Manifesto

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1

All that

is solid melts into air.

To put out a manifesto,

you must want A, B,

C to fulminate against 1, 2, 3.

To fly into a rage,

and sharpen your wings

to conquer and disseminate

little A, B, C's and big A,

B, C's, To sign, shout, swear.

To prove you're nonplus ultra.

To organize prose into

a form of absolute

and irrefutable evidence.

I'm against action.

I'm for continuous

contradiction,

for affirmation,.

Too I am neither

for nor against.

And I do not explain

because I hate common sense.

I'm writing a manifesto

because I have nothing to say.

I speak only of myself since

I do not wish to convince.

I have no right to drag

others into my river.

I oblige no one to follow me.

And everyone practices

his art in his own way,

if he knows the joy

that rises like arrows

to the astral layers,

or that other joy

that goes down into

the minds of corpse

flowers and fertile spasms.

Does anyone think he

has found a psychic base

common to all mankind?

How can one expect to

put order into the chaos

that constitutes that infinite

and shapeless variation...

Man?

Want to do it again?

Do it again.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

This is so much fun.

An old world is dying.

A new one is being born.

Capitalist civilization,

which has dominated

the economic, political, and

cultural life of continents,

is in the process of decay.

It is now breeding new

and devastating wars.

The prevailing economic crisis

is placing greater and greater

burdens upon the mass of

the world's population,

upon those who work

with hand or brain.

The present crisis has

stripped capitalism naked.

It stands more

revealed than ever

as a system of robbery

and fraud, unemployment

and terror, starvation and war.

The general crisis of capitalism

is reflected in its culture.

The economic and political

machinery of the bourgeoisie

is in decay.

Its philosophy, its literature,

and its art are bankrupt.

In this period of change,

the role of the artist

can only be that of

the revolutionary.

It is his duty to

destroy the last remnants

of an empty, irksome

aesthetic, arousing

the creative instinct

still slumbering

unconscious in the human mind.

Our art is the art of

a revolutionary period,

simultaneously the reaction

of a world going under,

and the herald of a new era.

We glorify the revolution aloud

as the only engine of life.

We glorify the vibrations

of the inventors.

Young and strong,

they carry the flaming

torch of the revolution.

This is the place

where the virtuous

of spirits, the and the..

Ah, be off with ya'.

My friends

and I stayed up all night

debating at the utmost

boundaries of logic

and filling up masses of paper

with our frenetic writings.

At long last, all the myths and

mystical ideas are behind us.

We believe that this Wonderful

world has been further

enriched by a new beauty...

The beauty of speed.

We want to sing about

the love of danger,

about the use of

energy and recklessness

as common daily practice.

We intend to glorify

aggressive action...

Life at the double, the

slap, and the punching fist.

We wish to glorify war

and beautiful ideas

worth dying for.

The suffering of a man is

of the same interest to us

as the suffering of

an electric lamp.

We will destroy the cult

of the past, the obsession

with the ancients and

academic formalism.

We want our country free

from the endless number

of museums that everywhere cover

her like countless graveyards.

Sh*t to Florence,

Montmartre, Munich.

Sh*t to dictionaries, good

tastisms, orientalism,

academicism.

Sh*t to Dante, Shakespeare,

Tolstoy, Goethe,

beshitted dilettantisms.

Sh*t to Montagna,

Wagner, Beethoven,

Whitnam and Baudelaire.

Look at us.

We're not exhausted yet.

Our hearts feel no weariness,

for they feed on fire,

on hatred, and on speed.

Let the reign of a divine

electric light begin at last.

Make room for youth, for

violence, for daring.

How day will eventually break...

Who knows'?

But we can feel the morning.

We are no longer moonstruck

Wanderers roaming dreamily

in the pale light of history.

A cool, early morning

wind is blowing around us.

He who doesn't want to

shiver must stride out.

And we, and all of

those striding with us,

see, in the distance, the early

light of the awakening morning.

Glassy and bright, a new world

shines out in the early light.

It's sending out its first

rays, the first gleam

of jubilant dawn.

Decades, generations,

and the great sum of art

will begin its

victorious course.

Today, more than

ever, we believe

in our will, which creates

for us the only life value.

And that value is

ever lasting change.

Time to get up, love.

Se ya', love.

See ya', Mom.

We fight without respite

against traditionalist

cowardice.

We no longer feel ourselves to

be the men of the cathedrals,

the palaces, and the podiums.

We are the men of

the great hotels,

luminous arcades, straight roads

and beneficial demolitions.

Let us overturn monuments,

pavements, flights of steps.

Let us sink the

streets and squares.

Let us raze the

level of the city.

We must invent and rebuild

it, like an immense

and tumultuous shipyard...

Agile, mobile, dynamic

in every detail.

And our houses must be

like gigantic machines.

Above the

tempest of our week days,

across the ashes and

cinded homes of the past,

before the gates of the vacant

future, I proclaim today,

to you artists...

Painters, sculptors,

musicians, actors, poets-

to you people to whom art is no

mere ground for conversation,

but the source of

real exultation...

My word and deed.

I have transformed myself

in the zero of form,

and have fished myself

out of the rubbishy sloth

of academic art.

Objects have

vanished like smoke.

I have destroyed the

ring of the horizon,

and gone out of the

circle of objects...

This accursed horizon ring

that has imprisoned the artist,

and leads him away from

the game of destruction.

Forms move and are born.

And we are forever

making new discoveries.

What we discover must

not be concealed.

It is absurd to force our age

into the forms of a bygone age.

Life must be purified of

the clutter of the past

so that it can be brought

to its normal evolution.

Art should not advance towards

abbreviation or simplification,

but towards complexity.

The Venus de Milo is a

graphic example of decline.

It's not a real

woman, but a parody.

Angela's David is a defamation.

All the masters

of the Renaissance

achieved great

results in anatomy.

But they did not achieve

veracity in their impressions

of the body.

Those artists were officials

making an inventory

of nature's property.

The living was turned into

a motionless, dead state.

Come and find me.

Got you.

You're cheating.

Here, we

cast anchor in rich ground.

Ghosts, drunk on energy,

we dig the trident

into unsuspecting flesh.

We are a downpour of

maledictions, as tropically

abundant as

vertiginous vegetation.

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