Here are the prefaces to the books of two of the central writers and thinkers of the Bouzingos, Philothée O'Neddy and Petrus Borel, as translated by Google. Though our translations will hopefully be more faithful (in some ways), these have a nice ring to them as well. Interestingly, the O'Neddy text seems to have given the translator less trouble.
I'm currently attempting to track down at least one piece by every writer associated with the group, and will then (finally) contact all of the volunteer translators and begin work on a small anthology to kick off the project, with one poem or image from everyone involved with the group (if possible) and a basic historical and critical introduction. Then we'll get to work on a full chapbook of texts by O'Neddy, and onward.
Until then, entertain yourself with these:
Philothée O'Neddy
from Feu et flamme (Fire and Flame), 1833.
FOREWORD. I'm currently attempting to track down at least one piece by every writer associated with the group, and will then (finally) contact all of the volunteer translators and begin work on a small anthology to kick off the project, with one poem or image from everyone involved with the group (if possible) and a basic historical and critical introduction. Then we'll get to work on a full chapbook of texts by O'Neddy, and onward.
Until then, entertain yourself with these:
Philothée O'Neddy
from Feu et flamme (Fire and Flame), 1833.
An author, head erect, proud in his preface,
In public he was fine insult exclaim Place! ...
Quite a long time, motionless, arms crossed over the threshold of my house pariah, I gazed in admiration of a lazy, teenage walls of Babel artistic and moral elite [vii] intellects of our age began to build.
Now, at this time, deeper, more compelling, more excited, my sympathy orders me to mix a little action to contemplation, to get me confused in the crowd of workers.
So here I am: I bring to a gigantic slabs puny handful of cement.
Workers muscular and strong, do not push my little cooperation, you'll never have enough arms for the erection of such great work! And perhaps I am not altogether unworthy to be called your brother. - Like you, I despise the whole height of my soul the social and especially political order which is the excrement - like you, I do not care [viii] of the old and the academy - as you, I ask myself incredulously cold front magniloquence the tinsel and religions of the earth - like you, I have piles of stitches towards the poetry, the twin sister of God, starting from the physical world of light, harmony and perfumes; the moral world, love, intelligence and willingness!
Certainly, though nascent, is already very impressive and miraculous, that Babel! His belt of walls encloses already myriad stages. The sublimity of his tricks already burst the clouds more distant. Alone has already more arabesques and statues that all the cathedrals of the Middle Ages together. Poetry has finally a city, a realm where it can deploy to ease his two natures - the nature [ix] human is an art - its nature is divine passion.
Undoubtedly, you remember the wondrous assurance with which, soon after the fall of the last king of France, some newspapers prophesied that it was all the young writers, she entered the coffin along with the old legitimacy. - The early literature has been so little danger, so it has developed its vital principle, that she not only managed to multiply his own strength, to complete its revolution, but it has yet to be rich enough, powerful enough to herald a glorious crusade against metaphysical society. Yes, now that it has completed all its beautiful reforms in the costume of the art, it is dedicated exclusively to [x] The ruin of what she calls the social lie - as the philosophy of the eighteenth century doomed to destruction of what she called the Christian lie.
Every day, many young people patriotic convictions come to realize that, if the work has a political nature of Caliban, he is directly to blame the social work, her mother - then they give birth Republican fanaticism, and rushed to enlist in the joints of our Babel.
What is incredible is that the hotheads fairs finance, sublime skills that make fun of chivalry and love the national guard, insist on denying even the existence of this great intellectual ferment. Because the outdoor life, material life and [xi] is positive, thanks to our civilization mathematically stingy, almost reduced to a state of petrification, - they rely on an eternity of calm - they do not see in contrast, the inner life, the metaphysical and romantic life is as turbulent as adventurous, as free as the Arab tribes in their solitudes.
Then they remember that the day before the famous eruption of Vesuvius that buried all alive two cities, Herculaneum and Pompeii, ignorant of naturalists, is to walk near the edge of the crater, one wondered at the other was real if the bowels of the mountain contained a volcano! ...
I hasten, before closing this prose, to say the honest people who are willing to [xii] leave their ivory knife Devirgination leaves of my book, I have not the slightest vanity to believe the subsequent poems, up to the solemn concerns touched on in these preliminary lines.
This book has no other ambition than to be the beam of my best schoolboy sketches, which consist simply passionate reveries and artistic studies.
It is true however that there is here and there some strong impressions Lycantrope few anathemas against the social lepers, but it should not be taken literally these events, which are for the most part, that fiery outbursts. - It would be wrong to regard them as the ultimate expression of my true feelings. If I gave to publish [xiii] A second book, it is more logical, more in line with my kind of thinker, I say my last word - so you can judge me.
What if the shops of civilization deigned to tell me angry that someone is allowed to post outside the company, I irreverence of them observed that two classes of men have the right to an inalienable way - those who are better than the company - and those that are worth less. - I agree in one of these two categories.
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Petrus Borel
from Rhapsodies, 1831
There must be a child throws his dribble before Frankly, we need the poet throws his, I threw mine: here! ... requires that the hot metal in the crucible slag rejects her; poetry bubbling in my chest has rejected his own: here! ... - So, these are Rhapsodies of slime and slag? - Yes! - Why then, wisely, s'inculper vis-à-vis the crowd? why not shut up and destroy? - Because I always want to break with them is that I am released, I want to expose them, and turn the face, is that as we keep these things, we always comes back, we can not detach; that is seriously a new era dates back to the poet who takes a seriously long flight, the day when it falls on the day he is the painter 's exposure means the bard printing.
Those who read my book know me: perhaps he is below me, but it is really me, I did not made to do so, I did not disguise it is a whole a set, juxtaposed corollary, cries of pain and joy thrown in the middle of a childhood rarely dissipated, often abused and always miserable. If sometimes we find positive and common, so it rarely open the heavens, he must attack my position, which has nothing to Celestin. Reality always gives me his arm, the need is still there for terrifies me when I take my Escousse.
I am neither cynical nor prude I say what is true for tear a complaint, it must be my evil good cooking, I never got melancholy to use the ladies attacked with consumption. If I took pleasure in spreading my poverty, because our contemporary bards I stink with their so-called poems and luxuries Pachal, their shape aristocrat mummeries their church and their sonnets to headlines, to hear, you'd see a hair shirt or coat of arms on the side, a rosary or a swivel in hand. One would see the great ladies of their thoughts, viscountesses ... Their viscountesses! ... So rather tell their washerwoman!
If I remained obscure and unknown, if nobody ever tympanitic for me if I've never been called eagle or swan, however, I have never been any mattress I've ever banged the crowd to gather around a master, no one can tell me his apprentice.
Certainly, the bourgeoisie will not be frightened names dedication to meet it in this volume, only that they are all young people, like me, heart and courage with which I grew up, I like all! They are the ones that kill me for the dullness of life that they are all French friends, comrades all our comradeship, togetherness tight, not glue Henri Delatouche: ours he does not understand. If I were not afraid of seeming paragon of our small to big names, I would say that ours is that of Titian and Ariosto, that of Molière and Mignard. To you especially, comrades, I give this book! It has been done among you, you can claim. It is law, Jehan Duseigneur, the statuary, beautiful and good heart, bind and courageous in action, yet innocent as a girl. Courage! your place is beautiful: France for the first time would have a French sculptor. - To you, Thom Napoleon, painter, air, free, handshake soldier. Courage! you are in an atmosphere of genius. - Yours, Gerard good: when will directors excisemen literature leave they reach the public works committee, so do welcome their little committees. - To you, Vigneron, who have my deepest sympathy for you, which proves the coward that can perseverance if thou hast the trough Jamerai Duval was drover. - To you, Joseph Bouchardy, the recorder, the heart of saltpeter! - To you, Theophile Gautier. - To you, Alphonse Brot! - Yours, Augustus Keat-Mac! - To you, Vabre! to you, Leo! to you, O'Neddy, etc..; you all! I like.
Those who judge me by this book, and who despairs of me, deceive those who m'ajourneront a top talent, is also mistaken. I do not modesty, because for those who accuse me of métagraboliser, I do believe my poet, I laugh.
I have nothing to say except that I did to make a preliminary paranymph or my ETHOPéE, or even on the art, a long treatise professedly but I am reluctant to sell the preface and then, would it not ridiculous to say so much about so little? But I think I have some parts flawed policy: not going there not m'anathématiser and Jaspar to Republican? - To prevent any questioning, I will say frankly: Yes, I am a Republican! Let them ask the Duke of Orleans, the father, if he remembers when he went s'assermentcr August 9 at the former House of voice which pursued him throwing in the face cries Liberty and Republic, amid cheers of a mob pipe? Yes! I am a Republican, but not the July sun that brought forth on this high I thought, I am of childhood - but not Republican red or blue garter to my blouse, and delivered himself to shed planter poplar; I hear the Republican as a lynx; my republicanism is to lycanthropy! - If I speak Republic, because that word to me is the greater independence that could leave the association and civilization. I am a Republican because I can not be Caribbean, I need a huge amount of freedom: the Republic will give me the she? I have no experience for me. But when this hope will be disappointed like so many other illusions, I will Missouri! ... When you're down here shared with me when we are irritated by so many evils, we dreamed of equality, we call him the Agrarian Law, it would deserve even applaud.
Those who say: This volume is the work of a madman, one of these goats were given romantic soul and God in fashion, which, according to figarotiers, eat children and make grog in skulls. To those I can avoid them, I have to report their findings.
Front as depressed or strangled by forceps back hair filasseux each side of the cheeks a thong rind furry collar shirt do burying the plate and forming a double triangle of white canvas hat stovepipe, coat and umbrella in whistle .
To those who say: this is the work of a saint-simony! ... for those who will say: It is the work of a Republican, a basiléophage: he must be killed! ... For them, the shopkeepers will not Catchment: regratiers without the barges are tigers ... notaries who lose everything to reform: the lawyer is like a lace Philippist! ... This will be good people, seeing the Republic in the guillotine and paper money. The Republic for them is a pollard. They do not understand the lofty mission of Saint-Just: they accuse him some necessities, and then admire the carnage of Bonaparte - Bonaparte! - And its eight million people killed!
To those who say: This book has something suburban repugnant, the answer indeed is not mocking the king's bed.
Besides, is it not the height of an era when the rulers were to stupid discounters, dealers of guns and monarch, a man whose legend and motto: "God be praised, and my shopping too! "
Fortunately, as a consolation for all this, we still have adultery! Tobacco Maryland! and papel español por cigaritos.
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