Chapter 9 Chapter VII
"This matter"--philosophical research--unsatisfied love--experience of techniques--one's stone age--the end of various loves--mother's death
I grew up.In the garden house of Mr. Kadakespichot, the silk planted in the middle of the courtyard also grew.Half my cheek is covered with a beard that looks like a chop.I was dressed only in soft black velvet, and I walked with a sea fishstone pipe in my mouth, the pot of which depicted a grinning Arab with all his teeth on display.Once, on an excursion to the ruins of Anglicia, the curator of the local museum gave my parents a silver coin with the profile of a Greek woman.I pinned it to my tie and wore it forever, asserting that it was Helen of Troy.I always carry a cane with me, and I have such a collection, the most beautiful of which has a gold handle in the shape of a double-headed eagle.I grew up.My hands have also grown. "This thing" happened one night in the toilets of the academy and I was disappointed.A sense of guilt took possession of me: I had thought that one thing was another!Despite my disappointment, I did "the thing" all over again, promising myself that this would be the last time.Three days later, the temptation reappeared.It's rare for me to resist it for a day and a night.So I always do "this thing" again. "This thing" is not over yet!
I developed the habit of painting with all the enthusiasm and concentration of my life, an attitude that arose out of my need to get rid of the regret of doing "this thing".Every night, I go to a formal painting school to study.My teacher, Mr. Nunes, is an excellent painter who is very obsessed with the Academy of Fine Arts and has won the Rome Prize for Printmaking.He took me into his house and explained to me the mystery of light and shade, as well as the mystery of the very unconventional lines in an original Rembrandt engraving he owned, which he touched with deep admiration. works.I came out of Mr. Nunes's house, excited, my cheeks burned by the greatest artistic ambitions, and my heart brimming with a sort of religious admiration for art.I went home, locked myself in the toilet, and did "this thing".Every day, "this thing" just got better, a mental trick that allowed me to do "this thing" at longer and longer intervals.Now, instead of claiming this is the last time, I allow myself to do "this thing" every Sunday.Diluted my erotic desires by the thought of the pleasure I would be having, I found spiritual satisfaction in waiting for Sunday.The more I waited, the more wonderful "this thing" was, and the act itself was mixed with the most comfortable vertigo.
In college, I was still an ordinary student.Everyone persuaded my father to let me paint.Mr. Nunes, who firmly believed in my genius, advocated this more than anyone else, but my father didn't want to decide anything.The profession of a painter frightened him, yet he did everything in his power to get me through my art education, and he bought me the books, magazines, and supplies I needed.
"We'll decide when he passes his Baccalaureate," he said.
I have already decided it myself!During this period, instead of reading, I devoured the books in my father's library.Within two years, they were drained.Voltaire's "Dictionary of Philosophy" made the deepest impression on me, while "Thus Spoke Chirathustra" felt to me less than something I could write myself.It fills me with pride and satisfaction that I prefer to read Kant, which I do not understand.I loved getting lost in the maze of his arguments, which rang like heavenly music to my ears.Whoever writes a philosophy as important and useless as Kant's works can only be an angel!My tenacity to read what I don't understand must have been driven by a strong spiritual hunger.Just as certain organic calcium deficiencies cause children to scrape lime and plaster off walls to eat, so too does my spirit need this categorical imperative, which I have pondered over and over for years but have never been able to swallow it.However, one day, I finally swallowed it.The door opened and I got it.I went from Kant to Spinoza which thrilled me.Afterwards, Descartes helped me establish the methodological and logical foundations of my later studies.Before I read philosophy to laugh, now I end it crying.What a novel or a play cannot do, happened the day I read a wonderful definition of the law of identity. I can't remember whose book I was reading at that time.Even today, when I am hardly interested in pure philosophy, an example of speculative power, whoever it may belong to, still brings tears to my eyes.
At the Academy, from seven to eight in the evening, a teacher arranged some extra philosophy lessons.They were electives, but I signed up right away.We had a particularly lovely spring, and the lessons dedicated to Plato took place in the open air around a pine tree hung with evergreen shards.Many young girls also came.I don't know them, but I think they are beautiful.I chose one of them.Our eyes met and she picked me too.This situation was so obvious that we stood up and walked out without discussing it.We were so excited that we couldn't even speak, and we ran up the hillside in order to stay in the open country.We kept running until we came to a small road between two wheat fields. This young girl cast fiery eyes on me. She smiled from time to time, as if encouraging me.Panting and unable to speak, I had to point to a niche in the fallen wheat and say:
"there!"
She rushed there, stretched out and lay down, and I suddenly felt that she was much bigger than I thought.She was blond and had beautiful breasts which I could feel moving under my hands like a frightened fish when I touched her bodice lightly.I kissed her mouth long and hard.When she opened her mouth, I pressed my lips against her teeth until I felt the pain.She had a bad cold, and she kept wiping her nose with a little handkerchief, but it was too wet!I have no handkerchief for her, and I don't know what to do.She sniffed in vain, but soon the snot was back around her nostrils.Embarrassed, she turned her head away and used the hem of her skirt to snuff out the snot.I rushed up and hugged her again, to show her that I didn't feel disgusted, and it was true, because her snot was so thin and white, it was more like tears.Also, her constant sniffling gave me the illusion that she was crying.
I said to her, "I don't love you, I can't love any woman. I will live alone forever."
When I said these words, I felt the girl's snot make my face uncomfortable.I regained my composure.Meanwhile, I worked out my plan, and I worked it out with such ruthlessness that I felt my soul freeze.How can I be my own master again in so little time?On the contrary, my teenage girl is getting more and more restless.Apparently, her cold made her feel inferior.I hugged her lovingly in my arms, and in gratitude for the dry snot on my cheeks tickled me, I pretended to rest my head on her shoulder to caress her.She was sweating as we ran, and I caught a wonderful smell in her armpits, a mixture of heliotrope, ewe, and roasted coffee beans.
- Then you won't come tomorrow night,
Helping her up, I promise her:
"Of course I will come tomorrow night, and I will come in five years, just not one more day."
I have my five-year plan.In fact, she was my mistress for five years, not counting the county days I spent in Cadaques.All this time she has maintained an almost mystical devotion to me.I only see her at different times in the evening.When I want to be alone, I just send a note to a kid on the street.For our meeting she had to use many tricks, assisted by her girlfriends who were accompanied by boys.But it didn't please me that we managed to be alone in the fields almost always.
These five years of idyll have enabled me to develop all the resources of my perverse feelings.First, I made her want me intensely, then I had the audacity to gradually increase the number of my rounds, increase the content of our conversation, thal I dare say I made all kinds of invented lies.Every day, my influence on her expands.It was a systematic, enveloping, annihilating, deadly seduction, and when I felt it "just right," I began to demand sacrifices.Didn't she keep repeating to me that she was going to die for me?Well, let's see if it's true!
Some readers may attribute the success of this relationship to the qualities of my offspring. In order for him to understand, I must add that nothing happened between me and this girl during the five years.We kiss, I touch her breasts, I look into her eyes, that's all.Her inferiority complex undoubtedly came from our first day together and from the cold that made her very uncomfortable.She longed to restore her reputation before me, and the colder I appeared, the more her zeal stimulated her love, the more sublime and unrealistic were her restless longings, which drove her into a state of hysteria.
Since having this experience, I feel that unfulfilled love is one of the most hallucinatory themes in the mythology of emotion.In my opinion, Tristan and Isolt are the archetypes of one of the tragedies of unsatisfied love, which, like the praying mantis devouring the male consort during copulation, is a murderous cannibal in the emotional realm.
We both know very well that the keystone of my mental tormented mansion, which dooms my lover's love to dissatisfaction, is that I am not hers; She also understands that I understand that she understands that I don't love her.My solitude remains intact, and the reason why I can still maintain such a beautiful state of life is because I experiment with various "principles of emotional activity" in this aesthetic form.I am sure, as I adore my Kaludenka Hedwiva, my Dulita, that love is something else, the total destruction of all affection.In the present case, on the other hand, my lover made me a target, and I was able to try a tact that would serve me well later.Love consists more in receiving the arrow than in shooting it.It was in this maiden's skin that I experienced the San Sebastian sensibility which might be lurking within myself, which I wished to shed like a snake's skin.Even though I now have a living lover with breasts and saliva, her love for me makes me swoon, I hold her in my arms, but knowing that I don't love her, I can conceive An ideal, supreme, pre-Raphaelite love adores my Dulita, my Galuchika, and the other Hodiva.The eternally dormant desire to climb to the top of the tower had never arisen from her being so human, so real.The more passion tormented her, the worse her face became, and the more I felt that she was unworthy of the tower.I thought she might die.I sometimes mentioned it to her when we were lying on the grass: "Just act like you're dead." She crossed her hands over her chest and stopped breathing.She does not move, which sometimes drags on for so long that I believe she is dead, and slaps her cheek in great confusion.
She wrote me more and more feverishly, and I rarely replied to them, and when I did, it was always to sneak a little venom into her, to poison her and turn her yellow like late summer's fault.
The last few days of my vacation in Cadaques it was raining non-stop.I left my coat outside, and towards dusk I found it completely wet.During the walk, the letters of the lover I took with me were all soaked in water, and the blue ink was almost soaked away.I returned to Mr. Pichot's empty garden house, facing a cypress tree I loved, which had grown a meter in a year.Mechanically I formed these letters into balls, and I pinched them so tightly that I found myself involuntarily imitating the balls of cypress, which had the same cracks as the collarbones of the skull.The imitation was so perfect that I decided to substitute my paper balls for the two cypress fruits.Having done this, I resumed my walks by the sea, where I remained for more than an hour, until it was dark and the surf drenched me.The smell of sea salt on my lips evokes in me the myth that is entwined with immortality.On the way back, I was groping my way in the dark, and trembling all over, I put my hand on my heart like someone just bit me.I nearly bumped into Mr. Pichot's cypress just now, and the two white balls shimmered in the dark like the eyes of a dead man.An ominous premonition flashed in my mind: "Is she dead?" I was in a cold sweat and hurried back to the residence, and I found a new letter from her: "I'm fat, everyone thinks I look good, but I Only interested in what you'll think when you see me again. I've kissed and hugged you countless times. I'll always miss you..."You idiot!
Father relented.Knowing this, I was preparing to be a painter after my Baccalaureate exam.It will take another three years, but people are already talking about the Academy of Fine Arts in Madrid, and if I win the prize, maybe I can go to the Academy of Fine Arts in Rome.The idea of enrolling in regular studies at the school started with my rebellion. I wanted to be a free man, and no one had the right to interfere with what would appear in my head.I have envisioned a fight to the death with my teachers, and what I am about to do should happen without witnesses.
Mr. Nunes, the only witness at the time, has no peace because of me.Every day, I shocked him and forced him to admit that I was right.I was in the prime of my technique discovery.They all have the same source: the willingness to go against the teacher's way.
One day we were drawing an old beggar with a beautiful snow-white curly beard.Mr. Nunes reminded me that my sketches had been over-penciled and did not come out well enough to show the strands of the beard.I should redraw on a fresh paper, cherishing the white effect, and just dabbling a few dabs on the paper with a soft pencil.The teacher is gone.I continued to paint my face darker and greasy with the pencil more and more.I did it with such fervent passion that all my classmates surrounded me.With the help of contrast, I finally created the image of the model at the predetermined moment. However, I was not satisfied and continued to add black, so that my sketch was just a combination of a bunch of loosely structured black spots.When Mr. Nunes came to correct me the next day, he cried out in despair:
"You did exactly the opposite of what I told you, and look at the results."
I didn't feel uneasy for even a second, I replied that I have a solution immediately.I blot out my sketches with ink.
"You want a negative," Mr. Nunes said.
"I just want to do what I understand."
"If you think you can use chalk, you're wrong, it won't stick to ink."
He shook his head and left.Once and for all, I got out my pocket knife and started scraping the paper.The most radiant white begins to appear on the sketch.The beggar's beard emerges from the darkness of my sketch with startling realism.When I wanted the whites to be blurred, I spit on the blurred areas and rubbed them, so I got some light gray scratches.Dust off the paper, I have perfectly imitated the silky hair of the beggar's beard My work is finished, I let the oblique light shine on the sketch.
When Mr. Nunes saw my work, he first stood there without saying a word.His confusion prevented him from expressing his admiration, but he hugged me so tightly that I couldn't breathe, and he repeated to me something similar to Martin Villanova: "Look! This Dali It's amazing!"
This experience made me think for a long time about the properties of light and the possibilities of reproducing it.My exploration lasted for a whole year, and I finally came to the following conclusion: Only the ups and downs of the colors themselves carefully piled on the canvas can have an effective effect on the eyes.This was exactly what my parents called the "Stone Age."For example, I use rocks to get a very bright cloud.I glued the rocks to the canvas and then painted them the desired color.One of my most beautiful results of this kind is a picture of a sunset with a sky full of clouds.The sky was filled with rocks of various sizes, some as big as apples.This painting has long hung on the wall of the dining room at home. I remember that in the quiet atmosphere of the evening after dinner, we were often startled by the sudden sound of a dislodged stone falling on the flagstone floor.My mother stopped her sewing, and my father comforted her forever with these words:
"It's but a pebble that just fell from the sky of our children."
Naturally, he added:
"It's a great idea, but who would buy a painting that's doomed to disappear, to fill the whole house with stones!"
For the people of Figueres, my pictorial explorations were a source of endless diversion, and people whispered: "Look, now little Dali has piled stones on his paintings again." But in the Stone Age, people still asked I prepared several paintings for a local exhibition with thirty or so artists, some even from Girona and Barcelona. My work is the most eye-catching. Two of the most famous critics Carlos Costa and Puig Boyardes declare my future artistic career to be bright.
The honorable recognition of me for the first time aroused my lover still more, and I took advantage of the situation to make her ever more at my capricious mercy, and I absolutely forbade her to have a girlfriend or a boyfriend.She had to leave me entirely, to the one and only me that the papers so sang about.As soon as I realize that she just met someone, as soon as she says something nice about someone to me, I do my best to destroy that person in her mind.I've always had success finding the right but merciless sarcasm.Her feelings had to be adjusted to my desires, no more, no less.Any disobedience to my merciless laws will be punished with bitter tears.A contemptuous word from my side would make her want to die, despairing of not being loved, and she would at least want my attention.She devoted her whole life to those half-hour walks that I now increasingly seldom promised her.The end draws near, and the hall of the Academy of Fine Arts, with its staircase, its triangular marriage, its shining columns, is silhouetted against the sky.I said to my lover, "Enjoy one more time, you only have one year left."
For the few minutes we met, she gave her whole life to make herself look better.The health painted on her face pissed me off and I did my best to remedy the situation by making her cry every time.In the course of the walk, I showed her some of my subscriptions to Gridspirit.She humbly tried her best to make sense of something in the reproduction of a Cubist painting.At that time, I had a passion for what I exaggeratedly called "the clock of absolute command of Juan Gris mysticism. My lover, who did not understand my general intentions, said to her "Glory, this Something that shone like open scissors, sharp, sharp." She listened intently to every detail of what I said and tried to remember them by heart.
"What did you say yesterday about the open scissors?"
During our walks we often overlooked the awe-inspiring mass of the Tower Mill.I like to sit and stare at it.
"Look," I said to her, "there's a white spot over there, that's where little Dali is sitting."
She looked at me, not paying attention to the place I offered her to see.I held one of her breasts in my hand, and her young breast had grown solid as a rock since we met.
"Let me see them," I ordered.
She unbuttoned her top to show me her beautiful breasts, which were soft white.The nipples are like two gooseberries surrounded by some very fine down.As she was about to button up her blouse, I ordered her, somewhat agitatedly, "Don't button it! Do it again!" She let her arms hang by her sides and lowered her eyes.Her chest rose and fell rapidly.When I allowed her to button or button, she rearranged her dress and smiled weakly.Filled with tenderness, I took her hand, and we were on our way again.
"You know, when I got to Madrid I stopped writing to you."
After another ten steps or so, she began to cry.I kissed her frantically, feeling her hazelnut-sized teardrops scald my cheeks.
In my mind, Glory asks Light like scissors opened.Salvador, work and work!As gifted as you are for brutality, you're also gifted for work.This ability calls forth the respect of all.After getting up at seven o'clock in the morning, my mind doesn't know the routine all day.Even my walks with this teenage girl had a hand in my planning: it was the work of seduction.The parents kept saying, "He never goes for fun! He didn't stop for a second and said to me, "Salvador, you're young, enjoy your age." "But I thought differently: "You grow old quickly!"You are too young and astringent now. "How can I get rid of this childish weakness of puberty?
First of all, when learning to sketch, I should practice cubism.But that doesn't lessen my hunger for agency.I want to be an inventor and I want to finish "The Tower of Babel," a philosophical masterpiece I started a year ago.I have written five hundred pages, and this is only a preface.My sexual turmoil gave way to philosophical turmoil, and my whole being was occupied by the latter. The Tower of Babel begins with a long treatise on the phenomenon of death which, as I see it, is based on imaginative constructions.As an anthropomorphist, I don't think I'm alive, but rather that I'm recovering from the "non-intellectual amorphous state" of my origins.From everyone's point of view, what lies under the "Tower of Babel" is a comprehensible life, but to me, it only represents death and chaos.On the contrary, what is above, which others see as confusion, is to me "logos" and resurrection.My life, in constant struggle for the affirmation of my individuality, was every moment a new victory of my "self" over death, while among those around me I saw only death and a continual compromise.I refuse to make a deal with death.Last year, my mother's death was the thing that made me most desperate.I adore her, her image is unmatched for me.I knew the value of the virtues of her holy soul, which was above all human beings, and could not bear the loss of a life which I thought would erase the dark defects of my soul.She's so good, I can't help but think, "That's enough for me." She likes me with a love so absolute, so proud, that she can't be mistaken.My vicious words and deeds must also be a startling thing!This death seemed to me a reproach from Fate.One can't do that to her, or to me.Thoughts of vengeance were swirling in my mind.Gritting my teeth, I swear that to draw my mother back from the clutches of death and fate, I shall wield these swords of light, that one day they shall gleam cruelly around my glorious name!