Saturday, March 28, 2015

Rerun: Dead aka Per Yngve Ohlin (orig. 01/21/09)


'My mum told me when I was a baby I slept so intensive so I turned white! So she had to check me all the time if I were still alive! This is serious! That is true! Maybe the whole thing started there? And maybe it started before that? My great great grandmother was a sorceror but only white magic. I have never been into fuckin white magic! I have always hated the Christianity and all faiths who had anything to do with God, but especially the Christianity. I want to get into a cult because it is difficult to understand something from a book with alot of scripts in Sumerian, Hebrew, etc. And it is very dangerous to do something wrong ... So I need a cult. Thats another thing. But I must tell you, no one of us is normal.' -- Dead, 1990

(l. to r.) Euronymous, Dead, Necrobutcher

Per Yngve Ohlin (January 16, 1969 – April 8, 1991), better known by his stage name Dead, joined the pioneering Norwegian Death Metal band Mayhem when his down band Morbid folded in 1988. Serious illness as a child and a near death experience convinced him that he had died and was now a being from another world. His beliefs are preserved in the vampiric lyrics he wrote for the album De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas. Dead reputedly carried around the carcass of a crow in a jar and would inhale fumes from it before taking the stage so he could perform with the stench of death in his nostrils. He also took to donning a white greasepaint visage, designed to mimic the pallor of 13th-century plague victims.

Necrobutcher (ex-Mayhem): 'It wasn't anything to do with the way Kiss and Alice Cooper used makeup. Dead actually wanted to look like a corpse. He didn't do it to look cool. He wouldn't eat for weeks in order to get starving wounds. He would draw snot dripping out of his nose. He was the first black metal musician to use corpse paint.'

Bård "Faust" Eithun (Emperor): 'He (Dead) wasn't a guy you could know very well. I think even the other guys in Mayhem didn't know him very well. He was hard to get close to. I met him two weeks before he died. I'd met him maybe six to eight times, in all. He had lots of weird ideas. I remember Aarseth was talking about him and said he did not have any humour. He did, but it was very obscure. Honestly, I don't think he was enjoying living in this world.'

Dead and Hellhammer

In order to complete his corpse-like image, Ohlin would bury his clothes before a concert and dig them up again to wear on the night of the event. According to bandmate Hellhammer, 'Before the shows, Dead used to bury his clothes into the ground so that they could start to rot and get that "grave" scent. He was a "corpse" on a stage. Once he even asked us to bury him in the ground - he wanted his skin to become pale.' Whilst singing on stage, Ohlin would often cut himself with hunting knives and broken glass. He claimed to be fascinated by people's reactions to this. During one concert in Sarpsborg during February 1990, Ohlin cut himself so badly that he had to be taken to hospital due to blood loss.

When Dead first arrived in Norway, Necro Butcher took it upon himself to make sure their new singer had somewhere to live and was looked after. On the other hand, Mayhem founding member and chief songwriter Euronymous -- later to become infamous himself when he was murdered by ex-Mayhem member and future cult hero Varg Vikernes (Burzum) -- apparently did his best to make Dead feel uncomfortable. 'He tried to psych him out,' says Necro Butcher. 'He would tell Dead, "We don't like you. You should just kill yourself." Stuff like that.'

And then, one day in the spring of 1991, Dead did just that. The members of Mayhem had moved to an old house in the forest in an area called Krakstad near Oslo to write and record their next album. Hellhammer claimed that Ohlin 'just sat in his room and became more and more depressed. It would take twenty minutes to get from the house to the nearest shop, and we had to go by train to the nearest town. Teachers from the nearby schools told children: “Do not come up to this house. The house is haunted!” Everybody hated us, but we enjoyed it. One day I decided to go to Oslo with my friends. Before the departure I met Dead. He was grim: “Look, I bought a big knife. It’s very sharp.” Those were the last words I heard from him.”'


One day Euronymous came back to their house to discover Ohlin's body slumped against a wall. He had slashed his wrists with a butcher's knife and blown his brains out with a shotgun. His suicide note had a morbid humour . It read, 'Excuse all the blood. Let the party begin' and included an apology for firing the weapon indoors. Instead of calling the police, Euronymous hitchhiked to the nearest town and bought a disposable camera to photograph the corpse, after re-arranging some items. Later he called his bandmate Hellhammer: '“Dead went back home,” he told me. “Back to Sweden?” I wondered. “No, he’s blown his head.”'

'He called me up the next day,' recalled Necro Butcher, 'and says, "Dead has done something really cool! He killed himself." I thought, have you lost it? What do you mean cool? He says, "Relax, I have photos of everything." I was in shock and grief. He was just thinking how to exploit it. So I told him, "OK. Don't even fucking call me before you destroy those pictures."' Several years later a lurid photo of Dead, lying in a shabby room in which the only splash of colour was provided by his blood, somehow found its way onto the cover of a Mayhem bootleg produced in South America.

'Dawn of the Black Hearts'

Eventually, rumours surfaced that Euronymous made a stew with pieces of Ohlin's brain, and made necklaces with fragments of Ohlin's skull. The band later stated that the former rumour was false, but that the latter was true. Additionally, Euronymous claimed to have given these necklaces to musicians he deemed worthy, and it's well known that several prominent musicians in the Black Metal field are in possession of skull fragments. 'Police took Dead’s body but we lived in the house for a few more weeks,' Hellhammer explained. 'Dead’s blood and pieces of skull were all over the room. Once I looked under his bed and found two big pieces of skull. I took one piece and Euronymous took the other. We made amulets out of them. Later on we lost them somehow. Somehow others have them now. It’s strange ...'

Necrobutcher: 'The Black Metal scene was just growing and we were doing what we were doing up until 1991 when our vocalist (Dead) killed himself. After that, it all started to happen. Some people became more aware of the scene after Dead had shot himself. After that, churches started to burn and it just went crazy here. I think it was Dead's suicide that really changed the whole scene. I think (his suicide) was a very fortunate situation to happen, and I think the scene would still be around and gone in the same direction as it had, maybe just a bit later on. I don't think it would have become as extreme as fast as it had in black metal. A lot of young musicians got into this scene because it was the most aggressive and violent scene out there at the time.'

Note: This text is collaged from numerous writers and sources: Chris Campion, The True Mayhem, Morbid Death Magazine, Sounds of Death Magazine, various interviews, a.o.

Dead walking outside the house in Krakstad

Mayhem rehearsing w/ Dead and Euronymous

Mayhem 'Deathcrush', live in 1990

Tribute to Dead


p.s. Hey. I would like Dead to spend the weekend with you in proxy. Will you kindly indulge me? Thank you. Greetings to all of you from wherever I am.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Rerun: Alana Noel Voth presents ... Night with a Man on the Moon (or. 10/08/08)

First and one time I did crystal meth was with Janelle and her brother Brandon. Janelle had waist length brown hair and Carol Alt cheekbones. What I mean is, she could have been a model but wasn't. For one thing, no one had ever told her that. Janelle used to look through my model's portfolio then say, "You're so pretty." I hadn’t landed a one year contract with Coors yet, or appeared in calendars and on billboards, so when Janelle said that I’d think I’m a floundering hack. Not like my model crushes, Paulina Porizkova and Renee Simonson, at all. One year for Christmas, I got Janelle a pair of crotchless panties. I said, “Hope So-and-So likes them,” and didn’t exactly mean it. Before I met Janelle, Brian or Brad Someone had gotten her pregnant then lost interest, much like what my son’s father would do years later. Lose interest, wish I were dead. I saw him once, the guy who got Janelle pregnant; she pointed him out in a bar, and this Brian or Brad looked like a guy you’d see in a Playgirl centerfold, except short and wiry, clenching his jaw.

Janelle's brother, Brandon, didn’t have a girlfriend. He didn’t have a job. He had white blond hair that almost glowed in the dark, especially when you stared too hard into the darkness, when you were high on crushed amphetamine.

Brandon warned me the night we did the drugs. "This is strong stuff."

I looked at him from the other side of a coffee table. Milli Vanilli was on the radio, "Girl You Know It's True."

"I'll do it." What I felt like in that moment, watching Brandon chop the drugs with a straight razor, was the flight or fight feeling, all this adrenaline that would become chemical fueled, dangerous. What I mean is I was already on edge, in turmoil, conflicted. I’d found my biological mother just a few weeks before and now she was on her way to visit me. I’d told my father I’d found her, and he’d said my meeting my biological mother would hurt my step mother’s feelings, and when he’d said that I’d felt guilty. My brother had said, “What a bad idea. Seriously, why do you care what happened to her? Anyway, it’s not worth hurting Janet for.” Janet, our step mother. I wasn’t just a daughter wanting to meet her estranged mother anymore. I was triumphant and cruel.

I leaned over a line of meth Brandon had laid out on a coffee table for me between a Cosmopolitan magazine, Renee Simonson with her cat eyes and teased hair on the cover, and a stray golden earring. I inhaled the drug up my right nostril. My nose burned; my eyes watered. I looked at Brandon. He couldn’t do his lines of meth off the table. He had twice as much as me. For a second I felt like he’d ripped me off. Brandon lifted a mirror to his nose and inhaled his lines through a rolled dollar bill. He closed his eyes and let his head fall backward and then he sat up and he opened his eyes; they were bright blue. Thing was, he was stuck in a wheelchair the rest of his life. He had a beautiful face. Those fierce eyes and red lips. I had no desire to fuck him though, even in my drug induced state. The fact he was crippled turned me off. He could never hurt me, for one thing.

The inside of my throat lit up like I'd swallowed electric chalk or chalk rolled in hot dirt. Brandon had been in a wheelchair six years. Looking at Janelle on her knees at the coffee table with a cigarette in her mouth made me want to bite my own tongue. Her latest boyfriend beat her, she’d said. Janelle offered her half smoked cigarette to her brother, absently, holding it out without saying anything or looking at him. While Brandon took a long drag off the cigarette, Janelle inhaled a line of meth off the table. She’d started doing drugs, she’d said, soon after her daughter was born, around the time of Brandon’s accident. After Janelle finished her line, she got off her knees and went into the kitchen. It was powerful stuff. She pulled shit out of cupboards, banged things around, sang with the radio. My heart was like a cat wrestling under a blanket.

Once, I smacked one of my grandmother's cats: Juliet, a Siamese, who'd always attack the hem of my nightgown when I walked down the hall. So I hit her, Juliet, and then the cat let loose on my hand, claws and hissing and teeth. I cried while my grandmother put salve on my cuts then bandaged me up. My grandmother had said the cat attacking me had been my fault. I thought about dropping Juliet over the railing of my grandmother’s balcony. I thought about holding her in my lap, the warm steady purr.

“Hey, Janelle,” I said through the doorway to the kitchen. It was like I couldn’t go in there, she didn’t want me to. In some ways I didn’t know Janelle at all. Knowing her was like gazing forever through smudged glass. “Want to do something?” I asked. No idea what.

“I’m going to make spaghetti,” she said.

I wasn’t hungry. The idea of a big home cooked meal felt ridicules at the time. But I had to do something, because seriously I could crawl out of my own skin, and so I went into Janelle’s bathroom and hit a light then stared at myself in a mirror. Two things had become important that moment, always, since high school, eternity:

* Becoming beautiful.
* Remaining thin.

I took Janelle’s make up out of a cupboard and then started to apply it to my face, copping the cover of Cosmopolitan, flawless skin, wet lips. Years later, my son would tell me Jessica Alba was “all special effects” in a movie because no one was actually that pretty, but in just a couple years I’d learn about photographers who retouched photos and the angle of light. I could actually appear inhuman. I rushed from Janelle’s bathroom then stood in the doorway to the kitchen again. “How do I look?”

Janelle walked to the doorway then wet her finger before rubbing the tip under my left eye. “Smudge,” she said. Her saliva was warm on my skin.

“What about my other eye?”



Janelle was back across the kitchen again. She filled a big pot with water. When I’d lived at home, my father hadn’t let me wear make up or curl my hair. My step mother didn’t wear make up either. For years, my step mother and I were at odds in an oppressed environment. What I mean is we were locked in this battle to have my father; we each wanted this enormous cross to bear; and she won him. I told her later she was an enabler: she’d enabled my father’s dysfunction. Years after that, I’d say I couldn’t believe she’d stayed married to him. I’d tell my father he was lucky. Otherwise, he’d be alone. Actually, he’d be dead. My step mother’s cross to bear, my father’s life.

From his wheelchair Brandon said, “You look beautiful,” and I figured he didn’t really mean that or he did because he was in a wheelchair. Anyway I felt vaporous and selfish. I wished I could scratch paint off the walls, pour milk on the floor, color outside the lines, scream with the radio. Next day, my pupils would look shot out like two man holes, and I'd feel as if my body was evaporating driving to the bus stop to pick up my mother. Ironic I rendered myself into such a weak and vulnerable state the first time I'd meet her. You think I’d want to impress her. You’d think I’d want to show this person who’d chosen something else over me what I’d become. Maybe I did. Under developed. I had no idea what to expect from my biological mother. Some things you can't prevent. By midnight that night, I was so sick I couldn’t get out of bed. I felt like a Barbie doll I used to toss in the air to see how she’d land, twisted, backwards, fucked up. How awful it was when briefly my father came inside my apartment, was in the same room with my mother, and my father said my mother's name; she said his, and then I couldn’t fucking believe they were my parents. Who were these people, how were they ever together? I felt foreign and fractured. My fever peaked. I had to return upstairs to bed.

Later, my father would say my step mother had remained in the car sobbing the brief time he was inside the apartment. He’d say she’d wanted to come inside and take care of me, knowing I was sick. Thing was, neither she nor my father took care of me anymore.

My biological mother made soup that weekend, Ramen noodles with added vegetables. She read a few of my stories and told me they were good. One story had an angel in it, and the angel was named after her. All so ridicules. I’d go on to other “angels,” older or more successful women than myself, more stable, I’d think, women who were capable and beautiful, admirable, and I’d feel for them this boundless speechless love, and yet each one of them would eventually expose how flawed they were, unhappier than me even, sad and tormented their marriages, frustrated and bullied. Took a long time before any of it made any sense to me, why I loved them, how I already knew they were flawed.

Rest of the time my mother stayed that weekend, she smoked pot with my roommate, Regan, and the scent wafted up the stairs, around a corner, and into my room as I lied on my bed shivering. Sometimes I still smell marijuana. I don’t mean because I’m around it, or smoking it either. I mean I smell pot and then inhale it, hold it. Like I covet a ghost.

Sometime that weekend, I drove myself to a doctor's office and barely made it across a parking lot. I felt like I was hobbled. This wasn’t like the time my father had beat me with a leather belt, and then I went to school the next day. It was worse. I couldn’t fall into my mother’s arms. Already I was disillusioned, already I was moving on. I’d done this to myself. Like a test, testing us both.

That night in Janelle’s house, high on the meth, I’d wanted to say something to her. How are you a mother? You need to clean your shit up. I ground my teeth savagely. Frying pan full of meat, cans of tomato paste on the counter, a pile of olives on a cutting board and mushrooms, a bag of spaghetti noodles, the spices lined up. Janelle flicked her hair over one shoulder and then inhaled more meth while steam rose off the stove, all that boiling water. Her daughter, Jeri, was four years old. Once, Janelle took me to this place, Cahoots. Rough bar. Live band. Shots of tequila. The way Janelle partied, I judged her. I was a hypocrite. People did what they wanted, right? She should have been home. I didn't have any kids. Janelle's mother was taking care of her daughter. The little girl, Jeri, was growing up on a ranch. I’d lived with my grandparents when I was little, after my mother left. My father drove us to Grand Forks North Dakota then left me with his parents. They were nice people, my grandparents; they gave me toys, hugs and kisses, no explanations. I used to dress in my grandmother's nightgowns then stand on the balcony in front of her bedroom and wait. No idea who I wished for more, or if the right person showed up.

When I lived with my father again, he had lots of girlfriends. Sharon, Jacqueline, Patricia. I'd inhale their perfume. Look into their blond hair, covet their turtleneck sweaters. The girlfriends never stayed long. That was OK with me, even if I had told my father, "I want a mother." I didn't know what that meant, to have a mother. I used to crawl into my first-grade teacher’s lap. I had no memory of my biological mother. No idea if I’d asked anyone, let alone my father, “Where is she?” My father was there. Larger than life. I dreamed once a giant man came out the top of a hospital at the end of street where one of my babysitter’s lived. Who knows when my father became the monster who'd chased my mother away? But suddenly, maybe when I was thirteen or fifteen, nineteen, forever and a day, he was the bad guy. He’d made my mother leave me.

Once, I got into the middle of something between Janelle and her boyfriend, Damon. Janelle had been crying, hugging herself in her own arms outside a bar, deep night, cool wind, and I’d put myself in front of her, shielding her from Damon, and he was about to punch me in the face. I froze entirely, like slow motion, this guy's fist above me in the night air, stars, and the concrete beneath me, the bar entrance to the right, and then it burst from my lips. "Remember who my father is." Everyone was afraid of my father. Especially me. I wiped the spittle from my mouth, relishing in the tidal wave of my father washing over me, the entire scene, Damon's face, and then Damon lowered his fist. Janelle left with him that night. Love was a contest I didn’t win.

Here’s another memory. The man I love. Tall, blonde sideburns, denim jacket, a pack of Marblo Red cigarettes in a front pocket. He stands beside the woman he's married to now. They've called me into the garage. The sun reaches only so far. I must be in the sunlight. You know how the sunlight feels? I've been singled out, I'm too warm. They're a few feet away standing together looking at me. And I want to shrink. I want to grow larger than life. My father puts his hand on my step mother's arm and then says, You'll stop doing whatever it is you've done to try and break us up. I've no translation, nothing specific. No words. My father must have described in detail what I'd done to try and break them up. I’m sure I did something. The fights they had for a while, epic. I’d lie in bed and think, "After this one she's bound to leave." Except my step mother came in my room one night and sat on the end of my bed, uninvited. Nothing here was mine anymore. My step mother would come into my room time and time again and find something I'd written, hidden, done, and then show it to my father, who would ground me to my room or use the belt on my ass.

This is what it looks like when you lose, when your father falls out of love with you. My step mother said from the end of my bed "I'm not leaving. So what? I must have thought. Oh, yes, you are. In the garage, standing just out of the light, my father said, "I love Janet.” And so I was wrecked now. He chose her. The moment I just died. I was defined.

In high school, my senior year, a boy told me I looked good in jeans. He said, “You have a great butt.” Sometimes at home my father punished me by telling me to bend over and grab my ankles, and then my ass stuck up in the air, the supreme humiliation, subjectification. My father would stand behind me snapping the strap of his leather belt saying, “Your ankles. Goddammit your ankles. I said grab your ankles.” And it would go on. Him behind me snapping the belt. Me crying, shuddering. Primed to take it in the ass.

My first boyfriend Scott dragged me off my feet from a parking lot into the passenger seat of his friend's car. He'd also locked me in his bathroom because of the way I looked one night I planned to go to a live rock show. You look like a slut. Not so far from how my father used to put it. You look ridicules because I’d used lip gloss. I got so mad at Scott that night I poured all his shampoo down the drain, squeezed all the toothpaste from the tube, flushed a used bar of soap down the toilet, and then counted aspirin out on the counter, twenty-four, one for each year of his life. Even when I'd kicked the bathroom door with the heel of my shoe, it wouldn't budge, and so I'd lined the aspirin up. I could hear him on the phone to someone, a friend, maybe the one, Charles, who’d once hissed in my ear, “You’re not so hot, bitch,” and then felt my breast in a bar between a clammy press of people. "She's not going anywhere,” Scott said. I scooped the aspirin into my hand and then instead of letting them slide into my mouth, I screamed through the door. "I hate you!" Soon as I get out of here, you'll never see me again. I'd yelled like that at my father once, and then he'd held me down by the back of my neck and struck me across my shoulders, back, ass, and legs with a leather belt. It never occurred to me the next day as I limped to gym class that another girl would spy my bruises in the locker room then report me to the school nurse who'd demand, "Who did this to you?" What I was certain of was another girl would see my bruises and know I'd deserved it.

When Scott opened the bathroom door, I felt confused like an animal when its captor has opened its cage and then goads you to go on, just go, what’s the problem? Before I’d even formulated the question or gotten close to an answer, Scott dropped to his knees in front of me and started to sob.

My father used to come into my room then drop to his knees at my bedside and weep into my hand. I'd lie still peering at him through my eyelashes not sure if he was real. I’d want it to be real. The repentance, his sorrow, his need. Scott looked at me from the floor, and I had this sudden sneaking suspicion I was exactly what he'd accused me of. Maybe I would have left him for a guy in a band. Wasn't it always in the back of my head? A rock star. Someone bright and shiny and larger than life and entirely unattainable. Part of me wished I could pop Scott’s head between my hands.

Once, my biological mother threw a statue she'd made of herself pregnant with me at my father, and he'd kept the statue. What I mean is, my father pieced the statue back together so meticulously you could run a finger over the point of a chin, line of an arm, the swell of a gown, maybe, Madonna like, hairline fractures across the Plaster of Paris belly, no real facial features. My father kept the statue on a shelf with a row of books: Shogun, The Human Ape, Flowers for Algernon.

I wonder how often my step mother looked at the statue and hated it more than anything else in the world, that he wouldn’t let go of her, even if it was a statue, my step mother became desperate afraid. And I went to the statue often and held it my hands and tried to conjure a face. I tried to conjure an identity in spite of my life then. I did what I could to never see my step mother crying.

That night at Janelle’s, I never saw how Brandon got in and out of places in his wheelchair. How did he go to the bathroom? I peered at Janelle in the kitchen and grinded my teeth while I rocked back and forth sitting on the floor holding my knees, and then I proclaimed, “My father is an asshole.” Heil, Hitler! I was so fucking high.

Brandon leaned forward in his wheelchair and touched my face. "You OK?"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh."

"You know what I do when I don’t have drugs?” he said.

“No. What do you do?"

I didn't even look at him. I rocked back and forth and stared into the kitchen, and Janelle was in there scrubbing dishes. Why were the dishes all dirty? I couldn't figure it out.

“I drink bottles of cough syrup,” he said.

When Brandon was sixteen, he'd driven his Camero into a ditch and then the car had rolled twice before pinning him underneath it. Weird, how dissociated Janelle was. I went on and on to Brandon, thin air, the gods, about my father, my fatherfuckingfather. It was easy, all consuming, the sheer blistered bliss I discovered in placing the blame on my father: he ruined my childhood, beat and belittled me: I’d been dumped at the age of nine by the love of my life, and thanks to him, I’d had no chance at all at a healthy relationship with anyone. On the floor at the foot of a boy’s wheelchair I gnawed away on my own spiritual paw. Brandon had these gazelle thin legs. My problems were larger.


p.s. Hey. Ah, today you get this fantastic piece of writing from some years ago by the wonderful writer and d.l. in emeritus Alana Noel Voth. Enjoy. Later, guys.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Rerun: Boy Gets Raped By Ghost and other chilling short films (orig. 11/21/08)

Boy gets raped

boys rape each other

Josh and his little brother

Paul getting rape by 3 girls & 1 guy

Boy Gets Raped By Ghost

Trevor Got Raped

trevor GOT RAPED!

boy gets raped

bro rape part 3

Steve Rapes little boy.

nick rapes little boy part 1

Bum rape

Man Rape at Band Camp

year 12 camp: danny getting raped

Rape in a Tent!

Don't Do Drugs, You'll Get Raped!!!

sleeping Rape


p.s. Hey. Still away. Still will be away for a while. This old post seems like a decent repeater maybe. Hope all of you are well.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Rerun: Spotlight on ... Rene Crevel Putting My Foot in It (orig. 11/27/08)


"Crevel was born rebellious the way others are born with blue eyes."
—Philippe Soupault

"Crevel actually wrote only a single sentence: the long sentence of a feverish monologue from the pen of a Proust who dipped his biscuit laced with LSD into his tea, instead of the unctuous madeleine."

—Angelo Rinaldi, L'Express

"He will be read more and more as the wind carries away the ashes of the ‘great names’ that preceded him. "

—Ezra Pound

'René Crevel (1900-35) was French Surrealist who initiated experiments with hypnotic sleep. His greatest contribution to the movement, however, was to demonstrate that Surrealism and the novel could be reconciled. Whether texts such as Détours (1924), La Mort difficile (1926), Babylone (1927), Êtes-vous fous? (1929), and Les Pieds dans le plat (1933) are called ‘romans’ or ‘fictions’, the role of language itself in their elaboration is arguably the key element. Mon corps et moi (1925) is a confessional monologue and L'Esprit contre la raison (1927) is his Surrealist manifesto.

'Crevel was born in Paris to a family of Parisian bourgeoisie. He had a traumatic religious upbringing. At the age of fourteen, during a difficult stage of his life, his father committed suicide by hanging himself. Crevel studied English at the University of Paris. He met André Breton and joined the surrealist movement in 1921, from which he would be excluded in October 1923 due to Crevel's homosexuality and Breton's belief that the movement had been corrupted. During this period, Crevel wrote novels such as Mon corps et moi ("My Body and Me"). In 1926, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis which made him start using morphine. The 1929 exile of Léon Trotsky persuaded him to rejoin the surrealists. Remaining faithful to André Breton, he struggled to bring communists and surrealists closer together. Much of Crevel's work deals with his inner turmoil at being bisexual.

'Crevel killed himself by turning on the gas on his kitchen stove the night of June 18, 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" (and was facing more and more solitude as the real face of Soviet socialism started to occur), 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. He left a note which read "Please cremate my body. Loathing."'
-- Wikipedia

'Rene Crevel's 1933 novel Putting My Foot in It (Les Pieds dans le plat) has long been considered a classic of the surrealist period. Loosely structured around a luncheon attended by thirteen guests, the novel is a surrealistic critique of the intellectual corruption of post-World War I France, especially the capitalist bourgeoisie and its supporter, the Catholic Church. The novel begins with an account of the family of the major character, known as the "Prince of Journalists." This bizarre family—the grandparents a soldier and a sodomized woman, the parents an orphaned epileptic and a hunchback—is matched by Crevel's bizarre syntax and vocabulary: nouns that initially appear legitimate, intact, and respectable, soon decompose into obscene epithets, making other nouns, both common and proper, suspect.' -- DA


Sun and tradition. A dazzling light and the firm intention not to let yourself be blinded, etc., etc.

Symbols need not limit their scope to this pendulum swing of images. But a well-balanced mind won’t try and roost on a swing of antithesis that, at the height of its arc, would only look down on treacherous metaphors and promenades strewn with wolf traps that snare innocent beige fawns in flight, rather than large carnivores.

Here, today, the herd of cavorting ideas would hardly seem threatened. Fog-toothed melancholy can only sink its teeth into moonlight. And presently, it is high noon. So much for time. As for place, the Roman Empire passed through. It even stayed, blended with the dirt on this hillside, disciplined it, militarized it, metamorphosing amorphous terrain into terraces.

One of the mighty of this earth, one of the opinion makers whose sense of order takes pleasure in evoking the grand classical past, not for vain regrets but for quite virile resolutions, is jaunting merrily along — although there is nothing merry about the thoroughfare in question—snuggly ensconced in a motorcar worthy of the Roman road. This brand-new car is French-made, for if the ear of the Caesars, including the subsequent period, was the age of hippic locomotion, it is important, when purchasing motor vehicles, to observe a certain solidarity which, if not specifically French, is Latin, or at the very least, European, but strictly European, for after all of the tricks they have played on us, those sons of Uncle Sam with their Bonus Armies, their gangsters, their crashing and crashed millionaires—they can go hang themselves elsewhere.

With a light breeze tickling the white hairs on his chest and those which serve as a nest for a certain bird and its septuagenarian eggs (fresh as a daisy, moreover, thanks to Voronoff), the man who rejoices in the title of the Prince of Journalists savors the joy of living.

Here, in the hollow of a small valley, is a ruin used to transport water before the birth of Christ. Thus, to the paradoxical and nearly imperceptible accompaniment of an almighty motor, thoughts can let themselves float along. It won’t be long before they reach the banks of reverie. They won’t, moreover, lose any of their moderation in the process. Mustn’t forget that, if Fragonard and Hubert Robert measured up to this landscape, then any French mind worthy of the name can and must, out of the greatest disorder, out of a certain shambles, indeed out of a complete mess, compose a garden, a French garden, to be exact.

And to think that the great redheaded barbarians sung (though not in earnest) by Verlaine dare to return to our countryside, to our beaches, to attack our spas, to talk about how old this country is, and even spend their money on the rags that insinuate, with each venture undertaken by the Prince of Journalists, that this time it could be his swan song. A Prince of Journalists’ song, if he is aware of his national rights and duties, can only come out as a cock’s crow. The Gallic cockerel’s. His head is bursting with bugles. He is always ready to sound the charge. Even his dreams are dedicated to his country—only last night, he dreamt he was the Unknown Soldier’s widow! Ah, that cadaveric stiffness!

But to be aware of one’s rights and duties as a Frenchman is first of all to be liberal. Thus, the Prince of Journalists agreed to have lunch today with an Austrian woman. An archduchess, of course. And if other compatriots of our former enemies should try to slip in behind the grand dame, he will take care of them. And above all, watch out for so-called philosophers, poets, and filmmakers from Central Europe. Each morning, the director of a large daily dutifully reminds the editor of his Arts and Letters column that an intellectual invasion never fails to foreshadow the other kind. So guard and watch all frontiers—the frontiers of the mind no less than those in the north and the east. Defend the moral heritage of France, French culture, the culture of French thought, French gardens, French-style gardens, the French woman’s gardens, with boxwood-lined paths, the wood itself being carved into a darning egg; for the owner, the Frenchwoman, the bourgeoisie Frenchwoman (any Frenchwoman worthy of the name being a bourgeoisie), even athletic or a touch brainy, is and will remain, until the end of time, thrifty enough to keep both the wooden stocking, wherein lies the family nest egg, and her own nylons from unraveling, mending them as soon as they begin to run.

Sitting at her window, with a song on her lips, a flower in her bosom, but never with a fire down below, this guardian of traditions, next to a table adorned with the tastiest fruits of her orchard—isn’t it something out of Chardin?

The Prince of Journalists is moved. He melts. And not only from the midsummer heat but from the warmth, far more touching, of memory. In his mind’s eye, he sees his father, his mother, the decent people who spent their lives growing old. By the time they procreated him they were in their twilight years, hoping that very solid experience would compensate for certain congenial and perhaps hereditary handicaps. The good souls had no reason to worry. Their son, although he is short and lively tempered, holds himself straight as a ruler, and, at bottom, always masters his reflexes. Actually he turned out well enough, both mentally and physically, to savor with his utmost gratitude, in the scene before him, the memory of the ruin which had been built, on his father’s orders, near a pond whose waters were confined by exquisite little banks. The wise old man, after having asked the valet who never left him for a second to set up his folding stool and cover his shoulders with a Scottish plaid, was ready to sit down, aim, shoot (wasn’t this firearmed fisherman an expert on refraction?) one, two, three, four times. He killed the father, the mother, the little boy, the little girl bleak-fish.

Only the most genuinely French virtues had caused this carbine fisherman to become an Olympian statue of warm fabrics at the edge of autumn’s waters. Beneath such majesty he was hiding a painful secret. Our firearmed fisherman’s mother, in the days when she was carrying him, had been assaulted on a dark night and, before she even had time to catch her breath, got hosed—and, what’s worse, from the flip side. How could the unborn child have possibly avoided the repercussion of this heinous violence? Expecting his offspring to bear a double original sin which no amount of baptism would wash away, the husband of the woman sodomized in spite of herself, a great friend of Cambronne, used his connections to get enlisted and heroically killed immediately, at the head of a small troop which had only recently bestowed upon him the proud title of commander.

Every sin, even unintentional, can be forgiven. Of course, the orphan paid for this forgiveness with congenital epilepsy. He was all but deprived of the joys of childhood. He can still remember his mother’s mustached nieces sitting in a circle all around her, the woman sodomized in spite of herself. These cousins, if distant memory serves him well, were neither fish nor foul, neither hide nor hair, but salt and pepper and more bitter than sweet. They were going to prevent a further accident at all costs, which is why they lived on the plains of Beauce.

On the horizon, there wasn’t a single grove that could conceal a satyr. As soon as the wheat reached a certain height, the young widow was confined to the house until the last row had been gleaned.

As a result of her adventure, she had become prone to melancholy. The sweet, desperate automatism of certain gestures which she repeated indefinitely made her guardians conclude that she was eccentric or even obsessed. For days upon end she would caress her hair, which was naturally wavy, but straightened each morning. She hardly ever opened her mouth. On one exceptional evening, however, she was talking a great deal when, perhaps, she was frightened by a reproving stare from one of the old women? In any event she jumped up and took off running. Since one of the jailers had just made sure that all the doors and windows were securely locked, none of them bothered to follow her. The young woman didn’t get far, of course, no farther than the dining room; but there, out of a Dutch candelabra she pulled a purplish candle (everything was mourning and half-mourning in her charming little interior) and, in pious kiss, brushed her lips against its wax, which was softer than the softest human skin.

teporingos bubonicos "Rene Crevel"


p.s. Hey. I'm already away. You could do worse than spend my first away day reading and thinking about Rene Crevel. I will see you, but only in the form of a blog post plus a sentence or two a la these sentences, tomorrow.