Nietzsche in believing that there has never been any need to question a martyr to know the truth. But desiring force, daring audacity and skillful creative will are treasures inherited only from the genius, the rebel, the hero.
***
I have seen a genius “steal” and an idiot throw a deadly bomb at a state minister.
The first stole so as to live independently and create in freedom. The second killed because of a hidden personal hatred and the will to die.
The first carried out a “vulgar, common crime” and is a “common criminal.” The second carried out a “political crime” and is a “noble and generous political criminal.” I now ask all subversive, political people in general, and anarchists in particular—if in facing this fact, it is a chance to raise another “political crime” up into the splendor of glory and the feasts of the sun so as to cast “common crime” into the mud.
***
Alas! There are still too many who look at the work. But before looking at the work, I look at the creator. Yet even for many—so many—anarchists, it seems that the individual counts for little…
The majority of them are still among the rabble who say: “Human beings don’t count. Events and ideas count.” And this is why, even among us, many higher, sublime beings have been cast into the mud, while many idiots have been raised up in the sun.
***
I deny the right to judge me to all those who don’t understand the voice of my yearnings, the howl of my needs, the flights of my spirit, the sorrow of my mind, the thrill of my ideas and the anguish of my thought. But only I understand all this. Do you want to judge me? Okay then! But you will never judge my real self. Instead you will judge the “me” that you yourself have invented. When you believe you have me between your fingers to crush me, I will be up there, laughing in the distance.
from Proletario # 4, September 17, 1922
domingo, 7 de noviembre de 2010
My Iconoclastic Individualism by Renzo Novatore
I have left the life of the plain forever.--Henrik Ibsen
1
Even the purest springs of Life and Thought that gush fresh and laughing among the rocks of the highest mountains to quench the thirst of Nature’s chosen ones, when discovered by the demagogic shepherds of the hybrid bourgeois and proletarian flocks, quickly become fetid, filthy, slimy pools. Now it is individualism’s turn! From the vulgar scab to the idiotic and repulsive cop, from the miserable sell-out to the despicable spy, from the cowardly slave afraid to fight to the repugnant and tyrannical authority, all speak of individualism.
It is in fashion!
Scrawny pseudo-intellectuals of tubercular liberal conservatism, like the chronic democratic syphilitics, and even the eunuchs of socialism and the anemics of communism, all speak and pose as Individualists!
I understand that since Individualism is neither a school nor a party, it cannot be “unique”, but it is truer still that Unique ones are individualists. And I leap as a unique one onto the battlefield, draw my sword and defend my personal ideas as an extreme individualist, as an indisputable Unique one, since we can be as skeptical and indifferent, ironic and sardonic as we desire and are able to be. But when we are condemned to hear socialists more or less theorizing in order to impudently and ignorantly state that there is no incompatibility between Individualist and collectivist ideas, when we hear someone stupidly try to make a titanic poet of heroic strength, a dominator of human, moral and divine phantoms, who quivers and throbs, rejoices and expands himself beyond the good and evil of Church and State, Peoples and Humanity, in the strange flickering of a new blaze of unacknowledged love, like Zarathustra’s lyrical creator, pass as a poor and vulgar prophet of socialism, when we hear someone try to make an invincible and unsurpassable iconoclast like Max Stirner out to be some tool for the use of frantic proponents of communism, then we may certainly have an ironic smirk on our lips. But then it is necessary to resolutely rise up to defend ourselves and to attack, since anyone who feels that he is truly individualist in principle, means and ends cannot tolerate being at all confused with the unconscious mobs of a morbid, bleating flock.
2
Individualism, as I feel, understand and mean it, has neither socialism, nor communism, nor humanity for an end. Individualism is its own end. Minds atrophied by Spencer’s positivism still go on believing that they are individualists without noticing that their venerated teacher is the ultimate anti-individualist, since he is nothing more than a radical monist, and, as such, the passionate lover of unity and the sworn enemy of particularity. Like all more or less monistic scientists and philosophers, he denies all distinctions, all differences. And he sacrifices reality to affirm illusion. He strives to show reality as illusion and illusion as reality. Since he isn’t able to understand the varied, the particular, he sacrifices the one or the other on the altar of the universal. Sure, he fights the state in the name of the individual, but like every sociologist in this world, he comes back to sacrifice under the tyranny of another free and perfect society, since it is true that he fights against the state, but he fights against it only because the state as it is doesn’t function as he would like.
But not because he has understood the anti-collectivist, anti-social singularities capable of higher activities of the spirit, of emotion and of heroic and uninhibited strength. He hates the state, but does not penetrate or understand the mysterious, aristocratic, vagabond, rebel individual!
And from this point of view, I don’t know why that flabby charlatan, that failed anthropologist, bloated more and more with the sociology of Darwin, Comte, Spencer and Marx, who has spread filth over the giants of Art and Thought like Nietzsche, Stirner, Ibsen, Wilde, Zola, Huysman, Verlaine, Mallarmé, etc., that charlatan called Max Nordau; I repeat, I cannot explain to myself why he hasn’t also been called an Individualist… since, like Spencer, Nordau also fights the state…
3
Giovanni Papini said this about Spencer: “As a scientist, he bowed before facts, as a metaphysician, before the unknowable, as moralist, before the immutable fact of natural laws. His philosophy is made up of fear, ignorance and obedience: great virtues in the presence of Christ, but tremendous vices for one who wants the supremacy of the individual. He was neither more nor less than a counterfeiter of individualism.” And though I am not at all a Papinian, in this case, I am in complete agreement with him.
4
E. Zoccoli is an intellectual of the greatest range with a deep knowledge of anarchist thought, but he declares himself to be a pathetic, moral bourgeois. In his colossal study, Anarchy, after railing – though calmly and with some reason – against the greatest agitators of anarchist thought, from Stirner to Tucker, Proudhon to Bakunin, he feels sorry for Kropotkin because he finds that this anarchist was not able to develop a new rigorously scientific and sociological anarchism as he allowed himself to call all the mad delinquents of extreme anarchism, or Individualism, back to the sane currents of a viscous positivistic, scientifically materialist and humanist, semi-Spencerian system, since this famous science is what finally discovered the nullity of the individual “before the limitless immensity…”. And for the positivist, humanist, communist, scientific Kropotkin it also seems that man is “a small being with ridiculous pretenses” and amen! Anyone who concentrates on sociology can’t be anything but a scientist of collectivity who forgets the individual in order to seek Humanity and raise the Imperial Throne at whose feet the I must renounce itself and kneel down with deep emotion.
And when all anarchists have this sublime concept of life, E. Zoccoli will also be happy and content, since by taking on the seraphic pose of a prophet who tells men: “I have come to offer you the possibility of a new life!”, he turns to us and says: “May anarchists return to (legal) right and may right expect them, quick to extend its safeguards to them as well…”
But what is right?
We say with Stirner:
“Right is the spirit of society. If Society has a will, this will is simplt Right: Society exists only through Right. But as it endures only exercising a sovereignty over individuals right is its sovereign will. Aristotle says justice is the fruit of society.”
But “all existing right is – foreign law [Right]; some one makes me out to be right, ‘does right by me’. But should I therefore be in the right if all the world made me out so? And yet what else is the right that I obtain in the state, in society, but a right of those foreign to me? When a blockhead makes me out in the right, I grow distrustful of my rightness; I don’t like to receive it from him. But, even when a wise man makes me out in the right, I nevertheless am not in the right on that account. Whether I am in the right is completely independent of the fool’s making out and the wise man’s”. Now we add to this definition of the Right that this wild, invincible German gave us, the famous aphorism of Protagoras: “The man is the measure of all things”, and then we can go to war against all external right, all external justice, since “justice is the fruit of society”.
5
I know! I know and understand: my ideas – which are not new – might wound the overly sensitive hearts of modern humanists, who proliferate in great abundance among subversives, and of romantic dreamers of a radiant, redeemed and perfect humanity, dancing in an enchanted realm of general, collective happiness to the music of a magic flute of endless peace and universal brotherhood. But anyone who chases phantoms wanders far from the truth, and then it is known that the first to be burnt in the flames of my corroding thought was my inner being, my true self! Now within the burning blaze of my Ideas, I also become a flame, and I burn, I scorch, I corrode…
Only those who enjoy contemplating seething volcanoes that launch sinister, exploding lava from their fiery wombs toward the stars, later letting them fall into the Void or among Dead Cities of cowardly men, my carrion brothers, making them run in frantic flight out from their moldy wall-papered shacks, hellholes of rancid, old ideals, should approach me.
I think, I know, that as long as there are men, there will be societies, since this putrid civilization with its industries and mechanical progress has already brought us to the point where it is not even possible to turn back to the enviable age of the caves and divine mates who raised and defended those born of their free and instinctive love like tawny, catlike Lionesses, inhabiting magnificent, fragrant, green and wild forests. But still I know and I think with equal certainty that every form of society – precisely because it is a society – will, for its own good, want to humiliate the individual. Even communism that – as its theorists tell us – is the most humanly perfect form of society would only be able to recognize one of its more or less active, more or less esteemed members in me. I can never be as worthy through communism as I will be as myself, fully my own, as a Unique one and, therefore, incomprehensible to the collectivity. But that within me which is most incomprehensible, most mysterious and enigmatic to the collectivity is precisely my most precious treasure, my dearest good, since it is my deepest intimacy which I alone can explain and love, since I alone understand it.
It would be enough, for example, if I said to communism: “it is to do nothing that the elect exist” as Oscar Wilde said, to see me driven out from the holy supper of the new Gods like a leprous Siberian! And yet one who had the urgent need to live his life in the highly and sublimely intellectual and spiritual atmosphere of Thought and contemplation could not give anything materially or morally useful and good to the community, because what he could give would be incomprehensible, and therefore noxious and unacceptable, since he could only give a strange doctrine supporting the joy of living in contemplative laziness. But in a communist society – as in any other society where it would be even worse – such a doctrine could have the effect of corruption among the phalanx of those that must produce for collective and social maintenance and balance. No! Every form of society is the product of the majority. For great Geniuses and for great lawbreakers, there is no place within the triumphant mediocrity that dominates and commands.
6
Someone will raise the objection to me that in this vermillion Dawn, this noble eve of armies and war, where the vibrant and fateful notes of the great twilight of the old Gods already echoes resoundingly, while on the horizon, the golden rays of a smiling future are already rising, it is not good to bring certain intimate and delinquent thoughts into the light of the sun. It is an old and stupid story! I am twenty-eight years old, for fifteen years I have been active in the libertarian camp and I live anarchistically, and I am told the same things, the very same things all the time:
“For the love of harmony…”
“For the love of getting the word out…”
“For the next redemptive Social Revolution…”
“For…” but why go on!
Enough! I cannot remain silent!
“If I were to keep a still unpublished manuscript locked up in my drawer, the manuscript of a most beautiful work that would give the reader thrills of unknown pleasure and would uncover unknown worlds; if I were certain that men would grow pale with fear over these pages, and then slowly wander through deserted pathways with eyes fiercely dilated in the void, and later would cynically seek death when madness didn’t run to meet them with its sinister laughter like the roaring of winds and its grim drumming of invisible fingers on their devastated brains; if I were certain that women would smile obscenely and lie down with skirts lifted on the edge of footpaths, awaiting any male, and that males would suddenly throw themselves upon them lacerating vulva and throat with their teeth; if intoxicated, hungry mobs were to chase down the few elusive men with knives and there was death between being and being perpetuating their deep hatred; if the peace of an hour, tranquility of the spirit, love, loyalty, friendship would have to disappear from the face of the earth, and turbulence, restlessness, hatred, deception, hostility, madness, darkness and death would have to reign in their place forever; if a most beautiful book that I wrote, still unpublished and locked in my drawer, would have to do all this, I would publish that book and have no peace until it was published.”
So Persio Falchi wrote in Forca a couple of years ago to express his concept of the Freedom of Art, and so I repeat now in Iconoclasta! to express my conception of Freedom of Thought.
It is an absolute and urgent need of mine to launch into the darkness the stormy and sinister light of my thoughts and the incredulous and mocking sneer of my rare ideas that want to freely wander, proud and magnificent, displaying their vigorous and uninhibited nakedness, going through the world in search of virile embraces. No one could be more revolutionary than I am, but this is precisely why I want to throw the corroding mercury of my thoughts into the midst of the senile impotence of the eunuchs of Human Thought. One cannot be half a revolutionary and one cannot half-think. It is necessary to be like Ibsen, revolutionary in the most complete and radical sense of the word. And I feel that I am such!
7
History, materialism, monism, positivism and all the other isms of this world are old and rusty swords which are of no use to me and don’t concern me. My principle is life and my end is death. I want to live my life intensely so that I can embrace my death tragically.
You are waiting for the revolution! Very well! My own began along time ago! When you are ready – God, what an endless wait! – it won’t nauseate me to go along the road awhile with you!
But when you stop, I will continue on my mad and triumphant march toward the great and sublime conquest of Nothing!
Every society you build will have its fringes, and on the fringes of every society, heroic and restless vagabonds will wander, with their wild and virgin thoughts, only able to live by preparing ever new and terrible outbreaks of rebellion!
I shall be among them!
And after me, as before me, there will always be those who tell human beings:
“So turn to yourselves rather than to your gods or idols: discover what is hidden within you, bring it to the light; reveal yourself!”
Because everyone that searches his inner being and draws out what is mysteriously hidden there, is a shadow eclipsing every form of Society that exists beneath the rays of the Sun!
All societies tremble when the scornful aristocracy of Vagabonds, Unique ones, Unapproachable ones, rulers over the ideal, and Conquerors of Nothing advance without inhibitions. So, come on, Iconoclasts, forward!
“Already the foreboding sky grows dark and silent!”
Arcola, January 1920
miércoles, 7 de octubre de 2009
Wild Flowers by renzo novatore
(Appeared in Cronica Libertaria, Milan, a.I, n.8, 20 September 1917), Translated 2009 By Luther Blissett.
Premise. Even through the exterminated moor of the barren desert flowers germinate. Wild flowers that emanate sinful perfumes and that stick their thorns to bloody the same hands of those who collect them, but yet they that have their grandiose history of joy, of pain and of love. I repeat: they are flowers strange and savage that arose from the creative nothing, were fertilized by the sun and later slammed by the the hurricane, cruelly so!
These flowers are thoughts germinating in the meditative solitude and deep in my spirit while towards the outside, in the world that no longer belongs to me the madness rages furiously furrowed from the electrifying fire of the lightning that breaks implacable.
And I, impenitent vagabond, who loves to gallop in the joyous and frightening ways of this my solitary kingdom and desert, I feel sorry to periodically collect a bundle of these wild flowers to crown this rebel flag that once already cowardly and brutally demolished sings still for the joyful refrain of eternal return.
* * *
The Anarchist is only one who after a long, gasping and desperate search has retrieved his own self and has placed it, haughty and proud “on the margins of the society”, denying anything the right to judge it. The one who knows not to recognize the loftiness of his own actions, him only judging himself, can even be believed anarchic but is not!
The force of will and potency (not to be confused with power) of the spirit of autoelevation and individualization are the first steps of a long and interminable ladder if the one knows that he wills to exceed even himself above all things.
Only the one who knows to prize with impetuous violence the rusty gates that close the house of the great lie where the lubricious thieves of I have given to convene, (God, state, societies, humanity) to retrieve from the viscid and rapacious hands adorning with the false gold of the love of piety and of civility, of the sinister predators, their most grand treasure, can feel boss and signore of himself, and be called anarchic.
* * *
The anarchist, beyond being the most grand rebel also has the virtue of being a King. The King of himself, understand!!
Who believes that Christ can be the sign and the symbol that man must wave in order to reach the libertarian synthesis of life, cannot they be a Socialist or a christian negator of anarchism.
When Socrates, who in spite of everything was without a doubt much superior to the bestiality of those his people who condemned him, accepted the hemlock that they imposed him to gulp down, he made one work of such cowardice and of devotion that anarchism pitilessly condemns.
* * *
To escape, with whatever means, to the invincible bestiality of a people rendered ferocious and brutal from cannibal prejudices and frightful ignorance, or to sadistic deprivation of a putrefying society which is believed to have the right to judge and to condemn a single person because they have consummated a given action that the aforesaid society is not at the loftiness to ever understand; it is an act superbly rebellious and individualistic that only in anarchism can find its reason for being and its glorification.
* * *
Alas! Even the conscience has been in the end a phantom atavistic and frightening. And it will only stop being so when man will have the knowledge to render it the image and the mirror of his own and only will.
* * *
The first man who said: “There is not any God”, was without a doubt an athlete of human thought. But the one who was limited to saying that: “The of God the priest is not”, cheated in equivocally leaving sufficient comprise to being, him, a suspicious partisan that already premeditated to kill the humans perhaps with a new lie. Keep yourselves well guarded from those who are limited to the sole negation of God.
Premise. Even through the exterminated moor of the barren desert flowers germinate. Wild flowers that emanate sinful perfumes and that stick their thorns to bloody the same hands of those who collect them, but yet they that have their grandiose history of joy, of pain and of love. I repeat: they are flowers strange and savage that arose from the creative nothing, were fertilized by the sun and later slammed by the the hurricane, cruelly so!
These flowers are thoughts germinating in the meditative solitude and deep in my spirit while towards the outside, in the world that no longer belongs to me the madness rages furiously furrowed from the electrifying fire of the lightning that breaks implacable.
And I, impenitent vagabond, who loves to gallop in the joyous and frightening ways of this my solitary kingdom and desert, I feel sorry to periodically collect a bundle of these wild flowers to crown this rebel flag that once already cowardly and brutally demolished sings still for the joyful refrain of eternal return.
* * *
The Anarchist is only one who after a long, gasping and desperate search has retrieved his own self and has placed it, haughty and proud “on the margins of the society”, denying anything the right to judge it. The one who knows not to recognize the loftiness of his own actions, him only judging himself, can even be believed anarchic but is not!
The force of will and potency (not to be confused with power) of the spirit of autoelevation and individualization are the first steps of a long and interminable ladder if the one knows that he wills to exceed even himself above all things.
Only the one who knows to prize with impetuous violence the rusty gates that close the house of the great lie where the lubricious thieves of I have given to convene, (God, state, societies, humanity) to retrieve from the viscid and rapacious hands adorning with the false gold of the love of piety and of civility, of the sinister predators, their most grand treasure, can feel boss and signore of himself, and be called anarchic.
* * *
The anarchist, beyond being the most grand rebel also has the virtue of being a King. The King of himself, understand!!
Who believes that Christ can be the sign and the symbol that man must wave in order to reach the libertarian synthesis of life, cannot they be a Socialist or a christian negator of anarchism.
When Socrates, who in spite of everything was without a doubt much superior to the bestiality of those his people who condemned him, accepted the hemlock that they imposed him to gulp down, he made one work of such cowardice and of devotion that anarchism pitilessly condemns.
* * *
To escape, with whatever means, to the invincible bestiality of a people rendered ferocious and brutal from cannibal prejudices and frightful ignorance, or to sadistic deprivation of a putrefying society which is believed to have the right to judge and to condemn a single person because they have consummated a given action that the aforesaid society is not at the loftiness to ever understand; it is an act superbly rebellious and individualistic that only in anarchism can find its reason for being and its glorification.
* * *
Alas! Even the conscience has been in the end a phantom atavistic and frightening. And it will only stop being so when man will have the knowledge to render it the image and the mirror of his own and only will.
* * *
The first man who said: “There is not any God”, was without a doubt an athlete of human thought. But the one who was limited to saying that: “The of God the priest is not”, cheated in equivocally leaving sufficient comprise to being, him, a suspicious partisan that already premeditated to kill the humans perhaps with a new lie. Keep yourselves well guarded from those who are limited to the sole negation of God.
Twilight Dance by renzo novatore
Symphonic prelude to “DYNAMITE”, By Renzo Novatore (Abele Ferrari), date of composition unknown). Translated by Luther Blissett 2009. Renzo Novatore writes about the sadness and alienation of everyday life in this poem touching on themes of love turned sour and the cruelty of being born into a hostile and oppressive world.
This is the hour of my nocturnal thoughts.
My Demon sleeps.
Sleeps in the dark twilight.
of this soul of mine
The red Demon
of my infernal joy.
I Smoke...
I Smoke desperately,
intensely. Always!
Always! Always! Always!
I wished to think, to write, to sing...
But my Demon sleeps.
Sleeps in the dark twilight
of this soul of mine
The red Demon
of my infernal joy.
And the thoughts do not come...
Not even the laughter and the malediction!
And this is my black hour
Of black melancholy
* * *
I watch, distractedly, my cigarette.
Slender, pallid and warm
Like a sick lover.
I watch it being consumed very slowly
like my life and my dreams:
like the life and the dreams of all my brothers.
The ash fell to earth and dispersed. So!
The smoke, it raises, dense and gray, in the air
and is dispersed also. So.
For me naught remains
but a bit of yellow nicotine on the loving lips. So.
* * *
My Demon sleeps.
Sleeps in the dark twilight
of this soul of mine
The red Demon
of my infernal joy.
I watch the Sun!
I see it descend between the blond whirlpool
of a beautiful sea of gold.
Of gold and of blood...
But my heart is bitten.
Bitten by a frigid plant
without hopes and tears,
without hatred and without love.
Oh, you could at least cry...
you could at least curse...
But, no!
No! no! no!
* * *
Who?
Who ever therefore has made me so bad?
Who is the evil craftsman
of this my suffering?
Oh mother... my mother...
If still you had the force
of being able at least to curse...
But, no!
No! No! No!
Nevertheless it was you only
you! Who
have given me life,
Who have given me pain,
Who have given me Evil!
But tell me:
You believed perhaps in the joy of living?
I am therefore the son of such a grotesque dream?
Or am I just a most vulgar son
of the collective unconsciousness?
But why then, oh mother,
didn't you have
- that day -
the heroic inspiration to strike
VIOLENTLY
your swollen stomach
over a hard stone. So!
Because I wouldn't have willed to see
The Sun.
Because I wouldn't have willed
This miserable life.
Because I suffer such, So...
O mother, you cry?
And why?
You feel perhaps the remorse
of having created me?
Imagine perhaps the evil
that torments me and breaks me
so terribly?
Oh, you had at least the force
Of being able to to curse...
But, no!
No! No! No!
They are too vile!
* * *
The river flows and sings...
(the beautiful river tranquil and laughing)
Flows over its fine bed
Of wet dust
and its white foams
are a golden quilt.
The titanic reef
washes its granitic flanks
within your terse waters
- o solitary river -
and seated at your banks
I
watch the green leaves
which, embroidered of shadow and of light,
the wind caresses. So!
I watch. Think and remember...
But my soul is dark
and, all around me,
the evening cries. Black.
I love no more.
I no longer believe!
* * *
Who?
Who ever therefore has made me so bad?
The women and Love?
The men and friendship?
The society and its law?
The humanity and its faith?
Perhaps them all!
Perhaps none of them!
I don't know...
I feel so bad...
So Much! So Much! So Much!
Here... in the soul!
* * *
My Demon sleeps.
sleeps in the dark twilight
of this soul of mine
How much is sad... Sad and melancholy.
* * *
I wish for new friends.
For true new friends.
I need to confide
(to someone)
my black melancholies.
But I do not have friends
I am alone!
Alone with my
MELANCHOLIES
Alone with my Destiny.
Alone, So alone!
* * *
My Demon sleeps.
My brain is shot through
by a Memory.
Memory of a dream.
Dream of youth:
“Men strong and happy,
embrace you, you entwine
with nude bodies of women
beautiful, joyous and happy,
you are celebrated and glorified
by children innocent and happy.
Then:
Flowers and sun.
Music and dances.
Stars and poetry.
Songs and love”.
* * *
My Demon sleeps.
My brain is shot through
By the rays yellowish
black and greenish
of the filthy reality!
Of the reality that passes...
“a blend of brutes and of brutal.
A compound of hypocrisy and ignorance.
A mixture of cowardice and lies.
A totality of dung and mud”.
Ah, no!
No! No! No!
I suffer such!
So Much! So Much! So Much!
* * *
The sun is setting.
(the beautiful sun of gold)
the Angels of the evening
are agonizing...
The green leaves are skulls of the dead,
cold, laughing scornfully...
The river
(the beautiful terse river)
is now a black serpent
frightfully distended between the masses of the reef.
Tomb gloomy and mute.
Tomb gloomy and black.
* * *
My cigarette is extinguished...
(my cigarette pallid and warm
like a sick lover)
The ash is dispersed.
The smoke as well.
To me naught remains but a bit
of yellow nicotine
on the loving lips:
Like of the life and of the dreams. So!
* * *
Within the dark twilight
Of my soul
My red Demon arouses itself.
I feel like a rivulet of bitter blood
flowing over loving lips...
I have a tragic premonition...
What will happen in the night?
But... the stars
the
dear stars they
will see
Oh, if you could again once more
only laugh and curse...
But I see a sinister flash (a pyre?)
Shining in the darkness of the night.
I must STRIKE!
I feel...
I feel! I feel! I feel!
I am a star who turns
towards a tragic sunset.
Towards the hurricane by renzo novatore
(Appeared in “Il Libertario”, La Spezia, a.XVIII, n.721, 27 February 1919)
Until the day will come we remain highheaded and all that which we can do we won't allow to be done before us
— W.Goethe
We make the pen red hot in the volcanic fire of the spirit of our negating; We dip it in our vigorous heart, swollen with rebellious blood and, in the atheist light of our spirit, we write, we write... We write then, rapidly, without going through literary research, without repugnant theoretical ideologies, without bigots and the sentimental mush from hysterics and politicos, wrapped only in the mantle of our furious passion!
We write only words of blood, of fire and of light!
Screech, graze o my coarse pen of fire and of energy upon the white candor of this sheet, as a viper tongue grazes upon the tender throat of an innocent child to give him, with venom, death. Away, get away from me me all the ideology, the theosophy, the philosophy dogmatic and political; distance from me every preestablished system: it has all fallen incinerated under the corroding flames of my negating spirit.
I am the perfect nihilist, the radical atheist.
It is not only from today, no, what I have found, what I have uncovered, that I know that the unique, the only, the most beautiful frame within that which stands out free, solemn and majestic the superb human Individuality is the Nothing, the true Nothing!
Not one lurid prison more will ever be able to lock up this rebel and iconoclast spirit of mine; yet today less than ever!
Today which the enormous bell of time has sounded and has sounded yes strong blows to break hardest neck from the plebeian idiot is from the Nothing that must jump furious outside the burning phalanxes of the black flames that, in the passionate impetus of the spontaneous revolt will constitute the crackling column of fire of which, preceding in front of the people, will give the first announcement of the final destruction. This is the hour of the feverish bitterness, of the terrible anxiety!
This is the hour that precedes the divine hour of the imminent tragedy, which will give us the heroic Death and the heroic Greatness.
O blessed hour that gives me all feverish intensity of the spirit, I love you! I won't give the bitterness that you gave me for all the mediocre sweetness of the world; I won't give the fever that hammers my temple, that burns my temple, that burns my forehead, for the tranquility and the peace of all the vile humans!
O Satan inspire me! You inspire me O my divine brother!
Give me the infernal power to ignite all those virgin spirits that have still not been buried in the dunghill of fallacious theories; Make that I can can tighten around me an bold handful of lovers of heroic and libertarian Greatness or Heroic Death.
But they will be! They must be! Those of fearful soul are there tranquilly to march in accompaniment of their stupid saints and the old cretinous good god!
But we march!
It has reached the hour to march for all those who, dominating the ideal, have become symbol and incarnation. Wrapped in the divinity of our torment, we will proceed in advance and, with the example of the facts, we will indicate to the men which are the ways that conduct towards the new light! We will fall? No Matter! We want the liberation from this stupid life of humility, of slavery, of servility, where man we must walk on his knees and the spirit speaks subdued, in a low voice, like a prayer.
We must kill the christian philosophy in the most radical sense of the word. How much mostly goes sneaking inside the democratic civilization (this most cynically ferocious form of christian depravity) and it goes more towards the categorical negation of human Individuality. “Democracy! By now we have comprised it that it means all that says Oscar Wilde Democracy is the people who govern the people with blows of the club for love of the people”.
Against all that is sounded the hour of insurgence and not with only some unpleasant and repugnant theoretic bleat of the lambs...
Much more is wanted in this bloody twilight of a civilization that has had its time!
Either the Death or a new Dawn where the Individuality lives above every thing.
I have forgotten everything, indeed not forgotten: surpassed (and I know it with what torment), also the insurpassable love for my Companion and the adoration for my child. My books my beloved books which are above every other thing I loved now sleep far away yonder, far away from me; perhaps yonder in the old house, within a large chest, perhaps covered with dust, perhaps bathed in the tears of my beloved Companion.
But also the love for you, o my beloved books, o luminous torches of my thought, is surpassed! Today I feel within me something more strong than all the loves, that kisses my soul with all the heat of an irresistible fascination...
On the fragments of all that that I have destroyed with the negation, a new faith is reborn. The faith of the impossible rendered possible from my negation, or the ultimate purification, how true, that is found between the burning flames of the final catastrophe, tragic and redeeming. Today I try a single hour of furious anarchy and, for that hour I will give all of my dreams, all of my loves, all of my life. But that hour will come! Oh, it will come! And if it mustn't come I will give voluntarily into the cannibal hands of that idiotic and beastly society that already has presented me a magnificent sentence of death (in order that I be remembered to possess superior ideas which are worthy for teaching that the divine freedom of the I is something more beautiful and more great than their bestial war) and I would cynically shoot in sign of the deepest contempt against myself and the unnameable cowardice of all humans. Giving a salute to the revived “Libertario” and the next social insurrection, I fraternally grasp the hand of the true rebels of all the varied tendencies!
Today it is eve of Action! From the first sparks I will be beside you.
Until the day will come we remain highheaded and all that which we can do we won't allow to be done before us
— W.Goethe
We make the pen red hot in the volcanic fire of the spirit of our negating; We dip it in our vigorous heart, swollen with rebellious blood and, in the atheist light of our spirit, we write, we write... We write then, rapidly, without going through literary research, without repugnant theoretical ideologies, without bigots and the sentimental mush from hysterics and politicos, wrapped only in the mantle of our furious passion!
We write only words of blood, of fire and of light!
Screech, graze o my coarse pen of fire and of energy upon the white candor of this sheet, as a viper tongue grazes upon the tender throat of an innocent child to give him, with venom, death. Away, get away from me me all the ideology, the theosophy, the philosophy dogmatic and political; distance from me every preestablished system: it has all fallen incinerated under the corroding flames of my negating spirit.
I am the perfect nihilist, the radical atheist.
It is not only from today, no, what I have found, what I have uncovered, that I know that the unique, the only, the most beautiful frame within that which stands out free, solemn and majestic the superb human Individuality is the Nothing, the true Nothing!
Not one lurid prison more will ever be able to lock up this rebel and iconoclast spirit of mine; yet today less than ever!
Today which the enormous bell of time has sounded and has sounded yes strong blows to break hardest neck from the plebeian idiot is from the Nothing that must jump furious outside the burning phalanxes of the black flames that, in the passionate impetus of the spontaneous revolt will constitute the crackling column of fire of which, preceding in front of the people, will give the first announcement of the final destruction. This is the hour of the feverish bitterness, of the terrible anxiety!
This is the hour that precedes the divine hour of the imminent tragedy, which will give us the heroic Death and the heroic Greatness.
O blessed hour that gives me all feverish intensity of the spirit, I love you! I won't give the bitterness that you gave me for all the mediocre sweetness of the world; I won't give the fever that hammers my temple, that burns my temple, that burns my forehead, for the tranquility and the peace of all the vile humans!
O Satan inspire me! You inspire me O my divine brother!
Give me the infernal power to ignite all those virgin spirits that have still not been buried in the dunghill of fallacious theories; Make that I can can tighten around me an bold handful of lovers of heroic and libertarian Greatness or Heroic Death.
But they will be! They must be! Those of fearful soul are there tranquilly to march in accompaniment of their stupid saints and the old cretinous good god!
But we march!
It has reached the hour to march for all those who, dominating the ideal, have become symbol and incarnation. Wrapped in the divinity of our torment, we will proceed in advance and, with the example of the facts, we will indicate to the men which are the ways that conduct towards the new light! We will fall? No Matter! We want the liberation from this stupid life of humility, of slavery, of servility, where man we must walk on his knees and the spirit speaks subdued, in a low voice, like a prayer.
We must kill the christian philosophy in the most radical sense of the word. How much mostly goes sneaking inside the democratic civilization (this most cynically ferocious form of christian depravity) and it goes more towards the categorical negation of human Individuality. “Democracy! By now we have comprised it that it means all that says Oscar Wilde Democracy is the people who govern the people with blows of the club for love of the people”.
Against all that is sounded the hour of insurgence and not with only some unpleasant and repugnant theoretic bleat of the lambs...
Much more is wanted in this bloody twilight of a civilization that has had its time!
Either the Death or a new Dawn where the Individuality lives above every thing.
I have forgotten everything, indeed not forgotten: surpassed (and I know it with what torment), also the insurpassable love for my Companion and the adoration for my child. My books my beloved books which are above every other thing I loved now sleep far away yonder, far away from me; perhaps yonder in the old house, within a large chest, perhaps covered with dust, perhaps bathed in the tears of my beloved Companion.
But also the love for you, o my beloved books, o luminous torches of my thought, is surpassed! Today I feel within me something more strong than all the loves, that kisses my soul with all the heat of an irresistible fascination...
On the fragments of all that that I have destroyed with the negation, a new faith is reborn. The faith of the impossible rendered possible from my negation, or the ultimate purification, how true, that is found between the burning flames of the final catastrophe, tragic and redeeming. Today I try a single hour of furious anarchy and, for that hour I will give all of my dreams, all of my loves, all of my life. But that hour will come! Oh, it will come! And if it mustn't come I will give voluntarily into the cannibal hands of that idiotic and beastly society that already has presented me a magnificent sentence of death (in order that I be remembered to possess superior ideas which are worthy for teaching that the divine freedom of the I is something more beautiful and more great than their bestial war) and I would cynically shoot in sign of the deepest contempt against myself and the unnameable cowardice of all humans. Giving a salute to the revived “Libertario” and the next social insurrection, I fraternally grasp the hand of the true rebels of all the varied tendencies!
Today it is eve of Action! From the first sparks I will be beside you.
Returning by renzo novatore
(Appeared in Il Libertario, La Spezia, n.732, 25 September 1919) Translated by Luther Blissett 2009. A short letter of thanks and solidarity written by Renzo Novatore to the anarchist periodical “Il Libertario” in September 1919 after having stayed a few months in jail for taking part in the attempted social insurrection in the town of La Spezia earlier that year.
Dear “Libertario”,
Twenty-two months by now are passed from the day in which the most brutal and viscid of all monsters attempted to sweep me up also between its lurid and bloody maws. Yes, even I was destined to being transformed into a humble instrument of bestial servilism; even I was destined to sacrifice myself (Oh, the sacrificial beasts) on the most stupid and grotesque altar of all the human phantoms; even I was destined to being transformed into a “piece of human material”...
But I do not believe in destiny.
Not even in fate do I believe! No! I believe only in my capacity of potential! And it is only in name of this that I answered with an arrogant and scornful “NO” distinctly anarchic, and I went away from there...
I have walked with infinite joy upon the paths of Pain. For a companion I have always had Peril, who is ever like a dear brother. On the lips I always had the ironic grin of the superior and of the strong; in the serene eyes of the the fascinating vision of the heroic tragedy I only understood the free mantle of liberated life. I was alone... but in the shadow I knew that there was a daring hidden phalanx of the coherent and audacious that lived my same life! Ah, how much love I felt for that anonymous cadre...
What does it matter if a great part of them languish a long time on the floor of of humid cells? They did not fold! They lived, we lived at the margins of the society of the true rebels, of intransigent Iconoclasts, or those not caring of that which could be the final tragedy. And it is to this Fist of conscientious “Black Protesters”, Oh, dear “Libertario”, that today I send to your columns after having profoundly given thanks to You and all that cadre of anarchist companions and socialist friends for the maximum moral and material solidarity lent during my illegal vagabondage and my... legal imprisonment My most fervent and fraternal salute saying to them: “You are proud and fair of your action, because and only from the disobedience and from the revolt is born a shining ray of human beauty!”.
Hail to you, Oh true anarchists!
Hail to you, Oh human siblings!
Dear “Libertario”,
Twenty-two months by now are passed from the day in which the most brutal and viscid of all monsters attempted to sweep me up also between its lurid and bloody maws. Yes, even I was destined to being transformed into a humble instrument of bestial servilism; even I was destined to sacrifice myself (Oh, the sacrificial beasts) on the most stupid and grotesque altar of all the human phantoms; even I was destined to being transformed into a “piece of human material”...
But I do not believe in destiny.
Not even in fate do I believe! No! I believe only in my capacity of potential! And it is only in name of this that I answered with an arrogant and scornful “NO” distinctly anarchic, and I went away from there...
I have walked with infinite joy upon the paths of Pain. For a companion I have always had Peril, who is ever like a dear brother. On the lips I always had the ironic grin of the superior and of the strong; in the serene eyes of the the fascinating vision of the heroic tragedy I only understood the free mantle of liberated life. I was alone... but in the shadow I knew that there was a daring hidden phalanx of the coherent and audacious that lived my same life! Ah, how much love I felt for that anonymous cadre...
What does it matter if a great part of them languish a long time on the floor of of humid cells? They did not fold! They lived, we lived at the margins of the society of the true rebels, of intransigent Iconoclasts, or those not caring of that which could be the final tragedy. And it is to this Fist of conscientious “Black Protesters”, Oh, dear “Libertario”, that today I send to your columns after having profoundly given thanks to You and all that cadre of anarchist companions and socialist friends for the maximum moral and material solidarity lent during my illegal vagabondage and my... legal imprisonment My most fervent and fraternal salute saying to them: “You are proud and fair of your action, because and only from the disobedience and from the revolt is born a shining ray of human beauty!”.
Hail to you, Oh true anarchists!
Hail to you, Oh human siblings!
My Maxims (From My Intimate Thoughts Notebook) by renzo novatore
GOD: The creation of a sick fantasy. Inhabitant of senile and impotent brains. Companion and comforter of rancid spirits born to slavery. A pill for constipated minds. Marxism for the faint of heart.
HUMANITY: An abstract word with a negative connotation, long on power, short on truth. An obscene mask painted on the mean face of a shrewd vulgarian for the purpose of dominating the multitude of sentimentalist idiots and imbeciles.
COUNTRY: Penal servitude for the semi-intelligent, a cowshed of imbecility. A Circe who transforms her adoring fans into dogs and pigs. A prostitute for the master, a pimp of the foreigner. Child-eater, parent-slanderer and scoffer at heroes.
FAMILY: The denial of love, life and liberty.
SOCIALISM: Discipline, discipline; obedience, obedience; slavery and ignorance, pregnant with authority. A bourgeois body grotesquely fattened by a vulgar christian creature. A medley of fetishism, sectarianism and cowardice.
ORGANIZATIONS, LEGISLATIVE BODIES AND UNIONS: Churches for the powerless. Pawnshops for the stingy and weak. Many join to live parasitically off the backs of their card-carrying simpleton colleagues. Some join to become spies. Others, the most sincere, join to end up in jail from where they can observe the mean-spiritedness of all the rest.
SOLIDARITY: The macabre altar used by capable comedians of all sort to display their priestly talent for reciting masses. The beneficiaries pay nothing less than 100% humiliation.
FRIENDSHIP: Fortunate are those who have drunk from its chalice without having their souls offended or poisoned. If one such person exists, I urge them to send me their photograph. I'm sure to look upon the face of an idiot.
LOVE: Deception of the flesh and damage to the spirit. Disease of the soul, atrophy of the brain, weakening of the heart, corruption of the senses, poetic lies from which one gets ferociously inebriated two or three times a day in order to consume this precious but stupid life more quickly. And yet I would prefer to die of love. It's the only swindler, after Judas, that can kill with a kiss.
MAN: A filthy paste of servitude, tyranny, fetishism, fear, vanity -and ignorance. The greatest offence one can commit against an ass is to call it a man.
WOMAN: The most brutal of enslaved beasts. The greatest victim shuffling on earth. And, after man, the most responsible for her problems. I'd be curious to know what goes through her mind when I kiss her.
HUMANITY: An abstract word with a negative connotation, long on power, short on truth. An obscene mask painted on the mean face of a shrewd vulgarian for the purpose of dominating the multitude of sentimentalist idiots and imbeciles.
COUNTRY: Penal servitude for the semi-intelligent, a cowshed of imbecility. A Circe who transforms her adoring fans into dogs and pigs. A prostitute for the master, a pimp of the foreigner. Child-eater, parent-slanderer and scoffer at heroes.
FAMILY: The denial of love, life and liberty.
SOCIALISM: Discipline, discipline; obedience, obedience; slavery and ignorance, pregnant with authority. A bourgeois body grotesquely fattened by a vulgar christian creature. A medley of fetishism, sectarianism and cowardice.
ORGANIZATIONS, LEGISLATIVE BODIES AND UNIONS: Churches for the powerless. Pawnshops for the stingy and weak. Many join to live parasitically off the backs of their card-carrying simpleton colleagues. Some join to become spies. Others, the most sincere, join to end up in jail from where they can observe the mean-spiritedness of all the rest.
SOLIDARITY: The macabre altar used by capable comedians of all sort to display their priestly talent for reciting masses. The beneficiaries pay nothing less than 100% humiliation.
FRIENDSHIP: Fortunate are those who have drunk from its chalice without having their souls offended or poisoned. If one such person exists, I urge them to send me their photograph. I'm sure to look upon the face of an idiot.
LOVE: Deception of the flesh and damage to the spirit. Disease of the soul, atrophy of the brain, weakening of the heart, corruption of the senses, poetic lies from which one gets ferociously inebriated two or three times a day in order to consume this precious but stupid life more quickly. And yet I would prefer to die of love. It's the only swindler, after Judas, that can kill with a kiss.
MAN: A filthy paste of servitude, tyranny, fetishism, fear, vanity -and ignorance. The greatest offence one can commit against an ass is to call it a man.
WOMAN: The most brutal of enslaved beasts. The greatest victim shuffling on earth. And, after man, the most responsible for her problems. I'd be curious to know what goes through her mind when I kiss her.
In The Reign of The Phantoms by renzo novatore
“There existed nothing more than Beauty and Strength but the brutes and the weak invented, to equalize themselves, Justice.”
Raffaele Valente
I believed it was a frightening dream and instead it's a bloody reality.
I am besieged and compressed within a twofold circle of the obsessed and mad.
The world is one pestulant church covetous and slimy where all have an idol to fetishistically adore and an altar on which to sacrifice themself.
Also those who ignited the iconoclastic pyre in order to burn the cross on which the man God was nailed, they have still not understood either the outcry of life nor the roar of Freedom.
After Jesus Christ, from the pit of his legend, spit on the face of humanity the most bloody insult urging it to negate itself in order to approach God, the French Revolution came which with ferocious irony made the same appeal proclaiming the “rights of the man”.
With Christ and the French Revolution the man is imperfect. The cross of Christ symbolizes the POSSIBILITY to become MAN, the “rights of the man” symbolize the very same thing. In order to achieve perfection you must divinize for the first one, to humanize for the second one.
But the one and the other are in accord in proclaiming the imperfection of the individual-man, of the royal self, asserting that only through the realization of the ideal, can man rise to the magical summits of perfection.
Christ says to you: if you will patiently await the desolate calvary to then nail yourself on the cross, becoming the image of ME that is the ManGod, you will be the perfect human creature worthy of sitting at the right of my father who is in the kingdom of heaven.
And the French Revolution says to you: I have proclaimed the rights of man.
If you will enter devoutly in the symbolic cloister of human social justice to sublimate and humanize through the moral canon of social life, you will be a citizen and I will give you the rights I proclaimed to man.
But who dared to throw to the flames the cross where is hung the man-God and the tables where are obliquely recorded the rights of the man in order then to rest on the virgin and granitic mass of free force, the epicentric axis of individual life, would be one wicked and evil against whom would be turned the bloody jaws of the two sinister phantoms: the divine and the human.
At right the sulfuric flames and eternal pit of the hell that punishes SIN, on the left deaf creaking of the guillotine which condemns CRIME.
The the cold and inanimate cowardice of human fear, germinated from the theorization of a mystical and sick sentiment, finally has succeeded to prevail over the healthy and primitive instinctive and animated INJUSTICE that was only Force and Beauty, Youth and Ardor.
Progress (?) and Civilization (?), Religion (?) and the Ideal (?), have closed life in a mortal circle where the phantoms most grim have erected their viscid reign. Time to to end it! We must break the circle violently and exit.
If the chimeras of the divine legends have influenced the human history terribly and if human history wants the mutilation of the royalinstinctive man in order to follow its course: we are rebels! It is not our fault if from the symbolic wounds of Christ are spraying the purulent drops of matter upon the red disc of humanity, to then generate it's infected civil rot which proclaims the rights of man. If men want to rot in the systematic caverns of social putrefaction then they are accommodated well. We will not be there to liberate them!
But we love the Sun and want to freely contort in pangs of its hot and most violent kiss.
* * *
If I look around myself I want to vomit.
On one side the scientist whom I must believe in order not to be ignorant. From the other the moralist and the philosopher from whom I must accept the commandments in order to not be a brute.
Then comes the Genius whom I must glorify and after the hero to whom I must bow affectedly. Then the companion comes and the friend, the idealist and the materialist, the atheist and the believer and all other infinity of monkeys definite and indefinite that want to give their good councils to me and to place me, finally, on the one good path. Because naturally that the path which I was on is a mistaken path, as mistaken as my ideas, my thought, my everything. I am a mistaken man.
They poor fools are all pervading from the idea that life has called them to you to be official clergymen on the altar of the great mission, because humanity is called towards a great destiny.
These poor and compassionate animals disfigured by false ideals and transfigured from madness, have not ever been able to comprehend the tragic miracle and play of life, as they have not been able to ever notice that humanity is not at all called to any great destiny. If they had understood anything of that, they would have at least learned that the so called nonsimilar does not will at all to break off the spinal bone in order to ride the abyss that separates one from the other.
But I am that which I am, I do not care what.
And the croaks of these other multicolor carrion crows are not needed to repair my personal and noble wisdom. Hear not, apostolic monkeys of humanity and social divinity, any rumblings from your phantoms above?
Hear, hear! It is the satient pelting of my furious laughter, that which is in the echoes!
the expropiator by renzo novatore
For Nikolina
My freedom and my rights
As much as my capacity of power
Even the felicity and greatness
I have only in the measure of my strength!
(From a book I have written that will never see the light)
The expropriator is the most beautiful figure, male, unscrupulous, and virile that I have ever found in anarchism. He is the one who has nought to attend to. He is the one who has no altar on which to sacrifice himself. He glorifies only Life with the philosophy of Action. I met him in a distant midday in August while the sun embroidered in gold the giant green nature, perfumed and festive, singing playful songs of pagan beauty.
He said, “I was always a restless spirit, vagabond and rebellious. I have studied people and their souls in books and in reality. I have found a mixture of comedian, of plebeian, of villain. I was nauseated. From one part the sinister moral phantoms, created by the lies and by the hypocrisy that dominate. From the other part the sacrificial beasts that adore with fanaticism and cowardice. This is the world of men. This is humanity. To this world, for these men and this humanity, I feel repugnance.
Plebeian and bourgeois are equivalent. They deserve each other. Socialism is not of this opinion. He had made the discovery of good and evil. And to destroy these two antagonisms he created another two phantoms: Equality and Fraternity among men...
“But people will be equal before the state and free in Socialism ... He — socialism — Has denied the Force, the Youth, the War! But when the bourgeoisie, who are the peasants of the spirit, don't will to be the same as plebeians, who are peasants of the flesh, then socialism admits, whining, war. Yes, even socialism admits homicide and expropriation. But in the name of an ideal of equality and of human brotherhood... Of that holy equality and brotherhood that commenced from Cain & Abel!...
“But with Socialism you think to half; you are half free; you are half alive!... Socialism is intolerance, is impotence of living, is the faith of fear. I'm going beyond!
“The Socialists have found good the equality, and bad the inequality. Good the servants and bad the tyrants. I crossed the threshold of good and evil in order to live my life intensely. I live today and can not await tomorrow. The wait is of peoples and of humanity, so could not be my affair. The future is the mask of fear. The courage and strength have no future for the simple fact that they themselves are the future that revolts on the past and destroys it.
“The purity of life proceeds only with the nobility of courage that is the philosophy of action.”
I observed: “The purity of this your life seems to me to border on crime!”
He said: “Crime is the supreme synthesis of liberty and life. The world is the moral world of phantoms. There are spectres and shadows of spectres, there is the Ideal, Universal Love, the Future. Here is the shadow of the spectre: here is ignorance, fear, cowardice. Deep darkness. Perhaps eternal darkness. Even I had lived, one day, in that bleak and lurid prison.
Then I was armed with a sacrilegious torch to ignite the ghosts and violate the night. When I arrived at the rusty gates of good and evil I have I have furiously toppled them I have crossed the threshold. The bourgeoisie I have thrown his moral anathema and plebeian idiot his moral curse.
“But the one and the other are humanity. I am a man. Humanity is my enemy. It wants to tighten me around its thousand horrendous tentacles. I try to tear from it all which my desires need. We are at war! Everything I have the force to wrest is mine.
And all that which is mine I sacrifice upon the altar of my freedom and my life.
Of this my life that I feel palpitate among the palpitating flames I burst in the heart; Among this savage torture of all my being that I inflate the soul of divine storms, and that makes me echo in the spirit of thunderous fanfare of war and polyphonic symphonies of a superior love, strange and unknown, that I (empie[1]) the veins of a blood lush and vigorous, that spreads in all the wrapping of my muscles, of my nerves and of my flesh, quivering diabolically with rejoicing expansion; of this my life of which I glimpse through the vision crowd of my fantastic dreams, eager and needful of of perennial development.
My motto is: walk expropriating and igniting, always leaving behind me howls of moral offenses and smoking trunks of old things.
When men possess no more ethical wealth truly unique real inviolable treasures then I will throw out my lock-picks. When in the world there will be no more phantoms, then I will throw out my torch. But this future is distant and might never be! And I am a son of this distant future, sealed in lead on this world by Chance to where I bow to power.” So said to me the Expropriator in that distant midday in August while the sun embroidered in gold the giant green nature, fragrant and festive, singing songs of joyful pagan beauty.
My freedom and my rights
As much as my capacity of power
Even the felicity and greatness
I have only in the measure of my strength!
(From a book I have written that will never see the light)
The expropriator is the most beautiful figure, male, unscrupulous, and virile that I have ever found in anarchism. He is the one who has nought to attend to. He is the one who has no altar on which to sacrifice himself. He glorifies only Life with the philosophy of Action. I met him in a distant midday in August while the sun embroidered in gold the giant green nature, perfumed and festive, singing playful songs of pagan beauty.
He said, “I was always a restless spirit, vagabond and rebellious. I have studied people and their souls in books and in reality. I have found a mixture of comedian, of plebeian, of villain. I was nauseated. From one part the sinister moral phantoms, created by the lies and by the hypocrisy that dominate. From the other part the sacrificial beasts that adore with fanaticism and cowardice. This is the world of men. This is humanity. To this world, for these men and this humanity, I feel repugnance.
Plebeian and bourgeois are equivalent. They deserve each other. Socialism is not of this opinion. He had made the discovery of good and evil. And to destroy these two antagonisms he created another two phantoms: Equality and Fraternity among men...
“But people will be equal before the state and free in Socialism ... He — socialism — Has denied the Force, the Youth, the War! But when the bourgeoisie, who are the peasants of the spirit, don't will to be the same as plebeians, who are peasants of the flesh, then socialism admits, whining, war. Yes, even socialism admits homicide and expropriation. But in the name of an ideal of equality and of human brotherhood... Of that holy equality and brotherhood that commenced from Cain & Abel!...
“But with Socialism you think to half; you are half free; you are half alive!... Socialism is intolerance, is impotence of living, is the faith of fear. I'm going beyond!
“The Socialists have found good the equality, and bad the inequality. Good the servants and bad the tyrants. I crossed the threshold of good and evil in order to live my life intensely. I live today and can not await tomorrow. The wait is of peoples and of humanity, so could not be my affair. The future is the mask of fear. The courage and strength have no future for the simple fact that they themselves are the future that revolts on the past and destroys it.
“The purity of life proceeds only with the nobility of courage that is the philosophy of action.”
I observed: “The purity of this your life seems to me to border on crime!”
He said: “Crime is the supreme synthesis of liberty and life. The world is the moral world of phantoms. There are spectres and shadows of spectres, there is the Ideal, Universal Love, the Future. Here is the shadow of the spectre: here is ignorance, fear, cowardice. Deep darkness. Perhaps eternal darkness. Even I had lived, one day, in that bleak and lurid prison.
Then I was armed with a sacrilegious torch to ignite the ghosts and violate the night. When I arrived at the rusty gates of good and evil I have I have furiously toppled them I have crossed the threshold. The bourgeoisie I have thrown his moral anathema and plebeian idiot his moral curse.
“But the one and the other are humanity. I am a man. Humanity is my enemy. It wants to tighten me around its thousand horrendous tentacles. I try to tear from it all which my desires need. We are at war! Everything I have the force to wrest is mine.
And all that which is mine I sacrifice upon the altar of my freedom and my life.
Of this my life that I feel palpitate among the palpitating flames I burst in the heart; Among this savage torture of all my being that I inflate the soul of divine storms, and that makes me echo in the spirit of thunderous fanfare of war and polyphonic symphonies of a superior love, strange and unknown, that I (empie[1]) the veins of a blood lush and vigorous, that spreads in all the wrapping of my muscles, of my nerves and of my flesh, quivering diabolically with rejoicing expansion; of this my life of which I glimpse through the vision crowd of my fantastic dreams, eager and needful of of perennial development.
My motto is: walk expropriating and igniting, always leaving behind me howls of moral offenses and smoking trunks of old things.
When men possess no more ethical wealth truly unique real inviolable treasures then I will throw out my lock-picks. When in the world there will be no more phantoms, then I will throw out my torch. But this future is distant and might never be! And I am a son of this distant future, sealed in lead on this world by Chance to where I bow to power.” So said to me the Expropriator in that distant midday in August while the sun embroidered in gold the giant green nature, fragrant and festive, singing songs of joyful pagan beauty.
The Dream of My Adolescence by renzo novatore
So the wisdom of the putrefied cowardishly neither sneers nor scandalizes the idiot chastity of the good little girl.
I am a precocious adolescent who after having completed a long voyage through the phosphorescent labyrinths of the most frightening depths, go back upon the vertex to sing in the sun the sacrilegious and proud song of my still young and therefore free life.
Someone has said to me: “You will be maiden, then wife, then mother!...” So, I responded, with a question: What are you trying to say, maiden, wife and mother? I won't say here that which was answered to me; I only know that to think of it I laugh, yes, I still laugh. Love understood as a mission!? The maiden wife and mother? No, no, no! I will not be wife, I will not be mother! My revolt can neither be interrupted or foiled. My revolt — beyond the family — I launch its darts against nature. I do not want to be wife, I do not want to be mother. No, no, no!
* * *
Yesterday evening I was stripping nude in front of the mirror and I looked at myself lengthily. I have seen my body of flesh wrapped in a shadow of light that had small quivers. I do not know well why but I was adorable...
The turgid breast I erect superb upon the bosom, treasure of milky whiteness. My stomach smooth and round gave me the impression of being something modeled upon the finest ivory from the miraculous hand of a divine artist.
I had the scant blond ring of hair in the round curve of the back, and the eyes from the humid eyelids lightly circled with violet and black.
The down crowning the concave base of my stomach seemed to me a golden wing upon the sacred spine of the angels of heaven. My red mouth appeared a ripe pomegranate, open to the blond caresses of the sun.
I was drawn to the mirror and voluptuously kissed my reflected lips.
I don't know if I ever desired anything in life with such intensity when yesterday evening I desired to be a man in order to tumble upon the bed that white virgin body that the mystery of the smooth mirror revealed to me.
But the idea of the embrace generated another idea. Every cause has an effect...
I lay supine upon the bed. My temples hammered. The blood burst in my veins. Perhaps I was delirious...
I know that I had the eyes closed and saw nothing but darkness. But amidst the darkness I saw another mirror. That of the imagination that showed the reality. I watched. I saw my beautiful stomach round and glazed frightfully swollen, with, in the center, a symmetrical line of a blackish-yellow color, which gave me the viscid impression of a small snake spread over a large sack filled with withered grass. Then also my breasts white and superb I saw sagging and withered... I was a mother!
A hateful tot sucked my blood avidly, spoiled my youth, ruthlessly destroyed my divine beauty that I had willed immortal. The desire of yesterday evening was past, but the incubus remained.
Mother... what is all that supposed to mean? To give sons to the species, other slaves to the society, other derelicts to pain...
...Mother...Wife...
Are these then the goals of Love?
Ah, old witcheries of morality, old lies of this old humanity.
No, I will not ever be the wife of anybody, I will give not one son to the species. Never! Life is pain, humanity is a lie. Who consents to perpetuate the species is the enemy of pure beauty.
Humanity is a race that must DISAPPEAR! Individualism must kill the society, pleasure must strangle pain. So regret and pain die drowning in a final orgy of joy. Give yourself to the mad joy of living you that mates life, you that mates the end... Who must care for the future? Who can care about the species?
Forward, you, that you become realized, we will make of the world one festival and life a twilight orgy of love. For those who come from the abysses of the social lie in the that place where the roots of human pain stay clinging, joy must be an aim and the end the supreme goal. I do not want to have a son that wastes my beauty, that withers my youth. I do not want a family that constrains my freedom: I do not want a husband insipid, jealous and brutal, that, as recompense a piece of bread, impedes my spirit from the lyrical flights through the most divine and sinful madnesses of the luxury and the voluptuousness that multiple lovers give to the flesh.
I do not love the husbands and maybe not even the lovers. I love the pleasure and the love. But the love is a flower that germinates on the mouths of men.
When I will approach their mouth in order to pick the perverse flower of Love, I will only do it for my own love. To love others is always superfluous and sometimes is foolish.
It is enough to love oneself. Enough to know one's own love. And I will know to love myself a lot, a lot! I will love naked before the mirror in the evening, I will adore naked in the bathtub in the morning, I will be naked and intoxicated in the arms of lovers. Humanity walks on the path of pain to perpetuate itself, I will walk the path of pleasure because I seek the end.
***
I walk towards the East, I walk towards the West. I want to walk by the paths of the world in order to pick the flowers of love, of joy and of freedom.
I love the silk stockings black and flesh colored. Panties of white silk and rose silk. Shoes of rubber and refined material. Baths of sorrel water and of cologne, The scent of cotty and bundles of roses.
I want to walk by the paths of the world in order to pick the flowers of love, of joy and of freedom.
I will crush the fronds of the limetrees, will pick tubes of hydrangea, clusters of wisteria and flowers of oleander to prepare for my love scented beds. And I will be the lover of the vagabonds and of the thieves. And I will be the ideal of the poets. Because I do not want to give anything to the fatherland, to the species and to humanity.
I want to become drunk from to the source of pleasure, of luxury and voluptuousness.
I want to burn myself completely upon the fire of love.
I do not want to be mother, I do not want to be wife. No, no, no!
Perfumed beds, kisses of lovers and music of mad violins. Dances and songs. I know.
You will call me crazy and perverse. You will call me whore.
But those are old impotent names that do not affect me anymore.
I am the precocious adolescent, that after having have wandered in the most frightening abysses of the depth, rebound upon the vertex in order to sing in the sun the sacrilegious song of my free life. Life of beauty and force, life of art and love, source of divine sin, gushing in the sacred oasis of voluptuousness.
Now enough with the epileptic frenzies of the spirit.
Naught more of my young body belonging to pagan beauty.
Oh love take me to flight...
I am a precocious adolescent who after having completed a long voyage through the phosphorescent labyrinths of the most frightening depths, go back upon the vertex to sing in the sun the sacrilegious and proud song of my still young and therefore free life.
Someone has said to me: “You will be maiden, then wife, then mother!...” So, I responded, with a question: What are you trying to say, maiden, wife and mother? I won't say here that which was answered to me; I only know that to think of it I laugh, yes, I still laugh. Love understood as a mission!? The maiden wife and mother? No, no, no! I will not be wife, I will not be mother! My revolt can neither be interrupted or foiled. My revolt — beyond the family — I launch its darts against nature. I do not want to be wife, I do not want to be mother. No, no, no!
* * *
Yesterday evening I was stripping nude in front of the mirror and I looked at myself lengthily. I have seen my body of flesh wrapped in a shadow of light that had small quivers. I do not know well why but I was adorable...
The turgid breast I erect superb upon the bosom, treasure of milky whiteness. My stomach smooth and round gave me the impression of being something modeled upon the finest ivory from the miraculous hand of a divine artist.
I had the scant blond ring of hair in the round curve of the back, and the eyes from the humid eyelids lightly circled with violet and black.
The down crowning the concave base of my stomach seemed to me a golden wing upon the sacred spine of the angels of heaven. My red mouth appeared a ripe pomegranate, open to the blond caresses of the sun.
I was drawn to the mirror and voluptuously kissed my reflected lips.
I don't know if I ever desired anything in life with such intensity when yesterday evening I desired to be a man in order to tumble upon the bed that white virgin body that the mystery of the smooth mirror revealed to me.
But the idea of the embrace generated another idea. Every cause has an effect...
I lay supine upon the bed. My temples hammered. The blood burst in my veins. Perhaps I was delirious...
I know that I had the eyes closed and saw nothing but darkness. But amidst the darkness I saw another mirror. That of the imagination that showed the reality. I watched. I saw my beautiful stomach round and glazed frightfully swollen, with, in the center, a symmetrical line of a blackish-yellow color, which gave me the viscid impression of a small snake spread over a large sack filled with withered grass. Then also my breasts white and superb I saw sagging and withered... I was a mother!
A hateful tot sucked my blood avidly, spoiled my youth, ruthlessly destroyed my divine beauty that I had willed immortal. The desire of yesterday evening was past, but the incubus remained.
Mother... what is all that supposed to mean? To give sons to the species, other slaves to the society, other derelicts to pain...
...Mother...Wife...
Are these then the goals of Love?
Ah, old witcheries of morality, old lies of this old humanity.
No, I will not ever be the wife of anybody, I will give not one son to the species. Never! Life is pain, humanity is a lie. Who consents to perpetuate the species is the enemy of pure beauty.
Humanity is a race that must DISAPPEAR! Individualism must kill the society, pleasure must strangle pain. So regret and pain die drowning in a final orgy of joy. Give yourself to the mad joy of living you that mates life, you that mates the end... Who must care for the future? Who can care about the species?
Forward, you, that you become realized, we will make of the world one festival and life a twilight orgy of love. For those who come from the abysses of the social lie in the that place where the roots of human pain stay clinging, joy must be an aim and the end the supreme goal. I do not want to have a son that wastes my beauty, that withers my youth. I do not want a family that constrains my freedom: I do not want a husband insipid, jealous and brutal, that, as recompense a piece of bread, impedes my spirit from the lyrical flights through the most divine and sinful madnesses of the luxury and the voluptuousness that multiple lovers give to the flesh.
I do not love the husbands and maybe not even the lovers. I love the pleasure and the love. But the love is a flower that germinates on the mouths of men.
When I will approach their mouth in order to pick the perverse flower of Love, I will only do it for my own love. To love others is always superfluous and sometimes is foolish.
It is enough to love oneself. Enough to know one's own love. And I will know to love myself a lot, a lot! I will love naked before the mirror in the evening, I will adore naked in the bathtub in the morning, I will be naked and intoxicated in the arms of lovers. Humanity walks on the path of pain to perpetuate itself, I will walk the path of pleasure because I seek the end.
***
I walk towards the East, I walk towards the West. I want to walk by the paths of the world in order to pick the flowers of love, of joy and of freedom.
I love the silk stockings black and flesh colored. Panties of white silk and rose silk. Shoes of rubber and refined material. Baths of sorrel water and of cologne, The scent of cotty and bundles of roses.
I want to walk by the paths of the world in order to pick the flowers of love, of joy and of freedom.
I will crush the fronds of the limetrees, will pick tubes of hydrangea, clusters of wisteria and flowers of oleander to prepare for my love scented beds. And I will be the lover of the vagabonds and of the thieves. And I will be the ideal of the poets. Because I do not want to give anything to the fatherland, to the species and to humanity.
I want to become drunk from to the source of pleasure, of luxury and voluptuousness.
I want to burn myself completely upon the fire of love.
I do not want to be mother, I do not want to be wife. No, no, no!
Perfumed beds, kisses of lovers and music of mad violins. Dances and songs. I know.
You will call me crazy and perverse. You will call me whore.
But those are old impotent names that do not affect me anymore.
I am the precocious adolescent, that after having have wandered in the most frightening abysses of the depth, rebound upon the vertex in order to sing in the sun the sacrilegious song of my free life. Life of beauty and force, life of art and love, source of divine sin, gushing in the sacred oasis of voluptuousness.
Now enough with the epileptic frenzies of the spirit.
Naught more of my young body belonging to pagan beauty.
Oh love take me to flight...
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