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Inatari

Сюрреализъм, фантастика, фентъзи

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Незнам колко от вас са чували за сюрреалистите ,за стиловото направление в изкуството ,сюрреализъм .

Но ето какво означава- надреалност . По- висша , по - съвършена реалност ,основаваща се на вярата в могъществото на съня и в безкористната игра на мисълта.

Сюрреализмът става първопричина за появата и на фантастиката и на фентъзито /приказната фантастика/ .

Това вече са познати стилове ,предполагам. :3d_059:

Истината е ,че първи французите усещат културните тенденции и първи те създават условията за развитие на модерното изкуство от всякакъв вид . Андре Бретон - създателят на сюрреализма и основателят на движението на сюрреалистите успява да обедини в едно общество, в едно комюнити известни художници като Салвадор Дали , Рьоне Магрит , Хуан Миро , Пабло Пикасо и мн.други, известни психолози ,както и режисьори като Луис Бонюел ,писатели и поети . Всички те са се вълнували от фантастичната реалност на съновиденията , на одушевените предмети на магичните символи в реалността.

В съвременният свят на 21 век ,вече понятието сюрреално се споменава само в артистичните среди ,а по широкото понятие ,което се изпозва е фантастика ,сайънс фикшън ,фентъзи .

Аз реших да погледна малко по назад и да си спомним и за по - старите фантасти като Едгар Алън По, Хърбърт Уелс , Рей Бредбъри . Английските корени на фантастиката в литературата също са факт .

Но като се замисля ,всичко е тръгнало от Фройд .Просто през 1910 г. той публикува своя труд"За психоанализата",през същата година Василий Кандински рисува своя първи абстрактен "непредметен ", отвлечен от реалността акварел.И ето че завесата зад подсъзнанието , сънищата ,отвлеченото, нереалното , започва да се повдига....Удивителна е и културната връзка между различните видове изкуства....

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Определено сюрреализмът не е от стиловите направления,които добре познавам,така че ще ми бъде интересно да се образовам благодарение на знаещите повече по тази тема и предварително им благодаря!

Като става дума за фантастика ми се иска да споделя с вас един разказ на Павел Вежинов,който препрочетох наскоро.Поводът беше класната работа на дъщеря ми по литература и да си призная честно се зарадвах,че има разчупване в училищната програма.Разказът можете да прочетете от ТУК

Всъщност Павел Вежинов винаги ме е привличал със самобитността си,с интересната душевност на героите му,с оригиналното миксиране на психология,фантастика и реализъм едновременно.

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Михаил Лермонтов - Демон 1829/41 (последен вариант)

"Печальный Демон, дух изгнанья,

Летал над грешною землей,

И лучших дней воспоминанья

Пред ним теснилися толпой;

.....

Давно отверженный блуждал

В пустыне мира без приюта:

Вослед за веком век бежал,

Как за минутою минута,

Однообразной чередой.

Ничтожной властвуя землей,

Он сеял зло без наслажденья.

Нигде искусству своему

Он не встречал сопротивленья -

И зло наскучило ему.

demon4.jpg

М. А. Врубель. Демон сидящий.

Масло. 1890.

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Наред с класиците във фантастиката истинско удоволствие ми доставя да попадна в света на фентъзито ,или така наречената приказна фантастика.

В момента дочитам "Приказки от Землемория "на Урсула Ле Гуин,която смятам за много сериозно присъствие като автор във фентъзито. Освен Толкин ,другият автор с уникално лице е Урсула Ле Гуин.

Предполагам ,повечето са чели първата й книга "Землемория" може би сте гледали и филма "The Legend of Earthsee" :3d_123: ,който също намирам за доста интересен . Но "Приказки от Землемория 'е за тези ,които вече са прочели и гледали .

Интересни са историите ,които Урсула разказва за предисторията на училището за магьосници на Роук ,както и няколко истории свързани с Гед и Оджиън като млад. Приказки ,които дават още по - голяма плътност на света на Землемория , правят го още по- истински.

В нейните книги има освен една интересна ,наситена с епос и драма фантастична история ,както и много любопитни герои ,една много интересна философия на разбирането за магьосничеството ,за вълшебството. Много по - мъдро и задълбочено са представени свръхсилите ,отколкото при други фантасти.

Например тезата за Древния език и истинските имена на хората ,растенията, животните ,предметите ,природата .

Владеенето на силата ,която означава преди всичко баланс и равновесие ,както и отговорност . Интересен и много убедителен е пътят на израстване на Гед като магьосник ,победата над страха , съзнанието за ловец и жертва.

Много ,много са нещата ,които са истини ,казани по този фантастичен начин за магията и вълшебството.

Редактирано от Ина Трифонова

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SURREALIST POETRY

Federico Garcia Lorca

Dawn

Dawn in New York has

four columns of mire

and a hurricane of black pigeons

splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York groans

on enormous fire escapes

searching between the angles

for spikenards of drafted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth

because morning and hope are impossible there: :3d_142:

sometimes the furious swarming coins

penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.

Those who go out early know in their bones

there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:

they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,

in mindless games, in fruitless labors.

The light is buried under chains and noises

in the impudent challenge of rootless science.

And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs

as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.

Poet in New York 1929-1930

Sleepless City

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.

No one sleeps.

The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.

The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,

and the brokenhearted fugitive will meet on street corners

an unbelievable alligator resting beneath the tender protest of the

stars.

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.

No one sleeps.

In a graveyard far off there is a corpse

who has moaned for three years

because of an arid landscape in his knee;

and that boy they buried this morning cried so much

it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!

We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth

or we climb to the snow's edge with the voices of dead dahlias.

But there is no oblivion; no dream:

only flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths

in a tangle of new veins,

and those who hurt will hurt without rest

and those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.

One day

horses will live in the saloons

and the enraged ants

will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the

eyes of cows.

Another day

we will watch the dried butterflies rise from the dead

and still walking through a landscape of gray sponges and silent ships

we will watch our ring flash while roses spill from our tongues.

Careful! Be careful! Be careful!

Those still marked by claws and thunderstorms,

and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention

of bridges,

or that corpse who possesses now only his head and a shoe,

we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes

are waiting,

where the bear's teeth are waiting,

where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,

and the fur of the camel stands on end with a violent blue chill.

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.

No one sleeps.

But if someone does close his eyes,

whip him, my children, whip him!

Let there be a landscape of open eyes

and bitter wounds on fire.

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.

I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.

But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the

night,

open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight

the fake goblets, the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Poet in New York 1929-1930

Andre Breton[/size]

Free Union

My wife with the hair of a wood fire

With the thoughts of heat lightning

With the waist of an hourglass

With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger

My wife with her rosette mouth and a bouquet of stars of the last magnitude

With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth

With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass

My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host

With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes

With the tongue of an unbelievable stone

My wife with her eyelashes in the strokes of a child's writing

With eyebrows from the edge of a swallow's nest

My wife with brows of slates on a hothouse roof

And with steam on the windowpanes

My wife with shoulders of champagne

And of a fountain with dolphin heads beneath the ice

My wife with wrists of matches

My wife with fingers of luck and the ace of hearts

With fingers of mown hay

My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut

And of Midsummer Night

Of privet and of an angelfish nest

With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks

And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill

My wife with legs of flares

With the movements of clockwork and despair

My wife with calves of eldertree pith

My wife with feet of initials

With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking

My wife with a neck of unpearled barley

My wife with a throat of the valley of gold

Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent

With breasts of night

My wife with her undersea molehill breasts

My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible

With breasts of the spectre of the rose beneath the dew

My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days

With the belly of a gigantic claw

My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically

With a back of quicksilver

With a back of light

With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk

And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking

My wife with hips of a skiff

With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers

And of shafts of white peacock plumes

Of an insensible pendulum

My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos

My wife with buttocks of swans' backs

My wife with buttocks of spring

With the sex of an iris

My wife with the sex of placer and platypus

My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat

My wife with a sex of mirror

My wife with eyes full of tears

With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle

My wife with savanna eyes

My wife with eyes of water to be drunk in prison

My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe

My wife with eyes of water-level air-level earth and fire

1931

Antonin Artaud

Dark Poet

Dark Poet, a maid's breast

Haunts you,

Embittered poet, life seethes

And life burns,

And the sky reabsorbs itself in rain,

Your pen scratches at the heart of life.

Forest, forest, alive with your eyes,

On multiple pinions;

With storm-bound hair,

The poets mount horses, dogs.

Eyes fume, tongues stir,

The heavens surge into our senses

Like blue mother's milk;

Women, harsh vinegar hearts,

I hang suspended from your mouths.

Umbilical Limbo 1926

Robert Desnos

I've Dreamed of You So Much

I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality.

Is it already too late for me to embrace your living and breathing body

and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice so dear to me?

I've dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest in a desperate attempt to encircle your shadow, might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your body.

And coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years

might very well turn me into a shadow.

Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!

I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again.

I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love, and yet when it comes to you,

the only being on the planet who matters to me now,

I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby.

I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now

is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy

than that shadow which moves and will go on moving,

stepping lightly and joyfully across the sundial of your life.

A la mysterieuse 1926

Sleep Spaces

In the night there are of course the seven wonders of the world

and greatness, tragedy and enchantment.

Forests collide with legendary creatures hiding in thickets.

There is you.

In the night there are the walker's footsteps the murderer's the town policeman's light from the street lamp and the ragman's lantern.

There is you.

In the night trains go past and boats

and the fantasy of countries where it's daytime. The last breaths of twilight and the first shivers of dawn.

There is you.

A piano tune, a shout.

A door slams. A clock.

And not only beings and things and physical sounds.

But also me chasing myself or endlessly going beyond me.

There is you the sacrifice, you that I'm waiting for.

Sometimes at the moment of sleep strange figures are born and disappear.

When I shut my eyes phosphorescent blooms appear and fade

and come to life again like fireworks made of flesh.

I pass through strange lands with creatures for company.

No doubt you are there, my beautiful discreet spy.

And the palpable soul of the vast reaches.

And perfumes of the sky and the stars, the song of a rooster from 2000 years ago and piercing screams in a flaming park and kisses.

Sinister handshakes in a sickly light and axles grinding on paralyzing roads.

No doubt there is you who I do not know, who on the contrary I do know.

But who, here in my dreams, demands to be felt without ever appearing.

You who remain out of reach in reality and in dream.

You who belong to me through my will to possess your illusion

but who brings your face near mine only if my eyes are closed in dream as well as in reality.

You who in spite of an easy rhetoric where the waves die on the beach

where crows fly into ruined factories, where the wood rots

crackling under a lead sun.

You who are at the depths of my dreams stirring up a mind

full of metamorphoses

leaving me your glove when I kiss your hand.

In the night there are stars and the shadowy motion of the sea,

of rivers, forests, towns, grass and the lungs

of millions and millions of beings.

In the night there are the seven wonders of the world.

In the night there are no guardian angels, but there is sleep.

In the night there is you.

In the daylight too.

A la mysterieuse 1926

Benjamin Peret

Wink

Parakeets fly through my head when I see you in profile

and the greasy sky streaks with blue flashes

tracing your name in all directions

Rosa coiffed with a black tribe standing in rows on the stairs

where women's piercing breasts point out through men's eyes

Today I look out through your hair

Rosa of morning opal

and I wake through your site

Rosa of armour

I think through your exploding breasts

Rosa of a pool the frogs turn green

and I sleep in your navel of Caspian sea

Rosa of honeysuckle in the general strike

and I'm lost in your milky way shoulders impregnated by comets

Rosa of jasmine in the night of washing

Rosa of haunted house

Rosa of black forest filled with blue and green postage stamps

Rosa of kite over a vacant lot where children are fighting

Rosa of cigar smoke

Rosa of seafoam turned into crystal

Rosa

Je Sublime 1936

Paul Eluard

Max Ernst

In a corner agile incest

Circles the virginity of a little dress.

In a corner the sky turned over

To the spines of the storm leaves white balls behind.

In the brightest corner of every eye

We're expecting the fish of anguish.

In a corner the car of summer

Immobile glorious and forever.

In the light of youth

Lamps lit very late.

The first one shows its breasts that red insects are killing.

Captial of Pain 1926

The Absence

I speak to you across cities

I speak to you across plains

My mouth is upon your pillow

Both faces of the walls come meeting

My voice discovering you

I speak to you of eternity

O cities memories of cities

Cities wrapped in our desires

Cities come early cities come lately

Cities strong and cities secret

Plundered of their master's builders

All their thinkers all their ghosts

Fields pattern of emerald

Bright living surviving

The harvest of the sky over our earth

Feeds my voice I dream and weep

I laugh and dream among the flames

Among the clusters of the sun

And over my body your body spreads

The sheet of it's bright mirror.

1942

Някои са в оригинал ,други са просто на английски ,но засега това намерих на някои от изявените сюрреалисти като стихове. Надявам се да разбирате английски . :3d_096::3d_046:

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Електронно списание „Сборище на трубадури“ и семейство Мелконян, за трета поредна година, обявяват конкурс за кратък фантастичен разказ по повод годишнина от рождението на Агоп Мелконян.

Повече: http://trubadurs.com/2014/02/04/konkurs-za-razkaz-agop-melkonjan-2014/

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