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Capital of Pain – book review

Capital of Pain by Paul Eluard, translated by R.J. Dent Black Scat Books 2023
Available from Amazon

Review by Reese Saxment

Among the Surrealist art-forms, poetry has always been the poor relation in the Anglophone world, almost completely eclipsed by the visual arts – especially painting. Ask any passer-by in the street in the US or the UK to name a Surrealist, and they’ll say ‘Dalí’; challenged to name another – you’ll most likely get ‘Er…’ – but other names may be forthcoming. Possibly Magritte, Picasso (not precisely a Surrealist but we’ll let that pass), maybe Ernst, nowadays quite likely Kahlo, Carrington, Tanning – all painters (although some dabbled in prose). Somewhere down the list André Breton may put in an appearance, more for his leadership role than for his poetry – and the other poets – Aragon, Soupault, Éluard – the people who founded the movement and who remained central to it for more than a decade? A long way down the roster, if they feature at all.
For that reason alone it is gratifying to find a collection of Paul Éluard’s poetry translated into English by R. J. Dent, and published (with a glorious cover!) by Black Scat Books – one of the last publishers to keep the flag of Olympia, Éditions Jean-Jacques Pauvert and Grove Press flying, with new writing as well as classics of Surrealism, the Absurd, Dada, Erotica and ‘Pataphysics.

Important as it is to remind us of the centrality of poetry to the Surrealist project, it is equally important that the quality of the translation does justice to the original, and here Dent hits the target again and again. Capturing the vitality of Éluard, in poems like ‘Woman in Love’ (p. 52) the light, airy, flowing beauty is precisely attuned to the lyricism, sensuousness, even romantic tenderness of Éluard, while in others, like ‘The Flame of the Whip’ (pp. 94-95), the angst and anguish of the poet is powerfully rendered. In poems like ‘Among a Few Others’, (p. 111) Dent does justice to the oxymoronic and startling juxtapositions by which Éluard shows us the world in unfamiliar, surprising ways, refreshing traditional imagery and rescuing it from cliché into ‘something rich and strange’, while in others, for example, ‘The Deaf and the Blind’ (p. 53), an almost uncanny synaesthesia pervades, reminding us of a de Chirico painting – evocations of visual encounters with painting being one of Éluard’s characteristic themes (in poems dedicated to Ernst, Picasso, Klee, Masson, Braque, Arp, Miró – and de Chirico), beautifully rendered here by Dent’s translation.

All in all, Dent, a poet and novelist in his own right, demonstrates clearly the truth of the old maxim, it takes a poet to translate a poet.


Some Notes on the Art and Artfulness of Bob Dylan

This short article is not laying any claim to be anything definitive, rather it is presented as a light discussion piece, making a few comments and observations about Bob Dylan and his work, drawing some parallels between him and some artists and poets of the past, as a sort of tribute to him as he turns 80. [An earlier version of this article appeared on The Flaneur website around 15 years ago]. 

First off, the sheer range of Dylan’s work is reminiscent of that of Byron, major pioneer that poetry can do anything. Following on from Wordsworth’s challenge to 18th century restrictions on ‘poetic’ subject matter and diction, Byron (being Byron) took it all much further. For him there were no limits. His range was total: lyrical ballads and love poems (e.g. She walks in Beauty), ferocious political satire (Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill), high adventure (The Corsair), Gothic (the curse in The Giaour), the tragic (Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage) and bawdy comedy (Beppo). Much the same can be said of Dylan. Before him, popular music restricted itself to the narrowest range – love, loss, and more love. Dylan showed it could do anything – even everything.

And Byron’s default mode was comedy. Even when posturing as the doomed hero in Childe Harolde, his letters reveal a racy, lively, witty connoisseur of life. In his mature work, comedy provides the framework in which everything else is explored – Don Juan is his masterpiece. Again, so with Dylan. As soon as he relaxes among friends – with The Band at Big Pink (1967), with the Travelling Wilburies (1988), the playfulness emerges. From sheer nonsense to penetrating insights, Dylan is most fully at home in the comic mode, and always has been, ever since his Chaplinesque performances in the Greenwich Village bars in the early sixties.

It is Dylan’s humour that most commonly leads commentators to connect him with the legacy of Surrealism, but the links are stronger and deeper. Putting to one side the superficial view of ‘Surrealist’ as a homonym for ‘zany’, and focusing on its fascination for articulating Desire, its pursuit of the marvellous (Pete Hamill noting Dylan offering us a ‘shot at wonder’), its insistence that we engage creatively with its work, its potential for radical shifts in consciousness, the echoing of Surrealism in Dylan’s work becomes more obvious. 

And, like the Surrealists, Dylan has always questioned the stability of identity. In keeping with Rimbaud’s ‘Je est un autre’, and Breton’s ‘Who am I? … perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I “haunt”’, Dylan has always delighted in a fugitive identity, telling Al Weberman ‘You are Bob Dylan,’ playing ‘Alias’ in Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, playing one of the title roles in Renaldo and Clara while Ronnie Hawks played ‘Dylan’, being Masked and Anonymous.

Of the post-World War Two offshoots from Surrealism, Dylan has flirted with several: the political radicalism (admittedly more via Woody Guthrie in the early 60s, but he was echoing the Situationists more a couple of years later); the liberation of the mind (exemplified by, among others, the Beats, to whom Dylan is linked by virtue of his close relationship with Ginsberg); and the Absurdist (there is a distinctly Oulipian flavour to Mike Marqusee’s observation that Dylan creates traps for himself from which he continually has to escape). 

Dylan’s longevity as a creative artist invites comparison with Picasso, becoming central in his artistic field early on and sustaining that position, providing endless stimulation to those of his time and after. By the early 2000s Dylan was being awarded the epithet ‘old master’ by some writers (and was of course recently awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature). 

The parallel goes further. A large part of Picasso’s significance was his role as a conduit, drawing on the whole history of western art, and incorporating non western artefacts, and fusing them into a new vocabulary of art for 20th century Modernism. Wise enough never to entirely abandon the human form, thus avoiding the aridity of pure abstraction, Picasso hobnobbed with Surrealism and became an inexhaustible well of new artistic possibilities, providing new inspiration to others over decades. Again, the parallel with Dylan is striking. Musically he has been the conduit through which blues, English and Celtic folk, country, Tin Pan Alley, rock and pop have been fused and reinvented. Poetically he has drawn on everything from ballads to the Bible, Donne to Rimbaud, creating a vocabulary and a vernacular for contemporary musical lyrics.  

Dylan’s work has a theatrical texture to it, and this theatricality raises parallels with Brecht, and also suggests answers to some of the conundrums in Dylan’s work: particularly, What happened to the early radicalism? Why can’t he sing? Why does he tour so much? Why doesn’t he put a stop to the bootlegging of his work?

Like Brecht, Dylan’s radicalism does not lie in the content of his work. He tried direct political protest music in the early 60s (ironically inspired, in his own view, by Brecht & Weill’s Pirate Jenny from Threepenny Opera), but abandoned it, leading to charges that he had ‘sold out’, but a better case can be made that he came to realise, as Brecht had done in the 1920s, that agitprop was merely cathartic, emotionally purging and ultimately comforting. Radical messages do not radicalise audiences. So he went beyond protest songs. He continued to use the ballad form, a form designed to tell stories, but the stories Dylan tells are elliptical and fragmentary, full of divergent voices, lacunae and unresolved possibilities. This creates a kind of verfremdungseffekt – Brechtian ‘alienation’, or better, ‘making strange’ (compare the Russian Formalist ostrananie, and of course Surrealism). The audience is faced with a choice, either to let Dylan’s music go past like a train you don’t want to catch, or to engage with it, filling in the gaps, trying to resolve the possibilities, creating alongside him.

Dylan’s presentation of his songs is consistent with this. He is often accused of being unable to sing. In fact he can sing (or could, his voice does seem to be packing up now), but usually doesn’t. This isn’t as odd as it sounds. Saying Dylan can’t sing is like saying Picasso couldn’t paint. Picasso could have painted straight portraits and landscapes, but didn’t, because he was doing something else. So is Dylan. The presentation of his songs is raw, and deliberately so. The polished music of such as The Beatles and Queen, like a fully prepared meal, can only be consumed. You listen to it, dance to it, but you don’t work on it. With Dylan the rough edges are still there, there is un-mined potential there. It is not a perfect dish already prepared, it requires work. Sometimes all you get are some of the ingredients and part of a recipe. You are invited to bring your own experience to complete it. You may decide you can’t be bothered, throw it out and open a can. Many do. But if you do bring your own ingredients, knowledge, experience and skills to it, the results can be much richer and more nourishing than anything ready-made.

And if you do contribute to the creating, whose creation is it? Dylan’s work is massively covered by other artists – moreso than almost anyone else. This is in large part because of the elliptical nature of his songs and the rawness of their delivery. Those who want to attend at all have to engage, working on the songs and letting them work on you. And as that happens, in a sense they are no longer really Dylan’s songs. They become yours as much as anyone’s. They take on a life of their own. Few Beatles’ or Queen songs lend themselves to being covered by other artists (unless as orchestral arrangements or gimmicks); what is the point of covering them? The original artists have done the definitive versions. There is nothing more to say. With Dylan songs there is always more to find and say.

Dylan’s cryptic games of mystery with the media are part of this. His fugitive identity undermines his possession of his work. He lets the songs fly away. His relentless touring is part of it too, presenting the songs in multiple ways, and, despite what he says, actually managing to do little effective to prevent them being bootlegged. So umpteen versions of each song exist, there is no definitive version of any of them, which encourages others to adopt them, adapt them, explore them further, personalise them (a good example being To Make You Feel my Love which has now become ‘Adele’s song’). Again, Dylan liberates the songs from being his property (literally so now he has sold his back-catalogue…). 

As one of the most bootlegged and covered artistes of them all, Dylan’s influence is incalculable. His work becomes part of everybody’s life. Even those who don’t ‘get’ him, of haven’t even heard of him, are touched by him, hearing his songs done by others and not even knowing they were Dylan songs.

Finally, there is the Shakespeare connection. Edward Docx sees Dylan’s rambunctious worldly experience mirrored in Shakespeare (as Leonard Cohen’s sense of the sacred is mirrored in John Donne), and Shakespeare’s perceptiveness of human nature and the ways of this profane world makes his work eternally contemporary. With their multiple voices and minimal stage directions, each production of Shakespeare requires creative decisions by the director and actors, and engagement from the audience, and the plays remain alive – in contrast for example with Shaw’s plays, which are so controlled by Shaw’s laborious instructions that they suffocate. For all his pompous pronouncements about ‘Shavian’ theatre, Shaw’s work is almost fossilised, stifled by his own urge to control. Shakespeare lives on.  

Brecht works like Shakespeare here. And so does Dylan. They all reject the totalitarian urge to tell us what to feel (Pete Hamill again). Their work just is, and invites us to engage. 

In 200 years, people will still listen to the Beatles, but it will be like listening to Bach or Vivaldi. Immortal in a sense, but of its time. Dylan, I suspect, will survive more like Shakespeare – eternally now, universal, insightful, knowing, wily, amused, angry, loving, compassionate, cruel, but above all continually inviting people to engage and explore. 

In the first half of the 20th century, great cultural figures were (as in the 18th century) ‘as common as gooseberries’: think Einstein, Picasso, Freud, Joyce, Woolf, Kafka, Proust, Tagore, the Surrealists, Trotsky, Brecht, Sartre and de Beauvoir (etc. etc.). You can make up your own minds who has made their name as a truly great figure since 1950. Lucien Freud perhaps? Borges? Beckett? I’m not sure there are so many others. Dylan gets my vote. 

Ulysses S. Arts-Council-Grant

Surrealism and Transgressive Desire

Salvador Dalí Metamorphosis of Narcissus

For the Surrealists, the liberation of erotic Desire was always the holiest of holy grails. The ‘Establishment’ keeps itself in power and us in our place through various means, but the regulation and suppression of Desire has always been one of its principal devices – clamping down on those who would deviate from its prescribed codes of behaviour, and infiltrating our heads with irrational ‘moral’ values to police us from the inside. Fighting back against such oppression and mind control, the Surrealists celebrated the free expression of Desire, especially in its transgressive modes – ‘The noblest Desire is that of combating all obstacles placed by bourgeois society in the path of the realisation of (our) the vital Desires…  of body (and) imagination.’ (Éluard, 1932)

The fightback had successes. Since the 1960s and 70s women, gays and lesbians and sexual subcultures have made giant strides towards the light, but in recent years the clouds of a new Victorian age have been gathering, with conservative and supposedly ‘progressive’ forces forming a strange alliance in their shared committed to censorship. It is now commonplace to hear of books and films from previous decades that ‘could not be released now’. 

In Freud’s view we all have transgressive Desires, and he outlined three main psychological stratagems for ‘handling’ them: ‘the unconscious phantasies of hysterics (which psycho-analysis reveals behind their symptoms)… the clearly conscious phantasies of perverts (which in favourable circumstances can be transformed into manifest behaviour), [and] the delusional fears of paranoiacs (which are projected in a hostile sense onto other people)…’ (adapted from Freud, 1905) 

However, all of these stratagems are potentially harmful to self and others, so Freud championed a fourth way: to ‘Know thyself’ through psychoanalysis. For the Surrealists, however, these other stratagems were worth exploring as routes to new levels of experience and understanding. Freud wanted to bring us back to reality; the Surrealists were in search of ‘sur-reality’. 

In Hysteria, the conscious mind feels threatened by transgressive Desires and tries to ‘forget’ them by repressing them into the unconscious. But repressed material is not forgotten and strives to find alternative ways of expressing itself. Usually this is through dream, the safety-valve on the pressure-cooker of the unconscious, but if repressed material is too powerful or pungent for dream to cope with, the ‘return of the repressed’ will manifest itself as neurotic symptoms, mental and/or physical. Any story the conscious mind cannot or will not articulate will tell itself in other ways, more disturbed and disturbing. Indulging neurotic symptoms held little interest for Surrealists, but Dreamscapes exerted a fascination for many, Breton, Ernst, Miró and Leonora Carrington included. 

In Perversion, the Desire is acknowledged, and expressed in conscious phantasy or activity. Danger arises if the Desire involves violence or abuse inflicted on unwilling victims, but Freud saw the controlled expression of perverse Desire as ‘the opposite of neurosis’, and usable in consensual erotic play, the arts (which, providing a privileged space for untrammelled expression, should be free from moralistic interference and censorship), or sublimated (into the mystical etc.). The Surrealists agreed, and further, following the Marquis de Sade, saw art itself as a weapon, a breeding ground for revolutionary impulse, a space for liberty of expression and liberty of Desire, and a searchlight to expose the perversions harboured and denied by the ‘upright citizens’ who call loudest for censorship – ‘Beware of your deviations…we shall not miss a single one.’ (Aragon, 1925). Admiration for Sade and the celebration of the liberating and revolutionary power of ‘perversion’ was widespread in Surrealist circles: Artaud, Bataille, Bellmer, Breton, Buñuel , Leonor Fini, Annie LeBrun, Masson, Picasso, Man Ray, Dorothea Tanning, Toyen and many others. 

In Paranoia, the Desire is disavowed, and converted by syllogistic reversals into delusions, which can then be projected aggressively onto others. The Desire concealed in Paranoia is often homosexual – (Freud insisting the problem lies not in the desire itself, but only in any fear or denial of it). So if a man rejects his homosexual feelings, he may deny that ‘I love him’, and reverse it into ‘I hate him’, which if that is still disturbing, may shift again into ‘He hates me’, precipitating a delusion of persecution. A man in a heterosexual relationship struggling with homosexual feelings, may reverse ‘I love him’ into ‘I don’t love him’ and then into ‘She loves him’, leading to paranoid jealousy – the Othello syndrome. [Delusions of grandeur have another root: a man disturbed that ‘I am a narcissistic infantile brat’ can reverse into ‘I am a nice baby’, and then again into ‘I am great man.’ This might be of interest to White House watchers.] 

Among the Surrealists, Dalí, having been a champion of Perversion – ‘the most revolutionary form of thought and activity’ – then decided to make Paranoia his territory, which fed his fascination for his own delusions, provided a veil over his own unacknowledged homosexuality, and also spawned his major contribution to the Surrealist tool-kit – the ‘Paranoiac-Critical Method’. This he described, with perhaps less than crystal clarity, as ‘a spontaneous method of irrational knowledge based on the interpretative-critical association of delirious (delusional) phenomena’, by which the viewer, in a state of ‘distracted concentration’ or lucid frenzy, perceives doublings and superimpositions leading to transformations and multiplications of associations. His Metamorphosis of Narcissus (1937) was the first work ‘obtained entirely by integral application of the paranoiac-critical method’ [the alienated ‘disgusting’ hand, a regular trope in Dalí’s work since Un Chien Andalou (1928) and The Lugubrious Game (1929), reveals another of his sexual anxieties]. Dalí heralded the time when ‘by a process of thought, paranoiac and active in character, it will be possible (simultaneously with automatism and other passive states) to systematise confusion and to contribute to discrediting the world of reality entirely’ (1930). This offered Surrealism a pro-active addition to its arsenal, while simultaneously rejecting its objective, substituting a ‘discrediting of reality’ for the Surrealist aim of incorporating and transcending reality into sur-reality. Dalí’s relationship with Surrealism was becoming awkward some time before his right-wing sympathies and ‘Hitler-complex’ led to the final falling out. 

Reuben Saxment

Aragon, Louis (1925): Declaration of the Bureau of Surrealist Research [in Harrison, C. & Wood, P.(ed.): Art in Theory 1900-1990 (Blackwell 1992)]

Dalí, Salvador (1930): L’Âne Pourri (The Stinking/Rotting Ass) [in Harrison, C. & Wood, P.(ed.): Art in Theory 1900-1990 (Blackwell 1992)]

Éluard, Paul (1932) [in Mundy, J. (ed.): Surrealism, Desire Unbound (Princeton Press 2001)]

Freud, Sigmund (1905): Three Essays on Sexuality [in Richards, A. (ed.)  Sigmund Freud 7: On Sexuality (Penguin 1977)]