🚀 go-pugleaf

There is a literature that does not reach the voracious mass. It is the
work of creators, issued from a real necessity in the author, produced
for himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which
laws wither away. Every page must explode, either by profound heavy
seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the eternal, the
crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles, or by the way in which it is
printed. On the one hand a tottering world in flight, betrothed to the
glockenspiel of hell, on the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on
hiccups. Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks with a mania
for improvement.

I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are not
sentimental. We are a furious Wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds
and prayers, preparing the great spectacle of disaster, fire,
decomposition.* We will put an end to mourning and replace tears by sirens
screeching from one continent to another. Pavilions of intense joy and
widowers with the sadness of poison. Dada is the signboard of abstraction;
advertising and business are also elements of poetry.

I destroy the drawers of the brain and of social organization: spread
demoralization wherever I go and cast my hand from heaven to hell, my
eyes from hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel of a universal circus
to objective forces and the imagination of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God,
the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not
consider the relative result more important than the choice between
cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other
side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called
dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes
while dancing method around it. If I cry out: Ideal, ideal, ideal,
Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge, Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom,
I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and
all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have
discussed in so manv books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances
to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his
boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for
inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with
repercussions in life; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the
bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with
philtres made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel
they have excavated the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous
gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us
try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain
rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative.
Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective
impulses of men and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate
Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a
banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone
think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he has demonstrated the
truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned
by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers
always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent
quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we
regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions
that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual
faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system,
loses its character of utility-that is so useless but is at least
individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds
everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity . . . Science says
we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and
bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and
journalist virgins . . . I am against systems, the most acceptable
system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself
in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with one's individuality,
to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of
bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies....
Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family
is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in
destructivc action: *Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now
by
the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: Dada;
abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: Dada;
of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by
our valets: Dada; every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities,
apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the
fight: Dada; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: Dada;
abolition of prophets: Dada; abolition of the future: Dada; absolute
and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of
spontaneity:* Dada; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the
other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph
record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether
it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined,
enthusiastic; to divest one's church of every useless cumbersome accessory;
to
spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or
coddle them -with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn't matter in the
least-with the same intensity in the thicket of one's soul-pure of
insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom:
Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites
and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: LIFE


"Pupea" <nospam@nospam.com> wrote in message
news:2qgichFusru2U1@uni-berlin.de...
> You are a listed internet Kook, of the "mad dog, anal retentive" verity.
> You probably smoked pot with a lot of weed killer on it, but your constant
> drinking could off-set it.
> Probably not.
> One of your Old postings to the groups you hang out in;
>
>
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
> From: DrPostman (Look@mysig.foremail)
> Subject: Re: Ping: DocP
> Newsgroups: alt.fan.art-bell, alt.paranormal.reincarnation,
alt.paranormal,
> alt.alien.visitors, sci.astro
> Date: 2004-01-14 18:32:46 PST
>
> On 14 Jan 2004 12:37:43 -0800, youretheman2001@yahoo.com (DrPostman)
> wrote:
>
> >jamie_eckles@yahoo.com (DrPostman) wrote in message
> news:6614ccad.0401121436.2fb13d48@posting.google.com...
>
> >>  -=-=-=-=-
> >> Official AFA-B Bully and Gummint Disinformation Agent
> >> IF HIM IS YOU and YOU ARE ME WHO ARE YOU ?
> >>
> >> Hi, I'm a Memphis Kook.
> >> My name is Jamie Eckles I'm a Postal worker who consistently meltsdown
> >> because I'm too retarded to add anything to an argument as a matter of
> >> fact I can't win
> >> an argument.
> >>
> >> Jamie
>
> --
> Dr.Postman USPS, MBMC, BsD;    "Disgruntled, But Unarmed"
> Member,Board of Directors of afa-b, SKEP-TI-CULT� member #15-51506-253.
> You can email me at: TuriFake(at)hotmail.com
>
> "Shake it like a polaroid picture."
>             - Andre 3000 of Outkast
>
>
>
>