Donnerstag, September 02, 2010

a screaming arch of Stukas-CURZIO MALAPARTE -Like some ancient prophet from the Bible

And the flies are the winners.....Malaparte the god of the flies is always there for the big moments and freely mixes fantasy with fact.
Narcissism, Dux Italiano, the liar as artist and the nostalgia of the Mediterranean delusion. Sure... but the UTOPIA lives in guy's like this

Rommel asks Malaparte if he built this villa himself.
No, he bought it as is... but he designed the scenery.
The conceit is a joke, a surrealist pun.
It pisses off the ideologue and the institutional maven.

Truth is external event, not the chimera of the sleeping mind.
Surrealism is a lie, a subversion of the secular being.
Automism, the occult, dead classicism, dead gods, individualism and instinct.

Poetry cannot coexist with the facts, for poetry is the mythologizing of the Big Lie. Yes... certainly accurate reportage is politically correct, and certainly only the sophisticated can follow such trans-dimensional narratives.

The greedy, self-absorbed expression of the elitist? Possibly.
But then, if atheism isn't elitist, is it atheism?

He painted it red, then he painted it white... then red again.
What's in a color? Plenty, some think.)

red was the preferred color of the fascist elite for their villas... or red was the color of Russia.

The Volga Rises in Europe, his impressions are heretical, as they show sympathy for the adversary, and seem to reconcile the social models of Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia as similar mechanized versions of the New Man.

War, indeed, is the Sorelian action drama, and he describes it with the lyricism of an action painting. A burnt female corpse, fused into the cockpit of a Russian tank, the prairie panorama of the German tanks advancing below "a screaming arch of Stukas", the faces of the dead beneath the ice fresco of Lake Lagoda... or this description of a German convoy en route from Greece to the Ukraine:

"Instinctively one knew that beneath the mask of the dust the soldiers' faces were scorched by the sun, pinched by the Greek wind. The men sat in strangely stiff attitudes; they had the appearance of statues. They were so white with dust that they looked as if they were made of marble. One of them had an owl, a live owl, perched on his fist... the bird undoubtedly came from the Acropolis, it was one of those owls who hoot at night among the marble columns of the Parthenon."

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