L’arte dei rumori, the logical consequence of your marvelous innovations

A Roma, nel Teatro Costanzi affollatissimo, mentre coi miei amici futuristi Marinetti, Boccioni, Carrà, Balla, Soffici, Papini, Cavacchioli, ascoltavo l’esecuzione orchestrale della tua travolgente Musica futurista.mi apparve alla mente una nuova arte che tu solo puoi creare: l’Arte dei Rumori, logica conseguenza delle tue meravigliose innovazioni. La vita antica fu tutta silenzio. Nel diciannovesirno secolo, coll’invenzione delle macchine, nacque il Rumore. Oggi, il Rumore trionfa e domina sovrano sulla sensibilità degli uomini. Per molti secoli la vita si svolse in silenzio, o, per lo più, in sordina. I rumori più forti che interrompevano questo silenzio non erano nè intensi, né prolungati, né variati. Poiché, se trascuriamo gli eccezionali movimenti tellurici, gli uragani, le tempeste, le valanghe e le cascate, la natura e silenziosa.

In questa scarsità di rumori, i primi suoni che l’uomo poté trarre da una canna forata o da una corda tesa, stupirono come cose nuove e mirabili. Il suono fu dai popoli primitivi attribuito agli dèi, considerato come sacro e riservato ai sacerdoti, che se ne servirono per arricchire di mistero i loro riti. Nacque così la concezione del suono come cosa a sé, diversa e indipendente dalla vita, e ne risultò la musica, mondo fantastico sovrapposto al reale, mondo inviolabile e sacro. Si comprende facilmente come una simile concezione della musica dovesse necessariamente rallentarne il progresso, a paragone delle altre arti. I Greci stessi, con la loro teoria musicale matematicamente sistemata da Pitagora, e in base alla quale era ammesso soltanto l’uso di pochi intervalli consonanti, hanno molto limitato il campo della musica, rendendo così impossibile l’armonia, che ignoravano.

Il Medio Evo, con gli sviluppi e le modificazioni del sistema greco del tetracordo, col canto gregoriano e coi canti popolari, arricchì l’arte musicale, ma continuò a considerare il suono nel suo svolgersi nel tempo, concezione ristretta che durò per parecchi secoli e che ritroviamo ancora nelle più complicate polifonie dei contrappuntisti fiamminghi. Non esisteva l’accordo; lo sviluppo delle parti diverse non era subordinato all’accordo che queste parti potevano produrre nel loro insieme; la concezione, infine, di queste parti era orizzontale, non verticale. Il desiderio, la ricerca e il gusto per l’unione simultanea dei diversi suoni, cioè per l’accordo (suono complesso) si manifestarono gradatamente, passando dall’accordo perfetto assonante e con poche dissonanze di passaggio alle complicate e persistenti dissonanze che caratterizzano la musica contemporanea. L’arte musicale ricercò ed ottenne dapprima la purezza, la limpidezza e la dolcezza del suono, indi amalgamò suoni diversi, preoccupandosi però di accarezzare l’orecchio con soavi armonie. Oggi l’arte musicale, complicandosi sempre più, ricerca gli amalgami di suoni più dissonanti, più strani e più aspri per l’oreccbio. Ci avviciniamo così sempre più al suono-rumore.

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La pittura futurista. Manifesto tecnico

On the 18th of March 1910, in the limelight of the Chiarella Theatre of Turin, we launched our first manifesto to a public of three thousand people – artists, men of letters, students and others; it was a violent and cynical cry which displayed our sense of rebellion, our deep-rooted disgust, our haughty contempt for vulgarity, for academic and pedantic mediocrity, for the fanatical worship of all that is old and worm-eaten.

We bound ourselves there and then to the movement of Futurist Poetry which was initiated a year earlier by F. T. Marinetti in the columns of the Figaro.

The battle of Turin has remained legendary. We exchanged almost as many knocks as we did ideas, in order to protect from certain death the genius of Italian Art.

And now, during a temporary pause in this formidable struggle, we come out of the crowd in order to expound with technical precision our programme for the renovation of painting, of which our Futurist Salon at Milan was a dazzling manifestation.

Our growing need of truth is no longer satisfied with Form and Colour as they have been understood hitherto.

The gesture which we would reproduce on canvas shall no longer be a fixed moment in universal dynamism. It shall simply be the dynamic sensation itself.

Indeed, all things move, all things run, all things are rapidly changing. A profile is never motionless before our eyes, but it constantly appears and disappears. On account of the persistency of an image upon the retina, moving objects constantly multiply themselves; their form changes like rapid vibrations, in their mad career. Thus a running horse has not four legs, but twenty, and their movements are triangular.

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Tell me, do you know how to dream?

I just want to see if one can live and breathe and be in the wilderness too, willing good things and doing them, and sleeping and dreaming at night.

I have seen my brother; we met, what’s more, in the thick of the city crowd. Our meeting turned out to be a very friendly one. It was unforced and affectionate. Johann behaved very nicely, and probably I did, too. We went to a small, reticent restaurant and had a talk there. “Just you go on being yourself, brother,” Johann said to me, “begin from all the way down, that’s fine. If you need help …” I made a gesture of refusal. He went on: “For look, you see, it’s hardly worth it, up there at the top. If you see what I mean. Don’t misunderstand me, brother.” I gave a lively nod, for I knew in advance what he was saying, but I asked him to go on, and he said: “It’s the atmosphere up there. I mean, they’ve all got an air of having done enough, and that stops things, it’s cramping. I hope you don’t quite understand me, for, if you did understand me, brother, you’d be a dreadful person.” We laughed. Oh, to be able to laugh with my brother, I like that. He said: “You are now, so to speak, a zero, my good brother. But when one is young, one should be a zero, for nothing is more ruinous than being a bit important early on, too early on. Certainly: you’re a bit important to yourself. That’s fine. Excellent. But for the world you’re still nothing, and that’s almost just as excellent. I keep hoping you won’t quite understand me, for if you understood me completely …” “I’d be a dreadful person,” I broke in. We laughed again. It was very jolly.

A strange fire began to animate me. My eyes were burning. I like it very much, by the way, when I feel so burned up. My face gets quite red. And then thoughts full of purity and loftiness usually assail me. Johann went on, he said: “Brother, please, don’t always interrupt me. That silly young laughter of yours has a stifling effect on ideas. Listen! Pay close attention now. What I’m telling you may be useful to you one day. Above all: never think of yourself as an outcast. There are no outcasts, brother, for perhaps there’s nothing in this world that’s worth aspiring to. And yet you must aspire, even passionately so. But so as to become not too full of longings: realize that there is nothing, nothing worth aspiring to. Everything is rotten. Do you understand that? Look, I keep hoping that you can’t quite understand all this. It worries me.” I said: “Unfortunately I’m too intelligent to misunderstand you, as you hope I might But don’t worry. Your revelations don’t frighten me at all.” We smiled at one another. Then we ordered some more drinks, and Johann, who, by the way, did look uncommonly elegant, went on talking: “Of course there’s progress on earth, so called, but that’s only one of the many lies which the business people put out, so that they can squeeze money out of the crowd more blatantly and mercilessly. The masses are the slaves of today, and the individual is the slave of the vast mass-ideas. There’s nothing beautiful and excellent left. You must dream up beauty and goodness and justice. Tell me, do you know how to dream?”

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Manifesto del futurismo

Riguardo a Marinetti:

Filippo Tommaso Marinetti è stato un poeta, scrittore e drammaturgo italiano. È conosciuto soprattutto come il fondatore del movimento futurista, la prima avanguardia storica italiana del Novecento.

Avevamo vegliato tutta la notte – i miei amici ed io – sotto lampade di moschea dalle cupole di ottone traforato, stellate come le nostre anime, perchè come queste irradiate dal chiuso fulgore di un cuore elettrico. Avevamo lungamente calpestata sul opulenti tappeti orientali la nostra atavica accidia, discutendo davanti ai confini estremi della logica ed annerendo molta carta di frenetiche scritture.

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The view from the East-facing window of my asylum, unless my work is yet another Hallucination …

Just a few words to tell you that I’m getting along so-so as regards my health and work.

Which I already find astonishing when I compare my state today with that of a month ago. I well knew that one could break one’s arms and legs before, and that then afterwards that could get better but I didn’t know that one could break one’s brain and that afterwards that got better too.

I still have a certain ‘what’s the good of getting better’ feeling in the astonishment that an ongoing recovery causes me, which I wasn’t in a state to dare rely upon.

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Chapter 7: A Mad Tea Party

ACT I

A table set out under a tree. A house.
Evening.

The Hatter, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his hat. He pulls at it with both hands, panting.
He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again.
As before.
Enter March Hare.
THE HATTER:
(giving up again). Nothing to be done.
MARCH HARE:
(advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying March Hare, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to The Hatter.) So there you are again.
THE HATTER:
Am I?
MARCH HARE:
I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.
THE HATTER:
Me too.
MARCH HARE:
Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get up till I embrace you.
THE HATTER:
(irritably). Not now, not now.
MARCH HARE:
(hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?
THE HATTER:
In a ditch.
MARCH HARE:
(admiringly). A ditch! Where?
THE HATTER:
(without gesture). Over there.

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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, but I shall be good health to you nevertheless

Song of Myself

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

(2)

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

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