Chapter 13 chapter Ten

Newcomers to society--Abduction--Aristocrats--Castle Hotel de Cali-le-Rueil--Lidige--Port Ligate--Inventions_Malaga--Poverty--Golden Years Not long after arriving in Paris, I was anxious to get out of here.I wanted to continue at once the pictorial explorations I had considered in Cadaques, interrupted by being evicted from home.I'm going to draw an "invisible man".That's exactly what it is!But it should be done wherever, perhaps in the country.I'm going to take Gala with me too.The thought of having a real woman in my room now, with breasts, hair, and gums, is so enticing that I can't believe it's actually happening.Gala was ready to follow me, we just had to choose a place to go.Before setting off, I made some bold slogans within the Surrealist community.When I get back, I'll see what a demoralizing effect they had.I said: Lussel is to Hanbo, modern items are to African items, deceptive eyes are to modeling beauty, imitation is to interpretation. "All of this will be enough to feed them for a few years. I'm deliberately not explaining. I'm still not a 'talker', so I just want to offer the essential words that are bound to haunt everyone. My morbid shyness makes me I experience a dreadful anguish whenever it is time to speak. I express, with the feverishness and blatantness peculiar to the Spaniards, all that the repressed eloquence gathers in long silences. I think the polemic impatience bears One hundred and one martyrs dedicated to the French conversation, which is embellished with so much wit and insight that it often conceals its lack of skeleton. At last I give my respects to the man who kept talking to me about "the subject," about library Art critics of Albert's "subject matter" and how he manipulated his "subject matter" ask:

"Have you ever eaten it? A pile of worthless shit. I prefer Chardin's subjects." One night I was having dinner at Noel's house.Their dwellings frightened me, and I was utterly proud to see my "Game of Brightness" hanging on the siding, between a Cranach and a Watteau.The people who dine at the same table are composed of all kinds of artists and celebrities.I quickly understood that I was what everyone was waiting for.I'm also sure the Noel family was touched by my shyness.Whenever the beverage master whispered to me in my ear and mentioned the names and vintages of the wine in a confiding tone, I thought I was talking about something serious, that Gala was run over by a taxi, that An angry surrealist wants to beat me up.So I paled and jumped up, planning to open the table.But no such thing, nothing happened.The beverage master, with the most static respect, raised his voice and reassured me: "Chatroneuve-du-Pape, 1923." I drank the wine that terrified me in one gulp , with which I hope to greatly overcome my shyness and regain my ability to speak.I've always admired the kind of guy who doesn't have anything amazing to talk about, but who manages to shape the conversation the way he wants at a dinner for twenty people, and doesn't get caught off guard when he's being heard. And stop eating and drinking.He would do it even better, eating and drinking better than anyone else, and interrupting the center of the conversation in such a graceful way that it was so insignificant that the others thought they were the ones being rude.

During my first dinner at Noel's, I noticed two things.The first is that the aristocrats (those "upper class people" were called at the time) were far more intolerant of ideas of my kind than were the artists and intellectuals.In fact, the upper class retains an atavistic element of refinement and civility, while the bourgeois and socialist-oriented generation has just devoted itself with joy to new ideas of collectivist tendencies. The second thing is that some careerists have been discovered, they are puppies swallowed by the enthusiasm for success.They sit at all the tables laid with the most beautiful crystal glass and the most expensive silver, to show off their love affairs and gossip wisdom.

That night, I decided to use both groups, to get the people of high society to support me financially, and the careerists to open the way to fame for me with envious folly and slander.I was never afraid of gossip, I let them take shape.All careerists are sweating profusely for this.Once a gossip was formed, I watched it, studied it, and always found the best way to turn it to my advantage.The activity of malevolent ones, when blown like the wind, is a force that alone can steer your victory boat, and it is important that you do not let go of the helm for a second.Ambition is not interested in the ego, it is interested in attaining fame and status.From the moment I arrived at the Olympian station, I was honored with no one knowing, no luggage and no passport.Had to go back and find them and hire some "porters".Also had to have someone sign my papers.These steps and this pile of papers will probably eat up the rest of my life.So I started looking around for people who might be carrying my luggage.I found them and exhausted them quickly.I have too much luggage and I'm going too far for them.Under very different circumstances I chose others, promising to lead them to the glory that awaited me.I have spoken about it myself, I do not want to arrive, I am going to arrive.Others are dependent on me.

What is a high society person?They are those who do not stand upright on two feet, but balance on one leg like a flamingo.This deliberate aristocratic gesture shows their willingness to abstain from all but the bare necessities of life.This self-centered posture can quickly become tiring.High society people also need support, and they gather around them a group of one-legged people who, under the colorful facade of artists, chicken lovers, drug addicts, etc., use the "popular front" Those initial hustles come to offer them support and protection.This is understandable, and I joined a group of cripples who, with their hipster attitude, supported the declining posture of an aristocracy who did its best to defend tradition.However, I did not arrive empty-handed, I arrived with crutches in my hand, so that the whole thing seemed to stand upright.I founded "The Turn of Sadness," the original sinful turn of my childhood, as a post-war symbolic brace.Some crutches supported some of the heads bearing the deformed development of cerebral palsy, others fixed some rare graceful gesture or dance movement.Abduction, abduction, abduction everywhere.I even invented a tiny crutch for the face, made of gold and rubies, to fit the mouth and support the nose.It is a shameful useless thing, ready to be offered to certain elegant women whose elegance is marked by a decidedly sinful character.

My symbolic abduction illustrates and fits (and still fits) various subconscious myths of our time.Far from being boring, it has become more and more captivating.I put crutches here and there, and people wonder, "Why are there so many crutches? I ended the original experiment, and the nobleman stayed upright due to my large number of crutches. At this time, I want to tell the nobleman frankly: "Now, I'm going to kick you hard in the leg." The aristocrat retracted his raised foot a little more, clenched his teeth heroically to keep from shouting, and they answered me: "Kick it."

So I exhausted all my strength and kicked the nobleman's calf desperately.Nobility did not fall.The crutches are also still firmly fixed. "Thank you." Someone said to me. "It's nothing to be afraid of, I'll come again. With your only leg and the loss of my intelligence, you are stronger than the revolution made by the intellectuals. You are old, out of power, and tired to death; but your The place where one foot is firmly connected to the earth is tradition. If you should die, I will use one of my feet to step on your footsteps, and draw up the other leg like Red Ranch. I I can do it, and I am ready to stay in this posture tirelessly and get up."

Aristocracy was always one of my passions, and I was already looking for a way to bring this elite class back to a historical sense of the role they were destined to play in the ultra-individualistic Europe that would emerge from the coming war .My prophecies about the nature of our continent were seldom heard at the time, and I myself did not take seriously what I said about collectivism and the masses that threatened to swallow up democracies and unleash A great upheaval, out of which would emerge an impoverished Europe, saved through the tradition of Catholic, aristocratic, perhaps monarchical individualism.

While waiting for these prophecies to be fulfilled, before the Surrealists digested my slogans, before the careerists wounded me and the people of high society began to wish me well, I set off for the Côte d'Azur.Galla knew of a hotel where no one would find us.We rented two rooms, one of which was used as my studio.In the hallway, we piled some wood for our fireplace so that no one would bother us with the pretext of delivering wood.I positioned a lamp so that its light fell only upon my canvas, and left the rest of the room in the shadow of its ever-separating screen.We usually have meals delivered to our room.Only a few times we went downstairs to the dining room.In two months, we never left the hotel!These two months remain etched in Galas and me's memories as some of the most exciting and craziest days of our lives.During this voluntary "closed" period, I came to know and enjoy love with the same speculative frenzy as when I was working. (The Invisible Man is halfway through. Gala reads cards and sees a difficult journey for both of us. I blindly believe what she predicts to me, and they drive away the restlessness that threatens our happiness. Gala foretells a letter from a gentleman of color or brown, and money. The letter is signed by Viscount Noel. The Gorman Gallery is going bankrupt, and he offers to help me financially .To save me from all anxiety, he suggested that I visit him. He will send a car to pick me up on the day I wish.

This letter made us decide to go for our first walk, where we could take stock of the situation along the way.Outside, the bright winter sun dazzles our eyes.Our faces are as pale as those of prisoners.The warm sunshine made us feel very comfortable, and we had lunch in the open air, a lunch with wine, which we had given up for two months.At the café, things were decided: Gallas went to Paris to try to recover the money the gallery owed us, and I went to visit the Viscount Noel at his Chateau Saint-Bernard in Illes.I will propose an important painting for him, and he will give me twenty-nine thousand francs in advance.With this money and what Gala got back, we will go to Cadaques and have a little house built for us there for the two of us, where I can work and disappear from Paris from time to time.I only love Cadaques, so I refuse to look at the scenery elsewhere.

We are back together again.She brought back a little money from the gallery, and I brought the check that Viscount Noel had just given me.I remember looking at this check all afternoon, and it was the first time I understood that money is an important thing. We set off again for Spain.It was there that the most romantic, harsh, and intense period of my life began.I felt like all the lovely opportunities came to a sudden stop.For the first time there was a fight I believed to be avoidable.I'm only afraid of being some hindrance like I imagine myself to be.From the kind of love I would go crazy for, I have had every opportunity.But all of a sudden, I'm in Cadaques, but not as the son of Dali the notary; I'm just the son of an excommunicated, disgraced, unmarried living with a cunning woman!We can count on only one single character, Lydiane, the "strong woman."Lidiana is a peasant woman, the widow of Nando, an honest sailor with calm blue eyes.When Eugenio Dolce was twenty, he spent summers with Lydia, a naturally poetic inclination admired by the incomprehensible conversations of the Catalan intellectuals.When Dolce was accompanied by Nando to the beach, he would often call out to Lidi Hui who brought him water: "Look at this Lady Lidian, how strong she is!" The following winter, when he published his excellent book, "A Strong and Strong Woman", Lidian immediately said: "This is my factory." A letter of strange symbolism. Of course, he did not answer it, but at the time when he was a regular contributor to a newspaper, The Wind of Catalunya, Lidine thought that Eugenio Dolce's column It was a fanciful but exhaustive reply to her letter. She asserted that it was grotesque, but the only form of correspondence, or that one of her rivals (whom she called "my August Our Lady") would have taken those letters away. Apparently, she explained, Doles was compelled to answer her in cryptic ways and to use images to express himself. I am sure I have never seen anything like With such an astonishingly paranoid mind, Lydia was able to connect everything with the utmost rigor to whatever troubled her. And it cost the rest of her life that she In an ingenious way, she arranged the rest of her life around these games, even if one knew how ridiculous these fantasies were to begin with. She could explain an article of art criticism with so many sets of ideas in a coincidence of words and games that one had to Admire the perpetual confusion of the mind. Doles wrote an article one day entitled "Poussin and El Greco."Litty came that night, and she could be seen waving the newspaper from afar.She sat down with her skirt rolled up, a ritual that showed she had a lot to say, and it would last a long time. He begins his thesis with the concluding section of my letter. ' she whispered in my ear. In fact, in her last letter, chance had led her to allude to two prominent figures of Cadaques.One was nicknamed "Pousa" and the other was "El Greco", a diver of Greek descent.The similarities are obvious, Poussin and El Greco, this is Poussin and El Greco!And this resemblance is only the beginning, because Lydiya took Dors's aesthetic and philosophical comparison of the two painters as his own, which is simply genius! In the evening Lidiana returned to her house, put on her spectacles, and sat in front of her two sons (they were simple fishermen of the Cruise Sea, mending their nets), with a pen dipped in ink, for sale in Cadaques On her best lined paper, she wrote a new letter to the man she called "Sir."Usually she always starts with the following sentence; "Seven wars and seven books of martyrs have dried up the two springs of Cadaques! The strong woman is dead! Pousa and El Greco killed her, an anarchy recently formed The Association of Ibexists and Ibex also killed her. When you plan to travel far, please use your daily article to make this clear to me. I need to know it a day in advance so that people can go to Figueres Buying meat. At this time of summer, you can’t buy good things here without advance, etc., etc.; One day, she came to me mysteriously and said: "Doles was invited to a banquet in Figueres the day before yesterday. Convinced that this was impossible, I asked her how she knew about it. "But," she said to me, "it's on the menu in the newspaper. She pointed me to a menu in an article that read: "Cold cuts. "Ors (HOrS is part of the word horS.dO6llVre for cold dishes, similar to the name dOrs, it is difficult to express in Chinese translation in this kind of place, Telloga explained--translator), I really hope this is him, but Owo (Oeuvre has the meaning of work, and is also a part of the word cold dish--translator) What does it mean?" Lidiji thought for a moment, and then replied: Ovo, it's like people say they don't know.Namely Dors who didn't know.He doesn't want people to know him. That's it, she lives in a world that is spiritually above everyone else in the village.Still she had her feet on the earth, and those who scoffed at her story of "Master Dors and the Strong Woman" would have added: "Liddy's not crazy. If you don't believe me, sell her a pound of stinky fish or put your finger in her mouth and try it out." She made lobster with rice and fish in onion sauce like everyone else, a real Homeric dish.Using poutine, she devised a cooking worthy of Aristophanes. "To successfully make toss in onion sauce," she said, "you need three different kinds of people: a madman, a miser, and a prodigal. The madman lights the fire, the miser pours the water, and the prodigal adds fuel." If Lidi Ji still touches the ground with her feet, her two sons, on the contrary, are really crazy, and they were finally locked up in a mental hospital.They were convinced they had discovered kilometers of mineral deposits off the coast of Cruise, and night after moonlit night they were moving earth to cover their precious veins.I was the only one they believed, and one day they admitted to me that what they found was setting! Lydiana's son had a dilapidated wooden house with a perforated roof in a little bay called Port Lighat, about a quarter of an hour's walk along the cemetery from Cadaques.Port Lligat is one of the dullest places on earth.Mornings here have a savage pleasingness to the eye, and afternoons often begin to be as heavy as dusk.At the beginning of the day the breeze makes little waves as shallow as smiles, and then it settles down, the calm sea merely reflecting the drama in the sky. During the two months I spent at Cali-le-Rueil the only letters I received were from Lidine, which I cataloged and studied as first-rate paranoid literature.When I received Viscount Noel's money, my first thought was to buy Lydiane's son's little wooden house and make it a habitable room in my favorite spot.Gala only wanted to do what I wanted, and we wrote to Lidiana.She answered our letter right away, assuring us that it was settled and she was waiting for us to go.Her son revealed important facts about their tin mines. We arrived in Cadaques in the middle of winter.The Miramar Hotel sided with my father and refused to accommodate us on the pretext of construction.We were forced to live in a tiny apartment where a former maid in our family did everything possible to make us comfortable.The only people I think are important and want to maintain a good relationship with are the dozen or so fishermen in Ligat Port.They lived there, completely free from the public opinion of Cadaques.If there were reservations on their part at first, then they were completely captivated by Gala's irresistible concern and my strength.The fishermen knew the papers were talking about me, so they said, "He's young, he doesn't need his father's money, he's free to make his own life as he understands it." We got a joiner, and together we decided everything, from the number of steps to the tiniest window, Louis II of Bavaria had half as much trouble with any of his palaces as we had with this little log cabin.A room of about 16 square meters will be used as dining room, studio, entrance and bedroom, with several steps leading to a shower room, a toilet and a kitchen that is too small to turn around.We bring some nickel and glass room items from our room in Paris.Our limited financial resources only allow me to consider this two-person nest.The only grotesque ornament, perhaps, was a tooth, a small deciduous tooth as white and transparent as a grain of wheat.It moved in my jaw, so I decided to drill a hole for it the day it fell out and hang it from the ceiling with strings.This tooth makes me forget all the practical difficulties that pile up around us. "Stop thinking about these things," I said to Gala, "stop thinking about water and electricity and maid quarters. You saw the day my tooth was hung from the ceiling by a string, and you would be as ecstatic as I am. Especially since we will never have flowers and dogs, just our voracious passions and the intellects that age us prematurely. Someday I will write a book about you, you will become a Beatrice of myth." Once all the details of remodeling the log cabin were finalized, we set off for Barcelona.The peasants like to repeat the phrase about Barcelona: "As good as the Exchange is as good as Barcelona." Thanks to an advance to the joiners in Cadaques, there is nothing left around us.I have to go to a bank to draw the Vicomte Noel's check for twenty-nine thousand francs.When I came to the business window, I was surprised to hear my name called.I didn't know my reputation in Barcelona yet, and the friendly attitude of the bank staff made me wonder. "He, he knows me," I said to Gala, "but I don't know him." These childish manifestations made her very angry, and said that I would always be a Catalan peasant.I signed the back of the check, and then at the last moment, when the bank clerk held out his hand, I refused to give him the check. "No, I'll give him the check when he gives me the money." "But what do you think he'll do with the check?" Gala said in her most convincing voice. "He'll eat it!" "Why did he eat it?" "If I were in his position, I'd definitely eat it!" "But even if he ate it, you'd never lose your money!" "I understand this, but tonight we can't eat tords and r. V6. n. us white uslllls@." We moved a little away from the business window, and the bank clerk looked at us in astonishment. He didn't know what we were discussing.Gala finally convinced me to hand over the check, and with a deep sigh, I did this: "Then... take it!" All my life, I've actually had trouble getting used to the "normality" I'm close to that confuses me with people that are so common in the world.I keep thinking that none of the things that might have happened happened.I cannot comprehend that human beings can be so impersonal, and always follow the strictest principles of custom.Think of it as easy as derailing a train!So many thousands of miles of railroads across five continents and so few derailments.The number of people who like to get off the rails and cause them is tiny compared to the number of people who like to travel and their passions to satisfy.In Hungary, the day Maroška was captured, the train derailed, a uniquely startling event. I can't understand how people are so unimaginative; that bus drivers don't every now and then want to smash through the glass windows of the shops and grab some quick gifts for the family.I don't understand, and can't understand, that toilet manufacturers wouldn't put some kind of bomb in their vessel that people pull on the zipper to explode.I don't understand why all bathtubs are the same shape; why people don't invent cars that are more expensive than others and that have a rainmaker inside that forces passengers to wear raincoats when it's sunny outside.I don't understand why I don't bring me a very old fried telephone when I order grilled crayfish; Much more comfortable in a bucket full of ice cubes.So why not put a cold telephone with spearmint, make it in the shape of a crayfish, put on a mink fur for a coquettish woman, put a dead mouse that Edgar Poe used in it, and put it in the There, or fastened to the back of a live turtle...·· Doing and re-doing the same thing all the time, I am amazed at this human stupidity, just as bank clerks don't eat checks, I am amazed that no artist before me has thought of painting a "soft watch" Same…… Naturally, I cashed the check without a hitch, and in the evening we dined, drank champagne, and ate two dozen lords.During the whole dinner we talked about nothing but our Port Ligat house.The next day Gala came down with pleurisy.I fell into a deep restlessness, feeling for the first time a subterranean earthquake shaking the edifice of my egoism.Will I finally fall in love with her? During Gallas' illness, a friend from the Madrid days invited me to visit him in Malaga, an invitation I accepted.He provided for my living expenses there, and at the same time promised to buy me a painting.So we planned to go to Andalusia as soon as Gala recovered, and we also agreed not to move a cent of Viscount Noel's money, because it was used to build the residence in Puerto Ligat, which is sacred, locked in our safe in our hotel in Barcelona.I spent hours arranging celebrations and shopping for gifts for Gala's return to health.Pleurisy had made her so weak that she seemed to be one of Raphael Kirchner's nymphs who, after inhaling the scent of a gigantic box of flowers, were exhausted to death.There was a new tenderness in my affections, and it dominated me.Every movement of Gala makes me want to cry.Sometimes this tenderness is accompanied by a degree of sadism.I stood up and shouted to her, "You are so beautiful." I kissed her all over and wrapped my arms around her tightly. The harder I hugged her, the more I felt her trying to break free from my overly warm embrace. , and the more I wanted to rub her. My display of affection was wearing her out, but the situation itself just fueled my play. Gala finally started crying. So, I slammed into her face, Kiss her face countless times from all sides, suck her nose, press her cheek, squash her nose, suck her lips, make her pout and raise her eyebrows, or hold her tightly Her ears were pressed against her cheek. With a frenzy bordering on insanity, I kneaded the little face as if I were kneading a piece of dough for bread. Trying to comfort her, I rolled she cried. One night I forced her to go out for the first time and dragged her into a car to visit the Barcelona International Fair.With eyes closed, she climbed a long escalator, and I put my arm around her waist, and she was so weak that we had to stop every four or five steps to rest.We finally reached a platform from which we could see the entire exhibition. "Look now!" I said to her. She opened her eyes to a wonderful world.In the foreground, some huge fountains spray water into the air, so high that it is almost unbelievable, and then disperse into water flowers high in the air, constantly changing shapes and colors.The fireworks streaked the sky, and Gala was more amazed than any child. "You know exactly what to do for me," she said to me—you made me cry. " Not far from us, an orchestra played Saldana.A group of strangers ambled idly down the aisle.No one cried! After two days we set off for Malaga.After Gala's illness, the long three-day trip took place way too soon.She sat very still in our second class car, with her head on my shoulder.I never believed that a head whose only weight seemed to be expression could be so heavy.It is said that the tiny skull was filled with lead.I pictured it white and clean, with teeth that were perfectly aligned and brilliant, as if each tooth was a mirror for the pink tongue.I compare these upper and lower jaws and skulls with mine.In fact, I already have an old man's mouth, and no dentist can figure out what's going on with one of my teeth.Not a single tooth grows where it should be.I'm missing two molars and they never came back. In 1930, the lower jaw was cut twice for deciduous teeth.I lost them and they never grew back. I thought of our two dead heads, Gala's so white, and mine rotted and stone-coloured, with its prodigiously large brow arches.Opposite us in the carriage, in spite of the flies, other heads being eaten, a train of death and sleep, bound for Malaga, enveloped in the regal African heat.Our taxi driver approached a porter who was sleeping in the shadow of the corner of the doorway and touched the porter with his foot a few times to wake him up.But the reporter replied with a pompous gesture: "It's not a whole lot today. In this city, a procession is being prepared for Good Friday. There are a lot of flowers everywhere. A tram driver stops by a bar. In the car, someone brought him a glass of Yinxiang wine, and then sang Ou and started on the road again. On the street, we met several Picasso with carnation flowers behind their ears@. Their eyes were shining sharply and kindly The brilliance of the wit, staring at the passing crowd. Someone announces a grand bullfight. At night, as the sun goes down, a sudden hot wind replaces the cool breeze, a true African desert wind. Spaniards love this At this moment, they choose this moment to make love, the dianthus field exudes the most intense fragrance at this moment, and the African lion of Spanish civilization also roars at this moment. We rented a fisherman's house in Torremolinos, a small village fifteen kilometers from Malaga.A dianthus field stretches right from our residence to the sea.These days are our fiery wedding anniversary.We become as dark as fishermen.Our beds were as hard as if filled with dry bread.Though unsuitable for sleeping, the bed has the virtue of making our backs ache and reminding us of our flesh and nakedness.Like a sunburned urchin, Gala walks around the village with her breasts bare.I also put on a necklace.The fishermen of Torremolinos have no shame, they take off their pants and defecate a few meters from us.The moment seemed to be one of the happiest of their day, seeing them squatting in groups on the sand, shouting haunting obscenities and yelling at their young children to fight.When these fights turned into stone-throwing scenes, there were always some broken heads and some bloody faces.And so the fishermen, feeling their grievances revived, broke off defecating, pulled up their trousers, straightened their always beautiful and robust genitals, and fought each other for the sake of their children.Someone drew a knife, and women came running, always in black, with their hair loose and their arms stretched to the sky, beseeching Jesus and the Immaculate Virgin.There is nothing sad and nothing base.Those rages are joyous, bursting out like piss and piss.When it comes to fisherman's droppings, they are always clean, with a few undigested bourchambines embedded in them, fresh as they were before they were swallowed. At this time, I developed a passion for olive oil.I use it everywhere.From early in the morning, take bread and throw fish salt into it.The rest I drink or drip on my head and feet and rub my crazy hair. As soon as I got here, I resumed drawing the final draft of (The Invisible Man) that I started in Cali-le-Rueet and also wrote (The Invisible Woman). From time to time I receive visiting small groups of surrealist intellectuals friends, who had begun to hate each other and allowed themselves to be bitten by the fabric of communism and fascism to unite. I understood at once that the day these worms had the bodies of real snakes, a brutal and spectacular civil war would break out of. ~When everything is going well, one day we receive a flood of bad news.Govan Gallery, which delayed paying us for more than a month, went bankrupt.Bunuel was filming (The Golden Years) by himself, thus effectively excluding me from the job. The joiner in Cadaques sent in a bill for more than double his budget. In the end, we The rich friend from Malaga was gone for three weeks and didn't leave us an address! Our money was practically gone and we only had the necessities for four days. Gala suggested that we be deposited in Barcelona The money in the hotel safe was sent, but I refused to do so, as it was no longer enough to pay the joiner's bill. The house in Port Ligate is sacred. The only hope is to telegraph to Paris with the money I will bring. Mortgage the painting back and borrow a sum of money. Three days passed without reply. We counted the few coins left, trying to find two pesetas at last. Very lucky, a surrealist sympathetic to the Communist Party The man came to see us today. I begged him to send a telegram to the hotel in Barcelona to have the money sent to us. Once the money was received, I would return him the money he spent. Two days passed without a word. It was impossible to find a morsel of bread in the house. Our predicament was caused by my stubborn disobedience to Gala's advice. It did not take me long to feel as if this situation were only the beginning of a tragedy. The Sun of Africa烧烤着海滨，使我把一切都看成红与黑这两种颜色。更糟的是，邻近的一家有一个半病男孩用钳子打死了他的母亲，当天夜里，宪兵们开始朝一大群燕子开枪。加拉试着让我明白我们的处境虽令人烦恼可并非悲剧。尽可以住到马拉加一处旅馆中，在那儿等待巴塞罗那的那笔钱，它没能寄到是由于星期六和星期天都休假的缘故。自从碰到我生存中各种最初的困难以来，我一定要看看在悲剧的一天内发生的一切，这时我怎么能听她的话呢？我不愿接受这命运的凌辱，命运想迫使我达利这个人中断构思《无形的女人》，而因为我们没钱了，我的加露农卡竟落到一种有损名誉的地步，既无女仆也无面包。高脚杯装满了，我本人的不耐烦全流了上来。 我走出住所，满怀悔恨地听任加拉在那儿整理行装。我穿过石竹田走到海边，我愤怒地拿着一根木棍，把带血的花朵打得七零八落，就像卡尔帕乔画中被斩首的头颅。在海滨，有一些黄褐色皮肤的茨冈人生活在布满洞穴的岩石山嘴处。他们用大锅烧着鱼，锅里的油劈啪作响，发出～阵阵嘶啦嘶啦的声音，就跟我愤怒的烙蛇一样。几秒钟内，我荒唐地想让人从加拉处把装着新事物的箱子取来，生活在这些茨冈女人中间，她们裸露着乳房，在一种无法改善的污垢的色情环境中给她们的孩子喂奶。我跑到～处荒凉的角落，呆在这儿有助回忆这些乳房和正在火边烧菜的一位女人的大屁股。我怀着疯狂的热情沉涵在我青春期孤独的快乐中。我灵魂的全部疯狂化为了这些绝望的姿势。我的腿弯曲了，双膝跪在坚硬锐利峭壁上，仿佛是里贝拉笔下的那些出神隐修士中的一员。用我自由的手，我抚摸着我的身体并抓住它，好像要抱紧它似的。一种有节奏的断续愤怒，使我的肌肉在颤动。我的口袋空了，可我还能花这个！我让自己珍贵生命的温暖硬币掉在地上，我觉得它是从我自己的最深处、从我的骨髓中出现的。 . …· 这个新的、无用的费用用光了。由此增加了我沮丧的情绪。我觉得我的货币状态更加难以忍受了。全部的愤怒都转向自己，我发狂地用拳头捶打自己，终于弄断了我那颗活动的小牙齿。我把它吐出后收起来。这是命中注定的：以牙还牙。 回到住外，特别激动、特别快活，我把紧握的拳头伸向加拉。 "猜猜是什么！" "一只黄火虫把／ "不，是我的牙，我的小牙。我们应当用根线把它吊在利加特港。" 这颗牙又小又透明，中央有个小白点。要是用显微镜放大这个白点，或许会看到一个卢尔德圣母的光环显现出来。 我们在第二天坐公共汽车去马拉加，向那位同情共产党的超现实主义者借钱。我们剩下的钱仅够这趟单程旅行的。要是我们找不到他，就没法回托列莫里诺斯了。经过大量奔走后，我们终于找到了他。 我们的朋友对我发誓他在我们上次相会的那天晚上已发了电报。他没有五十个比塞塔，但他能为我们借到这笔钱。我们坐在一家咖啡馆的露天座上等他。最后一班公共汽车发车的时间临近了，而我们始终没看到他回来。终于在最后一分钟，他出现了，气喘吁吁，满脸通红。 "快上车吧，一切都办妥了。我就来。" 在我们身后，他付掉饮料费，然后到公共汽车上找我们。他一边用一只手擦额头上的汗水，一边用另一只手握我的手，把一小张折了四折的钞票放在我手心里。 "再见，再见。" "很快就会还给你的，这不再会拖延的！" 汽车发动了，他还在向我们保证听我们吩咐。我觉得手里这张折起来的钞票具有世上的种种魔力。对萨尔瓦多·达利和加拉·达利来说，它意味着三天的生活。这可能是我们生存中最辉煌的三天。我慢慢松开手，想更好地看看这美妙的象征物，我呆住了，我并没看到什么五十比塞塔的钞票，而是一张电报的收据。出于讽刺和嘲弄的目的，我的超现实主义的朋友把这张提醒我们欠他的债的纸塞到我手里，他无疑不打算让我们再欠他一笔债！我们没有钱付公共汽车费，加拉扯住我的手臂，让我克制自己。她知道在这种情况下我会陷入多么疯狂的愤怒。要是售票员走近我，我就会把他一脚踢下车去！而在收票员按铃停车时，我已经站起来，准备应付那场我都不知道会是怎么个情景的大爆发了。我认为他猜到我的意图，我打算扑到他身上，恰好在这时，我们那位同情共产党的超现实主义者，脸上挂着人世间最为抱歉的神情，突然出现在公共汽车中，递给我五十个比塞塔。他搞错了口袋里的这张纸，可立刻就发觉这个错误，于是叫了辆出租汽车来追我们。我们平静地重又动身去托列莫里诺斯。在这儿等待我们的，是好几封带来喜讯的信和一份让我们到马拉加领钱的通知。我们吃着番茄验鱼，一整个下午都在大睡。我醒来时，一轮红色的月亮就像摆在托列莫里诺斯高脚果盘中的一片西瓜；窗户框住这幅静物，我那还有点儿昏昏沉沉的精神状态把它看成与毕加索各种立体主义窗户相似的东西。我挺直身子躺在床上，思考着艺术视觉的这些问题，这时我得意地挖着鼻孔，从中抠出一团很大的东西，简直不能说它是干鼻涕。审视着它，我发现它只是电报收据的一块，我先前怀着惯有的好奇揉软了它，并照我一生中那时特有的痛好把它塞进了鼻孔里。 加拉打开她的皮箱，把一切全拿出来，显然这是要呆在托列莫里诺斯，因为我们已有钱了。 "不，别弄了，我们要去巴黎。" "为什么要这么做？我们还可以在这儿享受三天。" "不，不。那天下午，我砰地把门一关走掉时，我看到天空中有一缕金光穿透一片云层。就在那一刻，我正在消耗着我的生命之液。就是在我弄断我的小牙之后，我刚刚在我的肉体上发现了一个宏伟的神话、狄安娜的神话。我想去巴黎，在那儿打雷、下黄金雨！正是在巴黎，我们将挣到建成利加特港住宅所需要的钱。" 我们只在马德里、巴塞罗那和卡达凯斯停留了必要的一点儿时间，用来再看看我们的家。这个梦实现了。加拉实在而又敏锐的个性通过我不充分的颠狂在这儿体现了出来。还只有四堵墙和一个门，但这却具有英雄的精神。然而真正的英雄精神在巴黎等着我们。为了保卫我们的个性，我们将无法回避更艰苦、更紧张、更骄傲的斗争。围绕着我们所有人卑鄙地背叛了。随着我的名字成为社会内部的一个痛，这个社会不想听人谈到它了，实际的生活变得越来越困难。据说所有反对我智慧的魔力和我破坏了他们基础的各种观念的人，使我沾染上了咬啮他们全体的这种病：操心金钱。我宁愿把这种病留给他们，我知道我是可治愈的。 布努埃尔刚完成了横金岁月》。我极为伤心。这部影片只不过是我的各种观念的一幅漫画。在这部影片中，以幼稚的、毫无诗意的方式攻击了天主教。然而这部影片，特别是那不成功的爱情场面（当不满足的伴侣痛快地吮吸大理石阿波罗像的大脚趾时）仍然获得惊人的效果。布努埃尔匆忙前往好莱坞，他认为那儿有一些神奇的合同在等着他，他没参加这部影片的首映式。在一群对超现实主义感兴趣的人中挑选了观众，可实际并没出什么事。有些笑声，有些抗议，但观众席中全体一致的掌声很快就把它们压下去了。可两天之后，情况就不同了。人们在这部影片中看到一部豪华轿车停下来，穿制服的司机打开门；从里面拿出一个圣体显供台，把它突出地放在人行道上，这是个大特写镜头。接着，两条非常美的女人腿从轿车中伸出来。出售保皇党报纸的人选择这个时刻把黑墨水抛到银幕上。在丁倒德国佬"的叫喊声中，这些年轻人朝空中放了几枪，投掷了一些气味难闻的球状物和一些催泪瓦斯瓶。放映被迫中断了。《法兰西行动报》的支持者们痛打着观众。玻璃窗炸得粉碎。28电影试映室的休息室里布置了一个超现实主义的书展，它被洗劫一空。我的画只有一幅保存下来，这是由于一名女引座员把它藏在了厕所里，而其余的都悲惨地成了一块块碎片。警察来得太迟了，灾难早已结束。 第二天，这场丑剧在巴黎的新闻界引起了轰动。好几天内，各种日报就我影片的主题展开论战，这部影片终于被警察局禁演了。我担心在某个时刻会把我驱逐出法国。幸而一部分舆论也支持我。然而大家都染上一种该死的恐惧病，怕接触任何与我有关的事。（黄金岁月》的丑闻像达摩克勒斯剑一样悬挂在我头上，我也决心绝不再跟任何人合作。我还承担了读圣的责任，其实我并无读圣的意图。我觉得有那么多更值得在公众中传播的破坏性观念④，却因反教权主义引起公债是荒谬和乏味的事。没有人能理解我的不赞同态度。既然我刚创作了（黄金岁月》，我现在就能用绘画赞颂梅索尼埃了。由于他人难于注意到我观念和作品中弄虚做假的方面和真实的方面，人们很快习惯了容忍我的一切，他们说："这是属于达利的。"没什么关系，因为在这期间达利刚说了他要说的事，这件终于讲出的事很快就会吞掉人们不敢说那一切。人们把我看成是所有人中最疯狂、最具破坏性、最狂暴、最超现实主义、最革命的人。他们的黑暗只是使属于我的白天和天空更明亮，我要在这天空中树立起古典主义的天使和大天使的等级制纪念碑。此外，这天空永远比《黄金岁月》中的理想地狱更狂暴更真实，我的古典主义比他们的浪漫主义更有超现实主义的精神，我反动的传统主义比他们流产的革命更引起纷纷议论。战后整个现代的努力就是不自然的，它应当死亡。传统在绘画和一切事物中都是必不可少的；否则的话，无论什么精神活动都将献身于虚无。谁也不再懂得画油画、画素描或写作了。一切都在国际化下变得单一了。懒惰把丑和不定型奉为了神明。画室只能听到咖啡馆的谈话。灵感的缓斯离开了普桑的巴尔纳斯山，来到街头拉客，听任大众乱摸她们的脸蛋和屁股。艺术家和政客亲如兄弟，讲着机会主义的蛊惑人心的语言，并借助他们资产阶级化的疯狂和野心，重新跟在既无悲剧又无灵魂的幸福泥塘中打滚的、醉心于怀疑主义的大众相聚！这样的人就是像一只狗那样不停工作的我的敌人！