{"id":76336,"date":"2014-09-04T20:00:28","date_gmt":"2014-09-05T00:00:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=76336"},"modified":"2014-09-05T10:20:32","modified_gmt":"2014-09-05T14:20:32","slug":"quite-unnecessary-young-man","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/09\/04\/quite-unnecessary-young-man\/","title":{"rendered":"You Are Quite Unnecessary, Young Man!"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Antonin_Artaud_jeune_b_SD\"<\/a>

Antonin Artaud<\/p><\/div>\n

The English translation of Roberto Bola\u00f1o\u2019s excellent final novella, A Little Lumpen Novelita<\/em>, is out this month. The book opens with an epigraph by Antonin Artaud, who was born today in 1896: \u201cAll writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.\u201d<\/p>\n

Since I read it about a month ago, I\u2019ve thought of this quotation every day, often as I\u2019m writing\u2014you can imagine the rat-a-tat of my keyboard punctuated with an occasional \u201cAll writing is garbage.\u201d It\u2019s a bracing sentiment, taunting and misanthropic, and a truer one than most of us would care to admit. At the moment, it flies in the face of our glad-handing literary culture, where every book is a good book and every writer in every M.F.A. program partakes of a dignified struggle with Art.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s how that quotation, which comes from Artaud\u2019s The Nerve Meter<\/em> (1925), goes on: <\/p>\n

\n

The whole literary scene is a pigpen, especially today. All those who have points of reference in their minds, I mean on a certain side of their heads, in well-localized areas of their brains, all those who are masters of their language, all those for whom words have meanings, all those for whom there exists higher levels of the soul and currents of thought, those who represent the spirit of the times, and who have named these currents of thought, I am thinking of their meticulous industry and of that mechanical creaking which their minds give off in all directions\u2014are pigs.<\/p>\n

Those for whom certain words have meaning, and certain modes of being, those who are so precise, those for whom emotions can be classified and who quibble over some point of their hilarious classifications, those who still believe in \u201cterms,\u201d those who discuss the ranking ideologies of the age, those whom women discuss so intelligently and the women themselves who speak so well and who discuss the currents of the age, those who still believe in an orientation of the mind, those who follow paths, who drop names, who recommend books\u2014these are the worst pigs of all.<\/p>\n

You are quite unnecessary, young man!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

It\u2019s vigorous spleen-venting, to say the least, and if by the end Artaud seems to have blunted the edge of his anger, we can still applaud his rigor. And we must, I think. The world needs its Artauds now more than ever. As Mark Leyner said in his Art of Fiction interview,<\/p>\n

\n

Bro, we\u2019re living in the Kali Yuga, a Dark Age of petite bourgeoisie ideology, a petite bourgeoisie ideology whose resources and ruses are infinite and which ubiquitously permeates the world\u2014high culture, low culture, bienpensant media, prestige literature, pop music, commerce, sports, academia, you name it. The only reasonable response to this situation is to maintain an implacable antipathy toward everything. Denounce everyone. Make war against yourself. Guillotine all groveling intellectuals. That said, I think it\u2019s important to maintain a cheery disposition. This will hasten the restoration of Paradise. I\u2019ve memorized this line from Andr\u00e9 Breton\u2019s magnificent homage to Antonin Artaud\u2014\u201cI salute Antonin Artaud for his passionate, heroic negation of everything that causes us to be dead while alive.\u201d Given the state of things, that\u2019s what we need to be doing, all the time\u2014negating everything that causes us to be dead while alive.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

That\u2019s what a line like \u201cAll writing is garbage\u201d does for me: negates everything that causes us to be dead while alive. That quotation, too\u2014from Breton\u2019s \u201cA Tribute to Antonin Artaud\u201d\u2014is worth some elaboration. Here\u2019s the bit leading up to it:<\/p>\n

\n

Each time I happen to recall\u2014nostalgically\u2014the surrealist rebellion as expressed in its original purity and intransigence, it is the personality of Antonin Artaud that stands out in its dark magnificence, it is a certain intonation in his voice that injects specks of gold into his whispering voice. … Antonin Artaud: I do not have to account in his stead for what he has experienced nor for what he has suffered. … I know that Antonin Artaud saw, the way Rimbaud, as well as Novalis and Arnim before him, had spoken of seeing. It is of little consequence, ever since the publication of Aurelia, that what was seen this way does not coincide with what is objectively visible. The real tragedy is that the society to which we are less and less honored to belong persists in making it an inexpiable crime to have gone over to the other side of the looking glass. In the name of everything that is more than ever close to my heart, I cheer the return to freedom of Antonin Artaud in a world where freedom itself must be reinvented. Beyond all the mundane denials, I place all my faith in Antonin Artaud, that man of prodigies.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The English translation of Roberto Bola\u00f1o\u2019s excellent final novella, A Little Lumpen Novelita, is out this month. The book opens with an epigraph by Antonin Artaud, who was born today in 1896: \u201cAll writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[10424,4061,9158,10544,15192,15193,10395,24,15191],"class_list":["post-76336","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-andre-breton","tag-antonin-artaud","tag-birthdays","tag-mark-leyner","tag-misanthropy","tag-negation","tag-quotations","tag-roberto-bolano","tag-the-nerve-meter"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nYou Are Quite Unnecessary, Young Man!<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The world needs its Artauds now more than ever.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/09\/04\/quite-unnecessary-young-man\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"You Are Quite Unnecessary, Young Man! by Dan Piepenbring\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 4, 2014 \u2013 The English translation of Roberto Bola\u00f1o\u2019s excellent final novella, A Little Lumpen Novelita, is out this month. 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