harllatham: от соцреализма унд гомофобии умученный

от соцреализма унд гомофобии умученный
О причинах суицида Рене Кревеля мнения расходятся:
- Historian Irina Livezeanu notes that Tzara, who agreed with Stalinism and shunned Trotskyism, submitted to the PCF cultural demands during the writers' congress of 1935, even when his friend Crevel committed suicide to protest the adoption of socialist realism.
- Crevel killed himself by turning on the gas on his kitchen stove the night of 18 June 1935, several weeks before his 35th birthday. There were at least two direct reasons: (1) There was a conflict between Breton and Ilya Ehrenburg during the first "International Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture" which opened in Paris in June 1935. Breton, who, like all fellow surrealists, had been insulted by Ehrenburg in a pamphlet which said – among other things – that surrealists were pederasts, slapped Ehrenburg several times on the street, which led to surrealists being expelled from the Congress. Crevel, who, according to Salvador Dalí, was "the only serious communist among surrealists", spent a whole day trying to persuade the other delegates to allow surrealists back, but he was not successful and left the Congress at 11pm, totally exhausted. (2) Crevel reportedly had learned that he suffered from renal tuberculosis right upon leaving the Congress (Claude Courtot). He left a note which read "Please cremate my body. Loathing."

(Добавить комментарий)

k_d_s
2020-07-01 16:38 (ссылка)

Yes, the antithesis between social discipline and individual freedom remains
relevant and often disconcerting — no matter whether the Soviet party line
acknowledges or dismisses this antagonism.

Only he who has experienced the devastating impact of these problems and
alternatives is in a position to gauge their magnitude and their validity. The
tempting simplifications of the Marxian dogma are sometimes dangerous to those
striving and candid minds impervious to the glaring grossness of Fascist fatuities
and of Nazi nonsense. I have seen many an irreplaceable intelligence hopelessly
entangled in the immanent contradictions of rigid materialism. The case of René
Crevel is the most tragic and most obvious example to illustrate what I try to point
out.

He committed suicide in the summer of 1935, immediately before the opening of
an anti-Fascist congress he had been instrumental in organizing. I shall never
forget the morning when I learned that René was dead. The heat was stifling in my
narrow room. The man who called me up was a German poet and devout
Communist. He had collaborated with René in preparing the Congress against War
and Fascism. René's speech was scheduled for one of the opening sessions, along
with the appearance of André Gide, Heinrich Mann, E. M. Forster, André Malraux,
and so forth. According to the German poet's report, René had spent his last
evening with a group of colleagues, in a café on the Boul Mich.

“He seemed entirely normal,” said the Communist. “Not depressed, or anything.
Only sometimes he had such a curious way of staring into space — as if looking for
something. But he couldn't find it — whatever it may have been.”

Then he went home and swallowed his deadly tablets — the same drug,
incidentally, which had killed the hero of his early tale, “La Mort Difficile.” The
only note he left on his chaotic desk consisted of five words: “Je suis dégoûté de
tout,” his cruel farewell to the Communist Party, his Surrealist and non-Surrealist
friends, the world of Fascist crimes and anti-Fascist phrases.

“Leicht zerstörbar sind die Zärtlichen.” “Easily destructible are the tender
ones”: It was another friend of mine, the poet Wolfgang Hellmert, who chose this
line of Friedrich Hölderlin as the theme for the only story he wrote before he
destroyed himself. Bland and civilized as he was, he avoided the rash and
spectacular gesture of suicide. But the mortal balm of morphine to which he had
recourse instead, produced the same effect, if only by degrees.

“To-morrow, perhaps the future,” promised W. H. Auden — never a Marxist, but
a one-time revolutionary.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
The photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty’s masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

(Ответить)