1920s Paris origins omnipotence of dreams disinterested play of thought Inspired by Sigmund Freuds psychoanalysis Inspired by the power of unconscious thought Fascinated by hypnosis and hidden thoughts ID: 287424
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Surrealism1920’s Paris origins“omnipotence of dreams”“disinterested play of thought”Inspired by Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysisInspired by the power of unconscious thoughtFascinated by hypnosis and hidden thoughts
ReasonLogicSlide2
André Breton (1896-1966)Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
Pierre
Reverdy
(1889-1960)
César Vallejo (1892-1938)Slide3
"Je pense . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .À quiconque a perdu ce qui ne se retrouve
Jamais, jamais!"
(I think . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
Of whomever has lost that which can
Never, never be found again!).
Charles
BaudelaireSlide4
L’étéSurtout, vaincu, stupide, il était entêtéA se renfermer
dans la fraîcheur des latrines:Il pensait
là
,
tranquille
et
livrant
ses
narines
.
(In summer,especially, stupid, he persistedIn locking himself up in the latrines
Where he reflected in peace, inhaling deeply.)
Arthur Rimbaud
1995 movie
Total Eclipse
starred Leonardo
DiCaprio playing Arthur RimbaudSlide5
Clotilde by Guillaume ApollinaireTranslated By Donald RevellAnemone and columbineWhere gloom has lainOpened in gardensBetween love and disdainMade somber by the sunOur shadows meet
Until the sunIs squandered by nightGods of living waterLet down their hairAnd now you must follow
A craving for
shadowsSlide6
Clock by Pierre ReverdyTranslated By Lydia Davis In the warm air of the ceiling the footlights of dreams are illuminated. The white walls have curved. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the mirror, the wind from the south spins, carrying leaves and feathers. The window is blocked. The heart is almost extinguished among the already cold ashes of the moon — the hands are without shelter — as all the trees lying down. In the wind from the desert the needles bend and my hour is past.Slide7
Miguel by César VallejoTranslated By Don PatersonI'm sitting here on the old patiobeside your absence. It is a black well.We'd be playing, now. . . I can hear Mama yell "Boys! Calm down!" We'd laugh, and off I'd go to hide where you'd never look. . . under the stairs, in the hall, the attic. . . Then you'd do the same.Miguel, we were too good at that game. Everything would always end in tears.
No one was laughing on that August nightyou went to hide away again, so lateit was almost dawn. But now your brother's throughwith this hunting and hunting and never finding you.The shadows crowd him. Miguel, will you hurry
and show yourself? Mama will only worry.