Download My Tired Father by Gellu Naum PDF

By Gellu Naum

First released in Romania in 1972, My drained Father is an autobiographical college, an assisted cut-up. In phrases and diction lifted from outdated books and renowned magazines, Naum demonstrates that wish is a positive principle—and that the spirit of Surrealism isn't really reducible to a interval kind or rhetoric.

Born in Bucharest in 1915, Gellu Naum used to be a relevant determine in Romanian Surrealism earlier than the second one international warfare. heavily associated with the painter Victor Brauner, Naum collaborated with Jacques Hérold, Gherasim Luca, Paul Paun, Dolfi Trost, Virgil Teodorescu, and Perahim, between others, in pursuing the Surrealist event in Paris and Bucharest.

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Sample text

Prepare yourselves for a rigorous chill, be urgently chiffoned. NEAK AND MOKE NEAR We're so close to the ocean I can taste it, like the volcanic in Picasso. A hand can fit perfectly over a mouth. I know about the thighbone, but what's this connected to? A. Compare this with the habits of the wife of Bath, her passing breezes, the stolen pear, tallied for change, tailed to the last, her little Spanish clock. This star plane is mechanical, it's having us on. What long teeth you have. HERCri,EH CONQUERS ACHELOUS As luck conducts the inner man, a trumped up art will fly beneath the wings.

All this planetary turning on a hinge. My head is fair but plain, thinking of Rutherford. I was looking in the window of a newer Canaan, but the dew on its lilies tasted like salt. This piece of my mind is just beyond the hammering, a dog in the yard drifting like trash. Every season cannot be thought at once, even when the world can name it. VIEWLESS FLOODS OF HEAT So much for swans. " Being vernal, I've had it with desire. A winter scene middled and rung, with its brilliant use of stupefaction.

Something clearer beyond the polished glass. THE SKIRT OF NICHT A painted tree shadows the river. In a compound eye, nature leans away from struggle, the name is implied. See how he is taken by one hand, or by his leg, a starry gas beating overhead. From the eastern balcony, horizon blinks like a bug. The paradox of counting spreads its ink across the page, a signature more built than drafted. To see or not see. Do you read or hear it? As if by hunger, earth empties its mind. OF WHICH OCCASION I SHAM, TO SI'KAK HAVK AIÏAIN Look at the base, asking to be stolen.

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