I close the eyes of my intelligence, and giving voice to the unformulated within me, I offer myself the sense of having wrested from the unknown something real.
I believe in spontaneous conjurations.
On the paths along which my blood draws me, it cannot be that one day I will not discover a truth.[1]
Antonin Artaud does not call for
destruction of reason through the imaginary but an affirmation of
reason’s self-destruction on the way to self-creation. There is a
knowledge which Artaud is in pursuit of without knowing what that
knowledge is and what purpose it serves. Artaud is always in pursuit of
this unattainable and ungraspable knowledge and he knows that, as he is
trying to give it a voice, he is moving away from and towards it at the
same time. This movement of the action and the intention in opposite
directions, that is, this turning against itself of desire, is a thought
that Artaud feels with his body but cannot express through articulable
forms. Artaud makes the inarticulable visible through costume, lighting,
etc., and tries to create a psychic materiality.
When you will have made him a body without organs,
then you will have delivered him from all his automatic reactions and restored him to his true freedom,
then you will teach him again to dance wrong side out,
as in the frenzy of dancehalls,
and this wrong side out will be his real place.[2]
Artaud feels the body as an externally
organized structure and experiences existence as pain because he feels
his body to be restricted and subjected to forms it is not willing to
take at all times. By disorganizing the body through putting its organs
to different uses, to uses other than they have come to be put, within
the organizing structures, Artaud induces agony in himself. Desiring to
become inorganic, and this is a desire for an impersonal death, an
“ungraspable” knowledge, this striving for infinity within the finite,
is, paradoxically, at once the product and the producer of his
affirmation of life as it is, that is, as “a process of breaking down…”
as the American novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald puts it in his The Crack Up. In The Logic of Sense Deleuze reads Fitzgerald’s The Crack Up with Kleinian eyes and says that identification is peculiar to manic-depressive states. In The Crack Up Fitzgerald says,
I only wanted absolute quiet to think about why I had developed a sad attitude toward tragedy—why I had become identified with the objects of my horror or compassion… Identification such as this spells the death of accomplishment. It is something like this that keeps insane people from working. Lenin did not willingly endure the sufferings of his proletariat, nor Washington of his troops, nor Dickens of his London poor. And when Tolstoy tried some such merging of himself with the objects of his attention, it was a fake and a failure…[3]
Deleuze affirms Fitzgerald’s manic-depressive attitude towards the relationship between life and death in the Porcelain and Volcano chapter of his The Logic of Sense.
If one asks why health does not suffice, why the crack is desirable, it is perhaps because only by means of the crack and at its edges thought occurs, that anything that is good and great in humanity enters and exits through it, in people ready to destroy themselves—better death than the health which we are given. Is there some other health, like a body surviving as long as possible its scar, like Lowry dreaming of rewriting a “Crack Up” which would end happily, and never giving up the idea of a new vital conquest?[4]
In a world ruled by fools full of
ill-will war becomes inescapable. Since war, conflict, violence and
destruction are interior as much as they are exterior affairs, it is
hardly a matter of bad luck that we will be wounded at some point if we
haven’t been already, not that I wish it to be that way. An injury
either creates a possibility of relating to the world as it is, or turns
into an obsession with the self, into a delusional and rigid vision of
existence projected onto the real, giving birth to neurosis or psychosis.
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