Mina Loy - Insel

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Insel: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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“He has an evening suit, but never an occasion to wear it, so he puts it on when he paints his pictures.” Insel German painter Insel is a perpetual sponger and outsider — prone to writing elegant notes with messages like “Am starving to death except for a miracle — three o’clock Tuesday afternoon will be the end”—but somehow writer and art dealer Mrs. Jones likes him.
Together, they sit in cafés, hatch grand plans, and share their artistic aspirations and disappointments. And they become friends. But as they grow ever closer, Mrs. Jones begins to realize just how powerful Insel’s hold over her is.
Unpublished during Loy’s lifetime,
—which is loosely based on her friendship with the painter Richard Oelze — is a supremely surrealist, deliberately excessive creation: baroque in style, yet full of deft comedy and sympathy. Now, with an alternate ending only recently unearthed in the Loy archives,
is finally back in print, and Loy’s extraordinary achievement can be appreciated by a new generation of readers.

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XVII

There was no mistaking this ecclesiastic ‘current’. Here was my drug addict; divested of those shreds of flesh, easily as an aria relayed across the Atlantic, a recognisable ‘invisibility’ come to visit me.

XVIII

As an automaton I returned his salute, with the same ecstatic, friendly yet clerical benediction whose significance I realised, as I inclined in that direction, to be our mutual forgiveness. For his dope-ring duplicity? My written account of him?

XIX

His ‘presence’, conveying a solemn hilarity, declared in my brain “Ess ist doch nicht schlimm genüg __ _ _ Nothing they can do to you is bad enough _ _ _ _ you’re a revenge on your unfair advantage __ _ _ they cannot see what we see.”

And the pain lay dead among the shadows.

XX

This reminder of the strange attributes of the drug fiend renewed my curiosity as to the major factor in the human make-up.

Man’s dynamism.

According to my experience in Geneva the force that drives us is of incalculable voltage conducted by the spinal column in the manner of a lightening rod.

XXI

If, as I suspect, we have our existence in an intelligential ether this force [flux] of life conveys to us not only our animation but also our intellectual concepts.

[ MISSING XXI A ]

XXII

There are two modes in meditation, one in which the intellect functions with supernormal rapidity; one in which eased of even the normal staccato it slows down to the tempo of a prevalent wisdom at peace.

[ MISSING XXIII ]

XXIV

Now I was engaged with a kind of surrealist man. Constructing, demolishing him kaleidoscopically, hoping to demonstrate how he ‘worked.’

Made of that Shadow, beside me in Geneva, whose universe re-emerged as the omniprevalent ray struck him. What I seemed to be so intent on discovering was the nature of the

xxv

fusion of that Ray with himself.

An Island in the air sustained by unseen attributes, this man derived his form from the symmetric evidence of the one half of the man being a replica of the other half. Attached to his blind back, his antedeluvian tail anchored him in the past.

XXVI

Nuzzling the future, the features of more sharp-scented animals have dwindled to incomparable beauty in his face of pinkish pulp.

Behind this fragile front lies a delicate radio-raceiver of cosmic urges which canalised, intricated, misconstrued by his brain, compose the rhythm of his individuality.

XXVII

Become clair-voyable, whereas his body displays a crimson circulation, another half-extraneous phosphorescent circulation, some vortex in the intelligential ether spins through his head; as though he hung from the cosmic consciousness by a ring of light.

XXVIII

Taking on another aspect, emitting electric waves, he broadcast his thoughts which were returned to him conditioned by their effectiveness; ideas, operative as hands, shaping events.

XXVIII A

While, as directed by remote control above him in an ‘atmosphere’ enveloping his brain, shone the magnetic beam that guided him — the soul.

XXIX

I saw him submitted to opposite gravities, terrestial & celestial, pulling him downward & upward. When these were equal, he was in equilibrium. When he responded only to the terrestial, his body became heavy like lead; when more rarely, to the celestial, his spirit lightening, he diminished in weight.

[ MISSING XXX ]

XXXI

So Manifold are the workings of the life-force _ _ so vast its resource_ _ _ Again [__] man appeared to me in the phenomenal world with his head at the same time in the eternally revealing cosmic consciousness.

In this consciousness lay strata of various inspirations __ _ _ somewhere among them a strata of absolute felicity to which the majority of minds vaguely aspire. The clerical locate this Felicity in a region, the lay-man in a reaction, in this surrealist man the reaction derives from that region.

XXXII

Out of his head arose an ethereal dumb-waiter, stopped at the desired strata & having taken on the provision required descended to the intellectual laboratory __ __ __ __ __

The elevator falls apart, leaving antennal strands feeling their way into the stratal continuum. Up there where he is aware of the penetration of his mind by an extra-luminous radiance.

XXXIII

A cosmic obviousness everywhere defined escapes him completely, intangible as God.

The destructible robot, soft machine, senses a mystery, & as if attempting to locate the ‘genius’ revealed in a work of art through the analysis of the chemical properties of paint digs ever more deeply into his island Base in search of the origin of his impeti _ _ _

For a moment, he imprisons the omniprevalent ‘leaning’ towards intercommunication in a gland _ _the last _ least co-operater becomes the initiator.

XXXIV

But when I watch this Sur-realist Being for long, I see him turn from his unfolding of concentrated distance; dropping his microscope in favour of an opposite lens which, contracting diffused distance, brings the unprecedented patterns of that cosmic obviousness he faces, within his view.__________

The surrealist man is very short, awakened by desire — eclipsed by ennui.

xxxv

The surrealist man is very long, stretching like a live wire from 1938 as far into the future & through equally numerous stages of evolution as he reaches into the past. His beginning is a speck of transparency, impinged upon by the sun. His ultimate presence would have been virtually invisible to a twentieth-century eye.

His way is strewn with stone implements, embedded bones & machinery he discarded as superannuated models of functions he slowly develops within himself. Transport telepathy, radio, & television together with surprising future facilities are effected by ‘centres’ in his cerebellum controlling the various potentials of the life-ray. The religious symbols of the precocious visionary in his early days, translated, become the ‘scientific’

XXXVI

commonplace of his further condition.

Even as of old angels grew wings & emitted haloes, he is buoyant in defiance of atmospheric pressure, his brain gives off a radium glow become apparent. He has X-ray eyes.

XXXVII

Arduous is his transformation. While experimenting upon the regulation of his electo-atomic velocities & resistances, he must pass the danger point at which he takes the risk of the power that holds him together dynamiting him with his own force.

xxxvIII

Of this danger, as of every phase he passes through, he stages repeated rehearsals with his heavy mechanical toys.

Playing the role of a bombastic cell in an aggregate organism blasting surrounding cells to make room for his own inflation; his mind still bound by numeric (al?) restriction & geometric space waivers an infinite accommodation he imposes upon

XXXIX

himself a human menace — from without.

In an amazing ‘dédoublement’ he confronts himself with an ‘Enemy’. Avid aggressor whose terrifying eyes are the eyes of an incontactable alien.

During the ensuing horror any observer at large may witness a conjurous displacement: viewed from the opposite side the assailed becomes the assailant. He is blowing up his simulacrum.

40

“Mamma! I can’t set the curls at the back of my neck.”

In lightning metamorphoses, the clockwork of the surrealist man runs down.

At once an atom indistinguishable among a frontierless agglomeration and a tower of Babel built of all mankind _ _ _ he fades _ _ _ in ephemeral undulations to the etheric contour like a frame for training a fancy box-tree his substance clings to.

Now only the searchlight shafts of his future eyes __ __ __ __

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