1. Henry Scott Tuke

     

  2.  

  3. Total actions are a further development of the happening and combine the elements of all art forms,painting music, literature, film, theatre, which have been so infected by the progressive process of cretinisation in our society that any examination of reality has become impossible using these means alone. Total actions are the unprejudiced examination of all the materials that make up reality. Total actions take place in a consciously delineated area of reality with deliberately selected materials. They are partial, dynamic occurrences in which the most varied materials and elements of reality are linked,swapped over,turn on their heads and destroyed. This procedure creates the occurrence. The actual nature of the occurrence depends on the composition of the material and actors′ unconscious tendencies. Anything may constitute the material: people, animals, plants, food, space, movement, noise, smells, light, fire, coldness, warmth, wind, dust, steam, gas, events, sport, all art forms and all art products. All the possibilities of the material are ruthlessly exhausted. As a result of the incalculable possibilities for choices that the material presents to the actor,he plunges into a concentrated whirl of action finds himself suddenly in a reality without barriers,performs actions resembling those of a madman,and avails himself of a fool′s privileges,which is probably not without significance for sensible people. Old art forms seek to reconstruct reality,total actions unfold within reality itself. Total actions are direct occurrences(direct art),not the repetition of an occurrence,a direct encounter between unconscious elements and reality(material). The actor performs and himself becomes material: stuttering, stammering, burbling, groaning, choking, shouting, screeching, laughing, spitting, biting, creeping, rolling about in the material.

    —Gunter Brus

     

  4. from The Nerve Meter

    BY ANTONIN ARTAUD

       An actor is seen as if through crystals. 
          Inspiration in stages. 
          One musn’t let in too much literature. 


       I have aspired no further than the clockwork of the soul, I have transcribed only the pain of an abortive adjustment. 
          I am a total abyss. Those who believed me capable of a whole pain, a beautiful pain, a dense and fleshy anguish, an anguish which is a mixture of objects, an effervescent grinding of forces rather than a suspended point 
          —and yet with restless, uprooting impulses which come from the confrontation of my forces with these abysses of offered finality 
          (from the confrontation of forces of powerful size), 
          and there is nothing left but the voluminous abysses, the immobility, the cold— 
          in short, those who attributed to me more life, who thought me at an earlier stage in the fall of the self, who believed me immersed in a tormented noise, in a violent darkness with which I struggled 
          —are lost in the shadows of man. 


       In sleep, nerves tensed the whole length of my legs. 
          Sleep came from a shifting of belief, the pressure eased, absurdity stepped on my toes. 


       It must be understood that all of intelligence is only a vast contingency, and that one can lose it, not like a lunatic who is dead, but like a living person who is in life and who feels working on himself its attraction and its inspiration (of intelligence, not of life). 
          The titillations of intelligence and this sudden reversal of contending parties. 
          Words halfway to intelligence. 
          This possibility of thinking in reverse and of suddenly reviling one’s thought. 
          This dialogue in thought. 
          The ingestion, the breaking off of everything. 
          And all at once this trickle of water on a volcano, the thin, slow falling of the mind.


       To find oneself again in a state of extreme shock, clarified by unreality, with, in a corner of oneself, some fragments of the real world. 


       To think without the slightest breaking off, without pitfalls in my thought, without one of those sudden disappearances to which my marrow is accustomed as a transmitter of currents. 
          My marrow is sometimes amused by these games, sometimes takes pleasure in these games, takes pleasure in these furtive abductions over which the sense of my thought presides. 
          At times all I would need is a single word, a simple little word of no importance, to be great, to speak in the voice of the prophets: a word of witness, a precise word, a subtle word, a word well steeped in my marrow, gone out of me, which would stand at the outer limit of my being, 
          and which, for everyone else, would be nothing. 
          I am the witness, I am the only witness of myself. This crust of words, these imperceptible whispered transformations of my thought, of that small part of my thought which I claim has already been formulated, and which miscarries, 
          I am the only person who can measure its extent.
     

  5. Drawn Curtains

    BY EDMOND JABÈS

    TRANSLATED BY ROSMARIE WALDROP

    "Dullness of words where God speaks. A dark which feels 
    good. Drawn curtains. On the dark page lines continue the 
    crease and the dream, the space between.”
     
    -Reb Rissel

    1

       ”Hope: the following page. Do not close the book.”

       ”I have turned all the pages of the book without finding hope.”

       ”Perhaps hope is the book.”


                                                          2

       ”In my dialogues there are no answers. But sometimes a question
    is the flash of an answer.
       ”My route riddled with crystals.”
                                                                                -Reb Librad



       And Yukel said:

       ”If an answer were possible death would not travel alongside life,
    life would not have a shadow. The universe would be light.
       ”Contradiction is the scream of a soul drawn and quartered by the
    moment. Did not Reb Sedra write: ‘Here is grain for your field: a
    grain of life, a grain of death. The grain of life will nourish your death,
    the grain of death feed your life.’”

                             (“Death will get the better of me. God can only help
                             me in the void.”
                                                                               -Reb Zeilein)