Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
VOLUME THREE
By the same author
Already published
COLLECTED WORKS VOLUME ONE
Correspondence with Jacques Riviere
Umbilical Limbo
Nerve Scales
Art and Death
Unpublished Prose and Poetry
Cup and Ball
Seven Letters
THE CENCI
In preparation
COLLECTED WORKS VOLUME FOUR
The Theatre and its Double
The Cenci
Documents on The Theatre and its Double
Documents on the Cenci
COLLECTED WORKS
VOLUME THREE
SCENARIOS
ON THE CINEMA
INTERVIEWS
LETTERS
Originally published as
Antonin Artaud: Oeuvres Completes, Tome III
by Editions Gallimard, Paris, 1961
SCENARIOS
Eighteen Seconds II
Two Nations on the Borders of Mongolia I5
The Shell and The Clergyman I9
Thirty-Two 26
The Butcher's Revolt 38
Flights 43
The Master of Ballantrae by Stevenson, adapted by
Antonin Artaud 48
ON THE CINEMA
Reply to an Inquiry 59
Cinema and Abstraction 6I
The Shell and The Clergyman 63
Witchcraft and the Cinema 65
Distinction Between Fundamental and Formal
Avant-Garde 68
Plan for Setting up a Company for the Production of
Short Films which will Pay off Quickly and Surely 69
The Polish Jew at the Olympia 74
The Precocious Old Age of the Cinema 76
The Liabilities of Dubbing 80
INTERVIEWS
Antonin Artaud 85
Antonin Artaud Tells us about German Cinema 88
LETTERS
I 92 I
To Max Jacob 93
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles 95
I92 2
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles (February) 97
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles (March) 98
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles (June) 99
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles (around November-
December) 100
I924
To Mademoiselle Yvonne Gilles (April) IOI
I925
To the Director of the Comedie-Frarn;aise ( 2I February) 102
I927
To Jean Paulhan (2 July) I04
To Jean Paulhan (29 August) 106
To Abel Gance (27 November) 108
I928
To Jean Paulhan (around March) 109
Correspondence (March) IIo
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (7 June) II2
I929
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I2 February) II4
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I6 February) II5
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I9 February) II6
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (Io March) II7
To Madame Yvonne Allendy ( 2 I March ) II9
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (26 March) I2I
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I April) I23
To Dr. Allendy. Telegram (6 April) I24
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (Io April) 12 5
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I5 April) I26
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (I9 April) I2 8
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (2 1 April) 130
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (22 April) I33
To Madame Yvonne Allendy. Telegram (26 April) I34
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (Io July) I35
To the newspaper L' Intransigeant (10 September) I36
To Madame Yvonne Allendy I37
To Jean Paulhan (9 November) I38
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (around November) 140
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (2 3 November ) 141
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (2 5 November) 142
1930
To Jean Paulhan (16 March) 143
To Jean Paulhan (2 3 March) 144
To Jean Paulhan 145
To Madame Yvonne Allendy (6 June) 146
To Dr. Rene Allendy ( 12 July ) 148
1931
Post-Script (around 3 January) l5l
1932
To Raymond Rouleau. Draft of letter (2 January) 193
To Louis Jouvet (5 January) 196
To Louis Jouvet (10 January) 198
To Jean Paulhan (19 January) 2 00
To Andre Gide. Draft of letter (20 January) 204
To Jean Paulhan (22 January) 205
To Jean Paulhan. Draft of letter (29 January) 211
To Louis Jouvet. Draft of letter (around the beginning of
February ) 213
To Louis Jouvet. Draft of letter (around the beginning of
February) 216
To Louis Jouvet (5 February) 217
To Jean Paulhan (7 February) 219
To Louis Jouvet (9 February) 221
To Louis Jouvet (27 February) 223
To Louis Jouvet (1 March ) 224
To Louis Jouvet (1 March) 225
To Louis Jouvet. Draft of letter (12 March) 227
To Jean Paulhan (March) 229
To Jean Paulhan (21 March) 230
To Louis Jouvet (20 May) 231
To Jean Paulhan (16 December) 232
1934
To Jean Paulhan (15 October) 234
To Jean Paulhan 235
To Jean Paulhan (16 October) 236
NOTES 237
SCENARIOS
EIGHTEEN SECONDS1
14
TWO NA TIONS ON THE BORDERS
OF MONGOLIA . 2 . .
These Mongols,
these Tartars,
these Afghans,
you think they fight over mines, over towns;
wrong, they fight over words.
Power of meaning,
supremacy of quality.
You act a play. Ten thousand meanings hang over every
phrase, every word, the slightest intonation. Add similar in
tonations, use every possibility, and see what you get.
Look at my head as it talks.
The point of what I am saying would seem to be in my
speech; wrong again ! with the tiniest muscle of my face I can
create worlds of instantaneous images, simply surrendering my
self to every inflexion of my inner desire, to my urge to live, by
modelling feelings.
You see.
And he shows:
the revolt of China,
the degradation of the child peoples,
the fear of the supernatural,
the feeling of the invisible,
the faith in the League of Nations,
the consciousness of the fakir,
the anticipation of inspiration,
the man watching his double,
the calculations of astrology,
the East against the West,
the lucidity of the seer,
the blindness of America,
the sleight of hand of the conjuror,
the precision of the juggler,
the clarity of mind of the magician.
What could one not do with all this.
17
But the consul is stupid;
he telegraphs;
incredulity of the French government ;
apparition of the blundering little magician;
the impression he makes on our politicians;
their trip to Montparnasse;
in a dream they send the scribe.
But at the same time a real aeroplane was flying the gold
from England, on a parchment, to the country opposed to the
one supported by the Soviets and all returns to normal for fear
of complications.
18
THE SHELL AND THE CLERGYMAN
(Scenario ) 8
25
THIRTY-TW04
mother.
The professor comes in. Talks to the mother. His eyes wan
der in an odd way towards the girl.
He goes up to the girl.
She looks ill. She looks at him. Suddenly she stands up and
pulls him towards a window.
She tells him her story :
She was engaged to a young man of noble birth, she became
his mistress, she is pregnant. Her fiance has abandoned her.
What she wants, she tells him hesitantly, growing more and
more excited as she speaks, is some occult intervention. She
feels he could do a great deal for her.
The young man, with a cold, piercing look in his eyes:
She must come to see him tomorrow, towards midnight.
The life of the young man. He lives alone, no one near him.
He is seen walking through empty rooms. He enters his labora
tory.
Flasks, books, containers. That is all.
26
He has put on a long gown.
With a worried expression he goes to the window several
times, and gazes out at the little square.
At one moment he seizes a book, opens it on a table without
sitting down. He becomes engrossed, raises his eyes. The moon
gleams in the sky. His set features seem to exhale a profound
prayer.
In the square, opposite the little house where the professor
lives, is an inn. Men talk and smoke. Suddenly the girl crosses
the square. She passes through the light from the inn, very
beautiful. The men watch her for a moment in surprise. She
rings at the door.
The men glance at each other.
The young professor goes down to open the door, a candle
stick in his hand.
They go upstairs.
One feels that the girl is slightly anxious. Once in the room
the young man takes her hands and stares at her in a strange,
tender way. She is evidently touched. She looks round at the
laboratory.
Suddenly the young man's face alters. He becomes breath
less.
The girl draws back, astonished, worried. He calms down,
goes to the window which he opens. He obviously feels ill. He
sits down.
In great anxiety she watches him, motionless.
Her hands toy with a flask on the desk.
Suddenly he stands up, makes a brisk movement. As though
he were going to ask something.
He stands up, is about to speak.
And suddenly falls to the ground in a faint.
The girl screams loudly and, panic-stricken, unable to stay
a moment longer in this sinister house, runs away.
She is leaving. Men gather in the square. The people in the
inn rush out, surround the girl. They drag her into the inn. She
pulls herself together. She explains :
The young man had an attack in front of her.
27
They decide to help him. The people make their way into
the house.
A month later . . .
In the inn the same men are smoking and talking. Night
falls in the little square. The street lamps light up one by one.
The lamp-lighter goes past in the distance.
In the fa<;ades of the houses windows are seen lighting up.
The girl crosses the square.
She is stopped by a sort of hearse which jolts along.
Within the inn the men cross themselves, vaguely.
They have certainly seen the girl who goes into the house.
In the house the maid comes down, opens the door.Her face
has grown sad and worried. Her exuberance has vanished.
She is no longer as strong as she was in the beginning. She looks
thinner: 'The master is upstairs.He is expecting you.'
She says these words with a resigned, telling look.
The young man is at the head of the staircase, wrapped in
his long gown, looking kind and gentle, but apparently more
worried than ever.
The scene of the girl climbing the stairs adopts an exaggera
ted importance. It evokes a climb to the stake. The girl looks
round her slowly.
She has got to the top.The young :man opens a door, stands
aside. They enter the room with the mirror and the glass ball.
The young man shuts the door with a meditative, closed ex
pression.The girl sits down, he takes her hands almost tenderly.
She looks at him, smiles vaguely.
Suddenly the young man leaves her, rushes to the door and
tears it open:
The maid is there, stiff and pale; she stares at the young man
with bright eyes.
The young man simply closes the door.
He returns to the girl, nonchalantly, in full control of him-
self.
The room grows dark.
Stars gleam in the window.
The young man seats the girl before the mirror.
Her expression has changed completely. She looks pert, al
most happy. When the young man is very close to her he takes
her hands gently:
'You shall give him to me today.'
The young man watches her with a deep, piercing look. Then
a furtive smile appears on his face as his thoughts go beyond
her.
The girl looks at his face in the mirror. It is handsome, calm,
exudes purity and youth, inspires unlimited confidence.
She feels happy, lightly closes her eyes.
The young man sets the ball into motion. He has turned
round. The girl is dreaming.
A whole world seems to file past in the mirror, an aquatic
world full of fibres and exploding globules of air. Paws seem to
scratch at the window pane, produced by the virtuality of the
mirror. An animal head appears.An infinity of masks, beasts
with phosphorescent eyes, all full of immeasurable anxiety.
Several of these bestial heads are crowned by tiaras, garlands,
tresses of flowers. But everything moves, wobbles, trembles, as
31
though the foundations of things had broken. And more heads
opening, bursting. Sparkling eyes drift away.
The girl's face seems lost in this dream. Now the aquatic
world seems to leave the mirror. Anxious, vibrating paws grow
larger.
The girl shakes as though she were stifling, oppressed by an
unbearable nightmare.
Suddenly, as though swept away by a mighty hand, this
phantasmagoria dissolves. The mirror has become calm, clear,
but a real face soon appears.
The face of a young man. But completely transformed, un
recognisable, hideous. A ghastly passion suffuses it.
Petrified, the girl gazes at it. Dazed. Incapable of moving or
screaming.
In the mirror we see the young man take his hand out of his
pocket, draw out a black noose which hangs like the lianas of
a dream.
But suddenly the scream, which has been hovering on the
girl's parched lips, bursts out. She trembles, stands up, turns
round.
The young man is suddenly calm. Was it a dream? He looks
at her gently. But the girl is scared. She looks as though she is
not going to stay a minute longer in the room. Without apolo
gising, without saying good-bye, she rushes round the room for
an instant like a caged beast. The young man looks at her in
apparent amazement. He hands her her hat which she takes
like a sleep-walker and rushes out. The young man, looking
very gloomy, goes back to his room and closes the door behind
him.
In the cellar . . .
For an instant a light filters past a half-open worm-eaten
door studded with nails. Then the door opens completely and
the young man comes out with a dark lantern. He carefully
turns the key, which he looks at very closely before putting it in
his pocket. But he changes his mind and keeps it in his hand.
He starts to climb the stairs. When he comes to a recess he
32
stops, looks round. He frowns, he suddenly looks wicked. He
casts the light of the lantern on the recess. The light reveals
the maid, cowering there, trembling, frightened :
' What were you doing there?'
He seizes her, pushes her violently into the light. Then re
leases her, throwing her forward :
'Go up!'
She goes up the stairs with the hurried step of an old woman,
stumbling and panic-stricken.
Upstairs, in the hall, he catches up with her. ' What were you
doing there? ' He pulls her to him. His face is ghastly.
' You wanted to know what was in the cellar. This foul curi
osity is consuming you ! ' His anger makes him ill, kills him. He
trembles, totters, staggers. He can no longer bear it :
' Well I'll tell you. There is nothing. Nothing but paraffin.
Chests, that's all. That's how I like it.
' And this key, you see (he shows it to her), this is the key of
the cellar (the one he is holding).
' If you touch it you die.'
The words seem to whirl round in his mouth. His lips trem
ble as if they were moving electrically.
' And now be off!'
He rushes away from her, taking the stairs four at a time,
locks himself in his room.
The woman falls to the ground in a faint.
The camera catches up with her, whirls away from her,
goes up the stairs and comes up against the closed door of the
laboratory.
The next day we see a ghost-like figure in the shops, at the
dairy, the butcher's, the ironmonger's, the grocer's. At the gro
cer's the figure examines some paraffin lamps, asks their price,
etc.
Time goes by . . .
One day the girl is seen crossing the square with her mother
and her brother, walking very quickly. Then the musician and
the pastor stop for an instant before the fa<;ade of the bolted
house, in the distance.
'Nobody . . . '
Nobody has heard anything more about the young man.
The war continues.
No more gas. Means of lighting are being searched for.
The dark square, with the house darker than ever. And only
the light of the moon. Within the inn, a single candle.
All the customers of the inn have gathered there. A fragile,
inconsistent group. The musician, the pastor, the drinkers of
the beginning, etc.
The clock in the inn, its pendulum swinging to and fro in
the silence loaded with darkness.
Later the door is half opened. The mother appears with her
daughter-then the brother-;-
and much later the maid, with an extinguished lamp in her
arms.
The dark sky.
The dark town.
Bird's eye view of the town plunged in darkness.
A succession of dark streets. The house fa<;ades like the black
sides of a ship. An occasional lamp, lit here and there, forming
large haloes in the dark.
No more fuel for the lamps, no more paraffin.
A rumour spreads through the shops. The rumour that there
is a large store of paraffin somewhere.
34
The maid with her lamp under her arm goes to the dairy.
Heartbreaking appearance of the shop, empty but very bright.
Heartbreaking whiteness.
Question:
'Didn't you say your master had a huge store of paraffin? '
The woman, without answering, takes her milk-can three
quarters empty, pays for it, and leaves.
One day . ..
A great commotion in the square. The Mayor, who has seen
the firemen, the Police Superintendent.
A meeting in the inn opposite. It is midday.
Through the window the mother and the girl are seen going
past.
Among the people in the square the woman with her lamp
can be distinguished. People are talking. Again the musician,
the pastor ...
'We'll see if it's paraffin. At least he'll have been of some use
to us.'
Several locksmiths are trying vainly to force the lock of the
door. They decide to break it in. No beams which are solid or
heavy enough can be found.
The beams rot on the spot or break.
Several levers used to raise it also break.
The Mayor's anxious face as he draws his coat around him.
Concerned and worried expression of the spectators. The
breath of the supernatural seems to have passed.
The woman with the lamp has a curiously enigmatic smile.
People turn to her, ask her: 'What does she know? ' She knows
nothing.
The day passes. Night falls.People look at their watches and
shake their heads.
The rumour spreads that the house has resisted every assault.
All round the square windows open fearfully, on every floor. In
the inn people look at each other uncomprehendingly. Every
one is seized with anxiety before the approaching darkness.
People look at each other and see the night invading their
35
faces.
The door is to be blown up.
The Mayor gives an order. The firemen advance carrying ex
plosives. A frightened movement. The firemen dig out their
hole. The people move off, form a ring.
A huge flame in the night. Smoke, a gaping hole.
The Mayor and the Superintendent go in with a few police
men. A policeman goes first with a lantern. They tum to the
woman : ' Lead the way ! '
She seems not to understand. Then advances, trembling. As
she advances, she gains confidence. They go down the stairs
leading to the cellar, arrive at the door. It breaks down with
the blow of a pick-axe. They go in. The lantern projects feeble
rays onto the walls. They are in a round room. In the middle,
chests, They go nearer. The lantern reveals iron chests. They
bring one down :
' We'll soon see. '
They shield the lamp, move away slightly. The point of the
pick-axe is inserted under the lid which breaks open. They re
move it :
'Appalling. '
A human head. A woman's head with a black noose round
her neck, severed. U ndemeath, a pile of limbs, arranged in a
circle, the complete body.
The Mayor, who was the first to look, recoils. Then he
plunges the lantern rapidly into the chest. The spectators crane
forward : stretching out their necks they lean over.
Ring of horrified faces.
THIRTY-TWO CHESTS , THIRTY-TWO FEMALE CORPSES
In Turkey.
The traces of the vampire have been found. The Superin
tendent, the Mayor, the girl, the musician are seen going into
a hospital on the front, where they heard the criminal wa.5 ly
ing wounded. They stand before a receptionist. They show their
papers. The receptionist looks for a name in a register. He has
found it. He gets up, looks for some papers, compares them with
36
those of the visitors.
Those are they. The head doctor enters. The Mayor, the
Superintendent, the musicians go up to him.
They are looking for a certain Monsieur D . . . The doctor
nods.
He draws back, shows them into a room.
'The person you are looking for is in there. ' They go up to
a bed.
The invalid is dying. He breaths in gasps. The anxious faces
of the visitors.
The girl in a corner, dreaming, far away.
The doctor comes up, draws back the blankets. They lean
over.
A large dark man with thick lips, his face covered in marks,
is revealed, bearing no resemblance to the original young man.
He is evidently another man.
The visitors explain that the doctor is mistaken.
The doctor shakes his head.
He affirms that this is indeed Monsieur D . . . He shows them
the other beds.
The ring of beds appears on the screen with the invalid's
name written at the head of each bed. It is obvious that the in
valid is D . . .
The hand of the doctor, who taps the papers of the registry
office. He nods again.
The girl's face, amazed and happy.
THE END
37
THE BUTCHER'S REVOLT5
At that moment the waiter drops his tray. The tray thunders,
and this makes a terrible impression on the lunatic. The gigolo
cringes under his hands ; and, as the clients in the cafe come
nearer, the lunatic's mind suddenly goes blank, and one hears
the sound of the butcher's cart driving down the street in the
39
morning to the beat of horses' hoofs.
The sound of the cafe continues, the lunatic has come to
his senses, but he still sees the cart jolting along in a corner of
the screen, like those minute images which move on the ceiling
in a dark room in the ring of light from the split of the curtains.
He shouts, looking at the people in the cafe who are staring
ing at him like animals :
To the slaughter-house.
A little woman goes into the Chez Francis. When all is over
and everybody has left. A policeman appears, and since she ad
mits that she has come to meet the lunatic but is too late, he
takes her to the police station.
She weeps and stamps her feet.
A second later she is seen running out of the police station
with all the policemen after her, in their shirt sleeves, pulling
on their jackets.
They scatter, unable to catch up with her, and we see them
again, all together, marching in slow motion and playing the
40
bagpipes with an exalted look.
Elsewhere some seminarists, who were marching along in
line, scatter and 'run in slow motion.
Somewhere else some soldiers coming out of a barracks do
the same thing.
In a street the little woman runs past the butcher's cart, driv
in at full speed.
The taxi with the butcher, the gigolo, the woman and the
lunatic draws up by the slaughter-house.
Then the butcher's cart arrives, making a tremendous din,
and the butcher in the taxi gets out with the help of the other
butcher. Then, with great care, (supporting it on a chair or a
pulley, if necessary), they take out the body of the little woman,
alive and blinking her eyes, but as stiff as a chunk of meat.
The lunatic rushes up, but now the butchers only have a
quarter of real beef which they carry along.And as he goes in
to the slaughter-house all he sees are the butchers and their as
sistants at work, cutting up quarters of meat which fall round
him like the branches of a tree.
The slaughter-house is empty.He looks everywhere, and all
over the town the policemen, the soldiers, the seminarists are
ferreting about.
He finally finds the little woman, the size of a doll and com
pletely hard, under a pile of wood-shavings. But the butcher
has seen her.
He grows furious.
He is sad. He sits down and mops his brow. The woman is
there, between them, laughing, charming, in the middle of this
butchery.
The butcher and the lunatic are sad. They look at each
other like augurs. They seem to be thinking.
Now the lunatic trembles, is afraid.
This gathering is a veritable cross-examination.The woman
is there, in a basket, bleeding, her arms flung back, dead. And
the gigolo and the tart are giving false testimony.
A ring of policemen surround them.One of them laughs and
nudges the butcher, as though he were saying:
41
In a whisper.
There you are again.
4i
FLIGHTS8
SHOT
47
THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE
BY
STEVENSON
Adapted by Antonin Artaud7
55
O N T HE CINE MA
REPLY TO AN INQUIRY0
60
CINEMA AND ABSTRACTION11
It is said that the cinema is in its infancy and that we are only
hearing its first cries. I admit that I do not understand why.
The cinema has arrived at an advanced stage in human
thought and benefits from it. There is no doubt that it is a
means of expression that has not yet been materially perfected.
There are several ways, for example, in which it could be given
a stability and a nobility which it does not possess. One day we
shall probably have a cinema in three dimensions and even in
colour. But these are accessory devices which cannot contribute
greatly to the substratum of the cinema which is a language,
as much as music, painting and poetry. In the cinema I have
always distinguished a quality peculiar to the secret movement
and matter of images. The cinema has an unexpected and mys
terious side which we find in no other form of art. Even the
most arid and banal image is transformed when it is projecterl
on the screen. The smallest detail, the most insignificant object
assume a meaning and a life which pertain to them alone, inde
pendently of the value of the meaning of the images themselves,
the idea which they interpret and the symbol which they con
stitute. By being isolated, the objects obtain a life of their own
which becomes increasingly independent and detaches them
from their usual meaning. A leaf, a bottle, a hand, etc., live
with an almost animal life which is crying out to be used. Then
there are the distortions of the camera, the unexpected use it
makes of the things which it records. Just as the image dissolves,
a particular detail which had escaped our attention comes to
life with singular force, moves out to meet the expression re
quired. There is also a sort of physical excitement which the
65
rotation of the images communicates directly to the brain. The
mind moves beyond the power of representation. This sort of
virtual power of the images probes for hitherto unused possibili
ties in the depths of the mind. Essentially the cinema reveals a
whole occult life with which it puts us directly into contact.
But we must know how to divine this occult life. There are bet
ter means than a succession of super impressions for divining
these secrets of the depths of consciousness. Raw cinema, taken
as it is, in the abstract, exudes a little of this trance-like atmos
phere, eminently favourable for certain revelations. To use it to
tell a story is to neglect one of its best resources, to fail to ful
fill its most profound purpose. That is why I think the cinema
is made primarily to express matters of the mind, the inner con
sciousness, not by a succession of images so much as by some
thing more imponderable which restores them to us with their
direct matter, with no interpositions or representations. The
cinema has arrived at a turning-point in human thought, when
language loses its symbolic power and the mind tires of a suc
cession of representations. Clear thought is not enough. It allo
cates a world which has been utterly consumed. What is clear
is what is immediately accessible, but what is immediately ac
cessible is the mere skin of life. We soon realise that this over
familiar life which has lost all its symbols is not the whole of
life. And today is a time for sorcerers and saints, a better time
than ever before. An imperceptible substance is taking shape,
yearning for light. The cinema is bringing us nearer to this sub
stance. If the cinema is not made to interpret dreams or what
pertains to the realm of dreams in conscious life, it does not
exist. There is no difference between the cinema and the theatre.
But the cinema is a direct and rapid language which has no
need for a slow and ponderous logic to live and flourish. It must
come closer and closer to fantasy, to a fantasy which appears
ever more real, or else it does not exist. Or else it will come to
the same end as painting and poetry. What is certain is that
most forms of representation have had their day. For some time
good painting has only served to reproduce the abstract. It is
therefore not only a question of choice. There will not be one
66
cinema which represents life and another which represents the
function of the mind. Because life, what we call life, becomes
ever more inseparable from the mind. A certain profound do
main tends to appear on the surface. The cinema is capable of
interpreting this domain more than any other art, because
idiotic order and customary clarity are its enemies.
The Shell and the Clergyman is part of this subtle search for
a hidden life whichI have tried to make plausible, as plausible
and real as the other.
To understand this film we must simply look deeply into our
selves. Give in to a form of plastic, obj ective and attentive ex
amination of the inner self which has hitherto been the exclu
sive domain of the ' Illuminati ' .
DI STINCTION
BETWEEN FUNDAMENTAL AND FORMAL
AVANT-GARDE14
68
PLAN
FOR SETTING UP A COMPANY
FOR THE PRODUCTION OF SHORT FILMS
WHICH WILL PAY OFF
QUICKLY AND SURELY11
i3
THE POLISH JEW
AT THE OLYMPIA11
Harry Baur's success in The Polish Jew, and above all the
quality of the success which even reached the noble orders ( !)
of a feeble-witted and sheep-like audience-is a good indica
tion of the exhaustion of our epoch which, from the artistic
point of view, as from all other points of view of any impor
tance, has said its last words a long time ago.
I maintain that Harry Baur's performance in The Polish Jew
is a masterpiece of imbecility.
You must have seen Harry Baur, his stomach out, his hands
dangling at the end of his arms, his shoulders back, his head
turned to one side, and in that head turned to one side an eye
with a hilarious, fixed stare, to realise to what heights of
comedy the clumsy use of stereotyped, conventional expressions
can lead. In the middle of this unlikely imbroglio of contracted
and unnatural expressions I was unable to make out the sort of
madness with which Harry Baur was afflicted, or whether he
was not really a criminal. But I know that if I were the
police officer in charge of the investigation, I would find his
attitude so obviously guilty that I would not hesitate to arrest
him.
You must see him rolling his eyes, opening his mouth like a
figure crucified, trembling as he pours out the wine, the close
shots of his hands trembling, not imperceptibly, but like an
earthquake, at every turn, everywhere. You must see how a
gesture, a harmless word said next to him sends his head into
muscular contortions, appalling tics ravage his face with such
violence and exaggeration that Harry Baur's expressions of ter
ror take on the transitory and inept value of a harmless tooth
ache !
74
You must see Harry Baur shrink and suffer to have an idea
of essential buffoonery, the buffoonery which has missed its
mark. You must see that face suddenly shooting off, as though
by chance, into monstrous muscular contortions as though it
were only a question of a simple play of muscles galloping like
horses in the midst of a moral expression of suffering, remorse,
obsession and fear. Throughout the film Harry Baur serves us
up a certain number of expressions which are priceless in their
torrential-and misplaced-tragedy.
There is such a discrepancy between the atmosphere of
purely moral terror which should be the drama and the rude
means by which this terror expresses itself that it seems that the
whole film was made simply to enable Harry Baur to display
his imposture, his puffery and his insincerity.
When life reaches a certain degree of tragic expression it
makes a sound, the sound of a frenzy which is totally savage
rather than complacently and systematically turned towards
the exterior. The true dramatic performance is not a kaleido
scope of crudely defined expressions, dismantled muscle by
muscle and cry by cry. In The Polish Jew, Harry Baur aroused
a sort of integral hilarity in me, without the slightest tempta
tion to remorse.
75
THE PRECOCIOUS OLD AGE
OF THE CINEMA19
The lens that goes to the heart of objects, creates its own world
and the cinema may put itself in the position of the human eye,
think for it, sift the world for it, and, by this concerted and
mechanical task of elimination, let nothing but the best subsist.
The best, that is to say what is worth retaining, those shreds of
things which float on the surface of the memory while the lens
seems to filter their residue automatically. The lens classifies
life, digests it, it offers ready food to the sensibility, to the soul,
76
and leaves us before a dry and finished world. Besides, it is not
sure whether it only releases the most significant, the best ele
ments of what is worth recording. Because its view of the world
is fragmentary, however valid the melody which it manages to
create between the objects, this melody has two edges.
On one side it obeys the arbitrary, the inner laws of the gaze
of the camera,--0n the other side it is the result of a particular
human will, a precise will which has its arbitrary side.
So in as far as the cinema is left alone with objects, it imposes
an order on them which the eye accepts as valid and which
responds to certain external habits of the memory and the
mind. And the question that now presents itself is to know if
this order would continue to remain valid if the cinema were
to delve deeper into the experience and offer us not only certain
rhythms of everyday life as they are recognised by the eye
and the ear, but the obscure, slow-motion encounters with that
which is hidden beneath things, or the crushed, trampled, slack,
or tense images of that which crawls in the depths of the mind.
But the cinema, which needs no language or convention to
put us in touch with these things, does not replace life ; what it
unites are the pieces of objects, unfinished puzzles of things.
And, whatever we may think, this is very important because
we must realise that the cinema presents us with an incomplete
world, shown only on one side ;-and it is just as well that the
world should be set in its unfinished state because if, by some
miracle, the objects thus photographed, thus stratified on the
screen, could move, we dare not think of the void, of the hole
in appearances which they would create. I mean that the
image in a film is definite and irrevocable, and even if it allows
a selection, a choice before the presentation of the images, it
prevents the effect of the images from changing or surmounting
itself. It is incontestable. And no one can say that a human
gesture is ever perfect, that there is not some way in which its
action, its waves, its communication can be improved. The
world of the cinema is dead, illusory and split up. Not only
does it not surround things, not only does it fail to enter into
the heart of life and only retains the skin of forms, a restricted
77
view, but it prevents all resifting and repetition, which is one
of the essential conditions of magic, of the rending of sensibility.
Life cannot be reproduced. Live waves, inscribed in a number
of vibrations frozen for ever, become dead waves. The world of
the cinema is a closed world with no relationship with exis
tence. Its poetry is not on the other side, it is on this side of the
images. When it crashes into the mind, its dissociating force
breaks. Poetry did exist around the lens, but before being sifted,
being inscribed on the film.
Besides, with the talking picture the elucidations of the
spoken word have put a stop to the unconscious and spontan
eous poetry of images ; the illustration and the completion of the
meaning of an image by the word show the limitations of the
cinema. The co-called mechanical magic of a constant visual
buzz could not parry the stop-hit of the spoken word which has
made this mechanical magic seem the result of a purely physio
logical shock of the senses. People soon tired of the hazardous
beauties of the cinema. Having their nerves more or less suc
cessfully tickled by abrupt and unexpected cavalcades of
images, a succession of mechanical apparitions which escaped
from the very laws and structures of thought, could appeal to
some aesthetes who admired obscurity and the unexpressed, and
searched for these emotions systematically, but without ever be
ing sure that they would appear. This hazardous and unex
pected element was part of the delicate and sombre spell which
the cinema cast on the mind. All this, together with a few more
precise qualities which we all hoped to find.
We knew that the most characteristic and striking quality
of the cinema was always, or nearly always, the effect of
hazard, that is to say of a sort of mystery, whose fatality we
could not explain.
There was a sort of organic emotion in this fatality where
the objective and secure creak of the projector mingled with,
opposed itself to, the comical apparition of images, as precise
as they were unexpected. I do not mean the displacement of
rhythms imposed on the appearance of the objects of reality ;
but, as life passes in its own rhythm, I think that the humour of
78
the cinema springs partly from this security of a background
rhythm embroidered with all the fantasies of a more or less ir
regular and vehement motion (in comic films). Otherwise,
apart from this sort of rationalisation of life with its waves and
prattle partially emptied of their plenitude, density and extent,
of their internal frequency, by the arbitrariness of the camera,
the cinema remains a fragmentary and, as I said, a stratified
and frozen reproduction of reality. All fantasies based on a slow
or accelerated motion apply only to a closed world of vibra
tions which does not have the talent of enriching and nourish
ing itself on its own ; the idiotic world of images, enveigled in
myriads of retinas, will never perfect the image which we may
have of it.
So the poetry that cannot break away from all that is only a
tentative sort of poetry, the poetry of what might have been,
and we cannot expect the cinema to restore to us the myths of
the man and the life of today.
79
THE LIABILITIES OF DUBBING20
He made his debut in the theatre and was then drawn by the
cinema. Now, when it reopens, he is going to direct that
theatre patronised by the Nouvelle Revue Frarn;ais which
everyone is talking about. So it was interesting to know
whether Monsieur A ntonin Artaud was going to abandon the
cinema so soon. Evidently, he is not. In reply he showed me
about thirty photographs from his last film, Coup de fer a
l'aube, which he has just made in Berlin for Ufa. It is based on
a detective play which had a great success in Berlin. And Mon
sieur Antonin Artaud is going to play an extremely important
part: that of a sham murderer who makes his hands tremble
so much that the police do not suspect him. In the German ver
sion the part is played by the great actor Theodor Loos.
As he told me about the film, Monsieur A ntonin A rtaud ex
pressed his admiration for the German cinema, the sort of
cinema school formed round Ufa, which is based on Hegelian
dialectics.
' The Germans, ' he assured me, ' make commercial films in
the best sense of the word, that is to say that their films are of
a high technical and artistic quality, are very human, and ex
tremely saleable.
' But how could German films fail? Do you realise that be
fore writing a scenario, a writer-because the writers work for
the cinema there-does systematic research on those feelings
which move an audience, on what they consist of, and on the
psychological springs which have to be unleashed.
' On the whole the German film actors come from the
theatre and bring all their dramatic talent to the cinema. At the
88
moment there is a sort of school, or rather a group of tragic
actors in Germany, which has no equivalent in France : Albert
Bassermann, Fritz Kortner, Theodor Loos, Fritz Rasp, Peter
Lorre. All these actors are trained, and this is obvious from
the way they act, from that subtlety which our actors lack.
Besides, our actors are incapable of making a lyrical speech, of
talking in a subtle way. So we have no great actors in France.'
' So you think cinema actors should come from the stage? '
' Yes, if you want to make a very good film. And French
camera-men should take short courses in Berlin. And then,
instead of simply using current successful methods, they might
start looking for something more individual. In Germany there
is a whole group of camera-men who have unparalleled light
ing devices. They are trying to discover the logical effect of
light and to create a sort of luminous psychological environment
connected with the atmosphere of the stage. I noticed that
they are now trying to unify the production. You have no idea
how much they care about significant pictorial and psycholog
ical details.'
Henri Philippon
89
L ET TERS
TO MAX JACOB
94
TO MADAMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
Mademoiselle,
All this week I have been very busy and worried. Gemier
had given me an appointment for Monday afternoon to hear
me in a scene and then put me off to Wednesday. The audi
tion took place under ideal conditions, and he sent me to
Charles Dullin, the actor who was with him last year at the
Comedie Montaigne and whom you must have seen in
Le Simoun,29 in which he played the lead brilliantly. This actor
has founded a small theatrical company in the tradition of the
Oeuvre and the Vieux-Colombier, but still more specialised, if
that is possible. It is both a theatre and a school where he ap
plies his own principles of instruction which aim at interiorising
the actor's performance. Because apart from purifying the
stage, he wants to renew it, he is looking for its novelty. In
other words he wants his performances to make a permanent
impression of jamais vu. Everything takes place in the soul.
The sets are still more stylised and simplified than those of the
Vieux-Colombier. His ideal is the Japanese actor who acts
without props. Brightly painted masks with black manes are
hung on the walls, some in black leather or imitation wood.
The gods of the school are not Tolstoy, Ibsen or Shakespeare,
but Hoffman and Edgar Poe. The first play will be bitterly
frantic, sharp and wild. Dullin himself will play the lead with
his usual intensity.
It is strange, to say the least, that with my tastes I should
have ended up in something so close to my mentality.
95
It is just beginning and is still very small. Hardly a third of
the size of the Vieux-Colombier. It is almost a chamber theatre.
The auditorium can seat a hundred people at a squeeze.
After hearing me Gemier told me that what I was doing
might interest Dullin and sent me to him. Dullin heard me on
Thursday and I joined the company immediately after the
audition. But it is hard work. Apart from the rehearsals. There
are several hours work a day : improvisation, rhythmical gym
nastics, diction, etc. I will very probably be in the second play
since the first has been under rehearsal for a long time.
I will not be able to come for lunch since I am taken up. I
do not yet know when I shall be free, but I could come one
afternoon. I shall write again.
Antonin Artaud
96
TO MADEMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
[February 1 9 22]
Mademoiselle,
I apologise profusely for having caused you so much
trouble.30 This 'flu has lasted a relatively short time and I have
almost recovered. I am leaving tomorrow evening to perform
in The Miser31 in Lyon with Dullin and his company. The date
of our performance at the Vieux-Colombier has been settled
for February 1 8. The addres you gave me are rather ex
pensive on the whole. I shall try to go on living as I have been
until I find something cheaper.
Cordially yours. Thank you.
Antonin Artaud
97
TO MADEMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
[March 1 922]
Mademoiselle,
I received your note too late to let you know that I could
not join you last Sunday. I do not have a free minute. I work
day and night. On March 4 I am playing two important parts :
G alvan and another part in Le Divorce.32 And I am also work
ing on the sets. If you bought a programme you will have seen
that the Harlequin was designed by me. I only have one ticket
for each performance, so you see that I cannot send you any.
And I also have numerous private editorial jobs. Forgive me
and believe me yours,
Antonin Artaud
98
TO MADEMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
[June 1 92 2]
Mademoiselle,
I am overloaded with work. We are staging a marvellous
play : Life is a Dream by Calderon.33 And I have a colossal
part, rather like King Lear if I were to play King Lear myself.
Dullin is playing another fabulous part. I have just designed
the costumes and the sets. So you see how busy I am On June
.
99
TO MADEMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
[Around November-December 1 92 2 ] 84
I OO
TO MADEMOISELLE YVONNE GILLES
[April I g24]
IOI
TO THE DIRECTOR OF THE COM .EDIE-FRANCAISE
Paris, 2 1 February, 1 92 5 42
Sir,
You have infested the news long enough. Your brothel is too
greedy. It is time the representatives of a dead art stopped
deafening us. Tragedy does not need a Rolls Royce nor whore
dom jewellery.
Enough comings and goings in your official calling house.
We look above tragedy, the cornerstone of your poisonous
old shed, and your Moliere is a twat.
But it is not only tragedy. We deny your alimentary organ
ism the right to perform any play, past, future or present.
With Pierat, Sorel, Segond-Weber, Alexandre and others,
the Comedie-Frarn;ais has been nothing but the sex house, and
what sex ! It has never had an inkling of an idea about the
theatre.
Chuck out Sylvain, chuck out Fenoux, chuck out Duflos,
chuck out everybody,-the same buffoons, the same Alexan
dres, the same old wrecks, the same pantaloon tragedians al
ways return to the top.
Do not renew yourself, Comedie- Frarn;aise ! Neither your
' Simouns ' Porche, nor your ' railway ' Poizat, those little strips
of feeble tragedy, nor your latest Jean Coco can do anything
to stop you creeping into the past.
All your hellish boiled beef, your sauce-spoiling share
holders now need is some police seasoning to show you where
your Moliere can lead you.
We refuse to go on supporting the cult of your blood-thirsty
1 02
Corneille who sacrifices sons to their fathers and sets the tone
for some patriotic myths about the supreme demands of the
heart.
And as for Racine, cook him in Granval sauce, Sylvain
sauce, Lambert sauce or caper sauce. He has never been acted
by you.
You are twats. Your very existence is an insult. No base need,
no manifestation, no mass rising of national idiocy have you
failed to support. The power of feelings is strong enough not to
allow it to be prostituted.
The theatre can do without you . It is made of a different
matter to your wretched tissues. French Theatre, you say? You
belong no more to France than to the land of the Kafirs. At
best you belong to the Fourteenth of July.
The theatre is the land of Fire, the lagoons of Heaven, the
battle of Dreams. The theatre is Solemnity.
You leave your droppings at the foot of Solemnity like the
Arab at the foot of the Pyramids. Make way for the theatre,
gentlemen, make way for the universal theatre which is con
tent with the unlimited field of the mind.
1 03
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Dear friend,
You asked me if I particularly wanted to write an article on
Jean de Bosschere's book.44
I particularly want justice to be done AT LAST in every
sphere. I have the impression that Jean de Bosschere is still
waiting for justice to be done and I doubt whether Albert Thi
baudet will do it.
On the other hand, and without blowing my own trumpet,
which I couldn't really give a damn about, I am surprised that
Monsieur Benjamin Cremieux should be making a table of the
theatrical movement in those blessed years of the theatre 1 926-
1 92 7 and should still cling to those doddering old corpses, those
anti-representative fantoms of Jouvet, Pitoeff, Dullin, even
Gemier, etc. When will people stop stirring up refuse.
Don't worry. I am not suggesting that there is nothing but
the Jarry Theatre. Even the Jarry Theatre is ill, from lack of
funds, and we do not know if we shall be able to keep it going.
I am the first person to be aware of the faults of our first ex
periment. We have excuses : time, money, but there is still Les
Mysteres de L'Amour and whatever Monsieur Benjamin
Cremieux thinks of it, it remains a play made for the stage.
Does the performance of a play such as this not contribute
something to modem theatre, something which is lacked?
Everything in Les Mysteres L'Amour is pure objectivisation.
The lines adopt a weight and sound on the stage which they do
not have on paper. Furthermore, the production must not be
1 04
confused with that purely accessory element which consists of
sets and lighting. The production is the scenic movement, the
trepidation of the lines, the rhythm of the play. The cerebral
subversions in a play like Les Mysteres de l'A mour are only of
value once they are incarnated by living characters. A certain
spiritual relentlessness is what counts and only comes to life
once it is acted. Our aim is to materialise the most secret move
ments of the soul by the simplest and most naked means. To
show an unexpected side of the most hackneyed, most banal
situations.
In short, this play and its scenic conception contain a resis
tance, a density given to things of a moral order which were
worth pointing out.
On Monday you will receive A la Grande Nuit.
Ever yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 05
TO JEAN PAULHAN
[Paris] 29 August, 1 92 J 4 3
Dear friend,
Thank you for this proof of friendship. I am very touched.
But if you cannot publish my article in full I must beg you to
return it to me.46 And may I ask you something else. Would it
be possible for you to give it to the printer as though it were a
proof and return it to me in that form. If it is no trouble for
you please have it printed for me. Thank you again, my very
dear friend.
Sincerely yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 07
TO ABEL GAN CE
Paris, 2 7 November, 1 92 7
1 08
TO JEAN PAULHAN
1 09
CORRESPONDENCE9
nrf
Saturday
My dear friend,
Here is your letter. Please return it to me as soon as possible.
So, what in your opinion is betrayal, is to serve France as
ambassador, to be converted. Artaud, is it you who are suddenly
giving in to these superficialities, to these absences of soul, to
these tricks: anticlericalism and political revolution? I cannot
tell you how sorry I am.
Your
Jean Paulhan
11I
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Dear Madame,
I do not understand your view of my attitude towards
Breton. I did not get angry with him at once because that was
not so easy for me, because I thought he would change his
mind, and because I did not think that emotional matters
should be brought in. But, as for my attitude towards the play
and the future of my activity, you can be sure, and you wrong
me if you doubt it (which was why I was so annoyed on the
telephone), that I have made up my mind once and for all to
break with Breton the minute he comes to sabotage the play.
There is no doubt about this. The performance will take place
in spite of him, and against him, if this is the meaning he
wishes to attribute to it.
As for inviting him, no. I did not in fact realise what I was
letting myself in for by inviting him, and that if I did so I
would no longer have the right to throw him out. Not only will
he not be invited, but if he comes he will not get a seat. As for
knowing whether he can be refused admission, maybe you
could see to this along with Aron. Since it appears that we do
not legally have the right to refuse anybody admission, I can
see no other way but to force him to pay for his seat. The only
other way of keeping him out would be to inform the police,
and that would be vile.
Please forgive me for getting annoyed, but you must under
stand my irritation after the succession of misfortunes which
have befallen me. When I left you the other night something
1 12
terrible happened to me. I will tell you about it and you will see
that you must forgive me and cannot be angry.
I am your friend. But please, neither say nor think that' my
attitude is not clear. I will defend my play by every means, be
lieve me. If you, on your side, were to tell your friends not to
come, it would be appalling and could do us great harm. I shall
of course do all I can to make such a step unnecessary .
Antonin Artaud
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
[Nice, 1 6 February, 1 92 9] 51
l l5
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
For some days all the newspapers have been advertising flights
from Paris to Hanoi and even Paris to Saigon. There is also a
fairly long article on the mail flown by the Brix to Hanoi and
a letter from the Chamber of Commerce of Marseilles to the
Chamber of Commerce of Saigon ! ! ! It was obviously the first
thing to do. But still. Anyhow, I need some explanation.04
Of course, for me it was purely a question of money. But I
HOPE that they won't let us down now.
In any case you must know something. Tell me what has
happened so that I can continue to rely on it and can embark
on something else.
You can write to me here at Hotel Napoleon. I have
changed addresses.
My very best wishes,
Antonin Artaud
1 16
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
u8
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Dear friend,
With regard to the estimates of the Peugeot film, I cannot
imagine what they included. I am amazed that it should be so
high. It was mainly the postal film which seemed expensive to
me, because of the journey and the crowds, which can always
be reduced.59 But otherwise I leave it to you to persuade the
director that dreams call forth a series of images evoking feel
ings, impressions and ideas which we all have inside us and
which must appeal to all audiences, providing that the direc
tor can provide an adequate interpretation for a publicity film.
I do not want to go through all the trouble over The Shell
again. And I want to be consulted personally, at least for the
part of the dreams. I gave the scenario of the Shell to Kruger,
the camera-man who suggested making a film with me and
who happens to be filming Tarakanova. He said : ' But it's
quite different from the film. ' I also showed him Thirty-two,
and he finds The Shell far better, which proves that he under
stands the cinema. He might help me succeed, and I have
another chance with Franco - Film. But I hate their mentality.
All film people are tradesmen. An actor, a director, a scenario
are articles IN THE TRUE SENSE OF THE TERM. And one is al
ways coming up against this mentality. You cannot imagine
the humiliations which I have suffered even as an actor,60 even
from people who respect the quality of what I am doing, sim
ply because I am not a star and my name cannot be relied on
I I9
to SELL a film.
There.
Best wishes,
A. Artaud
1 20
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Nice, 26 March, 1 92 9
Dear friend,
1 . To make a talking picture now, or at any time, seems wrong
to me. The Americans who have staked everything on it are
preparing a very sinister future for themselves, as are all com
panies which produce bad films on the pretext that they are
more saleable ; the talking picture is idiotic, absurd. The very
negation of the cinema. I admit that the sound of a landscape.
the noises of a scene chosen for its pure visual quality, may
eventually be synchronised, and I can well see what can be
done in this direction. But there is no difference between this
and the imitative sounds of an orchestra. The sound is produced
by a loudspeaker, a record, instead of an orchestra, but it is not
a different value. Because however well synchronised it may be,
it does not come from the screen, from this virtual, absolute
space which the screen spreads before us. Whatever we do, our
ear will always hear it in the auditorium, instead of our eye
seeing, outside the auditorium, what is happening on the
screen.
An all-talking screen should be invented which manages to
create perspectives of sound in three dimensions, in the same
way as the visual screen creates perspectives for the eye. But
that is science and does not interest me.
If I have an idea for a film with sonorous or musical possibili
ties I shall let you know. BUT I SHALL NOT USE ANY WORDS .
2 . There is no tolerable director in Nice or IN FRANCO-FILM
at the moment, whom I would entrust with a scenario. So all
121
you can do is to suggest to M. in Paris one of the scenarios I
shall send you.
3 . It will be the first thing I shall do. You know that if I
were to write a commercial scenario I would destroy myself.
Worse than that : I would be setting a low standard. The sini
ster thing about these concessions is that they diminish and de
value a man, primarily because this man is doing something
contrary to his nature and consequently contrary to his mind.
The great American successes like Solitude and Chicago Nights
are not what is usually known as commercial.
FINALLY
I cannot do anything until I have recovered.
I no longer thought myself ill, but PERFECTLY LUCID,
the horrible compression in my head and the top of my spine,
the convulsions in my chest, my obsession with blood and mur
der, the torpor, the inexpressible weakness, the general horror
in which I am plunged with a mind which is basically intact,
make this mind useless.
You understand that I would long ago have given myself
satisfaction and would have stopped boring the pants off
people if that had not all constituted an ABSOLUTE obstacle in
its miserable and ridiculous RELATIVITY.
Best wishes,
Artaud
I22
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Nice, I April, 1 92 9 81
Have sent letter editor Pour Vous on Feyder and talking pic
ture. Forceful letter but amazed you already know. Yours,
Artaud.
1 24
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
N ice, 1 o April, 1 92 9
125
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
[Nice, 1 5 April, 1 92 9] 6 8
Dear friend,
Do you know about the article on Victor which appeared in
the Cahiers de Belgique and can you tell me who wrote it. Are
you sure that my letter on Feyder which I sent to Pour Vous
but which WAS NOT PU BLISHED because the ass called A. A . . . ,
the editor, had no reason to be pleased with it, did not appear
in L' lntran. Could you proceed as you so well know how to do
in certain cases and get this letter printed. You must know that
it does not contain anything shocking.
It was perfectly civil, but clear and forceful. I simply said
that in the present circumstances the publication of a letter by
Feyder in favour of the talking picture seemed wrong to me, in
view of that chap's reputation. I then attacked what in my
opinion is the totally unjustified reputation of a Feyder who
failed to convey the poisonous effervescence of Zola and made
a correct and honourable film where Zola created the very
poetry of forbidden love. 6 4 I then gave my view on the talking
picture in approximately the same terms as I expressed it in my
letter to you. You must realise that experience has put me on
my guard and that I was not going to wreck your dealings
with L' lntran by a violent letter. So my letter was mainly aimed
at the grotesque influence of that wretched A . . . on the editor
ial staff of Pour Vous. But I think it would be important for
me that this letter, which expresses so definite an opinion in
sufficiently powerful terms, should appear.
There.
126
The preliminary work for the adaptation of Ballantrae is
ready. I will have it typed out tomorrow and will post it to you
on Tuesday. It is not a scenario. It is a study indicating the
direction of my scenario, the emphasis I shall give to the scenes,
the psychology of the characters, the moral and human con
flict that I shall describe. Because the final scenario will be long
and diffi cult, and I will only embark on it if I know that it will
be well received and interest a backer.
And then I am not interested in selling it unless I have the
full means of an ordinary director at my disposal. I think that
events have proved convincingly enough that it is impossible to
succeed with insufficient means. Take Victor. That experiment
which I am very glad to have made when I look back on it,
barely missed being a colossal success.
I shall probably be in Paris in three weeks. We will then be
able to discuss all this at greater length, but you will undoubt
edly have some news for me before then.
Best wishes and my regards to the Doctor,
Antonin Artaud
127
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Dear friend,
I have sent you my preliminary work on the Master of Bal
lantrae. In its present form it is enough to indicate the spiritual
and objective line of the scenario, and is therefore sufficient to
enable a backer to decide on it. He should read the book. The
comparison of the book with my work will show what I have
done, my own contribution. Page four of the manuscript I sent
you seems to have gone astray and I will have to have it re
typed, but since I was late I sent the whole thing, so as not to
try your patience. The missing page will probably go off tomor
row, Friday, evening.
And you will soon receive the scenario of Dibbouk which I
have now finished and only need to have typed out. As you see,
I do not lose any time and as soon as my mind is a little
freer I try to get all I can out of it. This will show you what I
mean by the man who passes next to one. He is myself, as
physically myself as possible. Because I know that if I were not
afflicted I would objectively be another man ; the man I am
thinking of is not virtual, or if he is, is only so by accident. You
cannot imagine what I could really do if my mind were to lose
its abnormal obstacles. But it will never lose them completely.
Fate will not allow this. I think it fears me too much for that.
Do you think these obstacles are the ransom of my character.
I could be what I am without eclipses, without the conditions
of my brain or rather of my psychic being. It will never be pos
sible for me to resume my activity in full. I think it would be
1 28
too wonderful.
If nothing new happens I shall probably return to Paris at
the beginning of May. In the meantime you will have received
the scenario of Dibbouk. I have decided to introduce sound
effects and even talking scenes into my scenarios, because there
is such a drive towards the talking picture that nobody will
want any more silent films for a year or two. It is tragic, but
that is how it is and one must be able to live and not go under
in the meantime. But people like us, who still feel for pure and
true cinema, must show up the absurdity and uselessness of the
non-silent film, leave words as food for the beasts, and main
tain the identity of the other cinema, of which we may be the
sole heirs. By not losing anything we may save something ! ! !
At the moment the situation is compromised, believe me. I, who
live in that world, hear worse news every day. Everybody is
turning to the talking picture. One must follow the crowd in
order to guide it. Give everything to it, to take everything from
it.
Yours.
A. Artaud
1 29
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
53,000
So 53,000 francs for sets
2 5 days in the studio which must be reckoned at 3 to 5 ,000
francs a day according to the studio, the season, and luck, and
at the most that would work out at
1 25,000 francs
+ 1 ,ooo francs electricity per day
so 1 50,000 francs of studio in all
and 53 ,000 francs of sets
one day shooting on the ship with actors' transport and all
expenses would cost
1 5 to 2 0,000 francs
+ 1 journey to Besanc_;on for American forest
1 30
1 5 days outside for three artists at 1 oo francs a day
or 1 ,500 francs + railway, another 1 ,500 francs
or 3 ,000 francs
+ about 35,000 metres of negative film and 4,000 of positive
for a film of 2 ,ooo metres.
in all 1 55,000 francs worth of film
1 scene needs generating plant at 3 ,500 francs
which makes 53,000 sets
1 50,000 studio
2 0,000 ship
1 55 ,000 film
3 ,500 generating plant
3 ,000 journey
484,500 6 7
Then there is the camera-man who wants 2 0,000 francs a
month and this is reasonable for this particular camera-man,
which makes 60,000
then we must include the price of the scenario with the cuts
and all, for which I think 2 5,000 a very reasonable sum
then the director
I cannot earn less than the camera-man and I must live dur
ing the film.
I won't be making anything, but during that time I shall
have to refuse all other offers to employ me as an actor. Which
represents that sum at least.
To all this we must add 5 actors, the film would have 5
characters to be paid for 3 months.
There are 2 solutions
either the production company will insist on its own stars in
which case the film would cost over a million, with stars earn
ing 60 to 90,000 francs a month (which is what a star earns)
or I will be allowed to choose people I am sure of and whom
I will pay from 1 o to 1 5,000 francs a month, which would give
me an average of 60,000 francs a month for the actors and
1 80,000 francs for the film.
This means that reducing the expenses to a minimum, this
131
film would need at least 700,000 francs.
The figure will seem enormous to you, but think of the book
and remember that nowadays a film costing a million is con
sidered cheap and The Master of Ballantrae is an important
work.
An ordinary director would ask 2 million for a similar job.
Finally I must add that the estimate
-based on the number of sets
of scenes performed
of exterior shooting
of actors
all factors given by me
this estimate is not mine.
This work cannot be done for less, on principle.
It is the maximum which it can require
and one might be able to get away with 500,000 francs
because, as you know, I work fast and may be able to
reduce the 25 days in the studio to 1 5 .
I have now been advised against Franco-Film, Cine
Romans, etc., and I have been advised to go to Albatros (or
Kamanka ) as the only company with no interest in sabotaging
the film before it is over.
Apparently sabotages are performed everywhere.
A pretty business.
Best wishes.
This is urgent.
Antonin Artaud
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
[Nice, 2 2 April, 1 9 2 9 ] 0 8
1 34
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
1 35
TO THE NEWSPAPER L'INTRANSIGEANT
IO September, 1 92 9 10
I would like you to do all you can this evening to put these
people into the state of mind they were in before the question
of my directing a scenario was raised. That is all. I do not think
there is much danger of our getting a director like Epstein who
would scoop up everything. Because there was just as much
danger when the scenario was submitted, and if we ourselves
had not raised the question of the director it would never have
arisen and the scenario would have been accepted as a scenario
just the same. If they really wanted me as a director and I do
not really believe they do, I think we should leave things as they
were before. In any case, if they order and accept a complete
scenario (of 50 pages), it means that we are saved as far as the
scenario itself is concerned although we are not freed from the
results of its execution. Because you must not forget that it is
primarily a deal for us that I am in DIRE need of money.
That is what I wanted to say and did not have time to say.
A. Artaud
1 3i
TO JEAN PAULHAN
9 November, 1 92 9
Jean Paulhan,
I have been meaning to write to you for a long time. I have
behaved worse than disgracefully, basely towards you, and in
a way which many would consider beyond repair.12 However,
I cannot forget this behaviour and it has not ceased to plague
me for nearly two years. I could have apologised far sooner.
But that would have seemed suspect to you. And time alone
could give me the right to be sincere.
It is most important that you should believe in my present
sincerity, Jean Paulhan. I know what I owe you and what a
friend you have been to me. And the memory of your friend
ship only increases my regret and my remorse .
I say remorse and I use that word in its true, powerful
sense. Because, unlike some people, I still believe in evil, in
moral dishonesty, and the facility and virtual unconsciousness,
with which one can suddenly allow oneself to be dishonest,
frighten me.
But if one thing can excuse me, at least partially, in your
eyes, it is the profound and fundamental disorder in which I
have been continuously plunged, but if I have for some time
been able to glory in this castration, in these plunges of my soul,
if I have been able to use them as a banner, it is no less true
that they only really implied a great moral misery and that
this misery was the result of a certain irresponsibility.
I know some men who could have written a letter such as
mine, but the violent disgust with which they now fill me,
1 38
comes from believing them entirely, humanly responsible and
conscious. It is a feeble excuse, of course, but the misfortune
(which, as far as my attitude towards you is concerned, is a
blessing) is that it is real.
Anyhow, this curse, this veritable spell of disorder, im
potence, incoherence of which I have never been able to rid
myself, all this is in the order of destiny.
And if, for example, the sinister business of the Dream,
which happened shortly after that letter, is not an immediate
result of it, it is certainly closely connected with the state of
mind in which I wrote it.
I would like one day to be able to talk to you at greater
length about all this.
In any case, yo u must know that I have never been in such a
state of depression and distre8s. You cannot imagine to what
depths I have sunk, and I believe it is high time to spring out
of this false romanticism.
Antonin Artaud
1 39
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
Dear friend,
A very reliable person is enquiring about the theatres of
Montpamasse and Grenelle. But I think that the Montpamasse
is already taken. As soon as I know, I will let you know. It
would of course have taken longer if I had enquired myself.
Now something else : Pierre Batcheff is about to marry a
woman who is at present the assistant to Henri Chomette, who
is secretary of a second-rate cinema company of which Ger
mane Dulac is a director. Since you like associations, I am sure
you can make one out of that.
Furthermore, Henri Chomette has a male assistant, one of
the boys who came to boo my lecture. If that was not an at
tempt at dissociation, I will eat my hat. It is also possible that
G. Dulac had no part in the intrigue. In any case I think I can
say that P. Batcheff has not come to act but to place a scenario
by him or by Bunuel, or produced by Bunuel. And what is
more, Vitrac, who is humouring me (temporarily, no doubt),
still mixes with Prevert, Brunel and other former surrealists
whom you do not know. I feel that these people are particu
larly worried since they all admit (I have been told) the con
nection between The Shell and Un Chien andalou and this
connection weighs heavily on them.
There. You inform me, I inform you.
Best wishes,
A. Artaud
P.S. I am a little better.
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
[Paris, 23 November, 1 92 9] 73
[Paris, 2 5 November, 1 92 9 ] 74
Dear friend,
We must see each other one of these evenings. I have a great
deal to tell you. I know that the brochure78 made a very bad
impression on all those who do not forgive past insults. And
yet the humerous tone of my letters should have shown with
what little ill-feeling I recall the past. Nevertheless, it is a false
step, and all that means so little to me that I have decided not
to bother any more about anything. The A. Jarry Theatre
brought me bad luck and I do not want it to make me quarrel
with the few friends I have left.
A sentence in your letter struck me : ' You should be sur
prised to have friends and not enemies.' I am surprised and I
admire their constancy, but I feel the full injustice of the hos
tility which rose against me at one point and which has never
ceased since. We should discuss this at greater length, heart to
heart.
Will you give me an appointment, preferably for one of
these evenings, as soon as you return.
Ever Yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 43
TO JEAN PAULHAN
23 March, 1 930
Dear friend,
Last time I saw you I mentioned a scenario which I was
about to film. 79 As time goes by the means and possibilities of
filming it grow remote. I have now given up ever filming it. It
would nevertheless be fairly important to me to have it made
known so that the few innovations which it might contain
should not be wasted.
I am sending it to you. If you think it publishable I will be
pleased. But in all events I will be most grateful to you if you
do not show it to anybody before it has been published.
I beg you to keep it absolutely secret until some decision has
been reached. I have serious reasons for asking this and I send
it to you in confidence.
I am your sincere friend,
Antonin Artaud
1 78 Quai d' Auteuil, XVI
1 44
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Dear friend,
Here is the note. 8 1
I attach great importance to the publication of this scenario,
but to have its full efject it should appear very soon.
It is not possible for me.
It is so short.
Ever yours,
A. Artaud
1 45
TO MADAME YVONNE ALLENDY
6 June, 1 9308 2
Dear friend,
I have been traipsing round in search of work all afternoon.
I was very badly received by the first company, then better by
others. It must be said that I knew the people personally. This
is what I think you could say to Marinetti : 8 3
' Some time ago I mentioned a friend of ours to you : Mon
sieur Antonin Artaud of whom you have read certain vaguely
surrealist pieces, including L' Ombilic des limbes.
' I do not know if I told you that Monsieur Antonin Artaud
is also a cinema and theatre actor. I should imagine you saw
Abel Gance's Napoleon in Italy in which Monsieur Artaud
played Marat, and maybe Carl Dreyer's St. Joan in which
Monsieur Artaud played the young monk defending St. Joan,
Massieu. He also played the Intellectual in Leon Poirier's
Verdun and several other parts in numerous films like M.
L'Herbier's L' Argent, Raymond Bernard's Tarakanova, etc.,
etc.
' I know that Italy is making a great effort in the cinema at
the moment ; and that the Societa Pittaluza, amongst others,
has just restored its studios in order to produce talking and
sound-tracked pictures in several languages. In my opinion this
company would be well advised to use actors who have already
been classified by their performances in this country for the
French versions of its films. Monsieur Antonin Artaud is one
of them. And you know that besides his gifts as a writer he has
experimented in theatrical production and has directed four
1 46
plays since 1 92 7 under the name of the Alfred Jarry Theatre.
'I enclose some photographs which will give you an idea of
the clear and forceful style, and the thrilling and highly modem
effects which he has introduced onto the stage. Some of these
photographs illustrated his attempts at making a short experi
mental film taken from the fantastic English novel The Monk
by G. Lewis. There is no point in my emphasising the difficul
ties which Monsieur Artaud has met with in trying to impose
his ideas in Paris. And Doctor Allendy and I would be very
grateful to you if you could allow Monsieur Antonin Artaud
to interpret any eccentric character parts in the French ver
sions of films soon to be made in Rome. Once he is there Mon
sieur Antonin Artaud will be able to tell you about his ideas on
the talking or sound-tracked picture. And it might even be
possible to let him make a few short films of a sharp and com
pact interest .
' Yours etc.
1 47
TO DOCTOR REN E ALLENDY
[Around 3 January, 1 93 1 ] 8 G
Paris, ll February, 1 93 1 86
My dear Vitrac,
I do not understand your play ; I do not even recognise it.
This sort of lapse of interest at the end of the second act
amazes me. For me, at this point the play is ended, almost
against the will of the characters-and, I should think, of the
spectators, who will not get over seeing things cut short. Re
member that I am not standing as a censor (you can interpret
this term any way you like), nor even as a critic. I am simply
giving you my view and telling you of my disappointment and
surprise. It looks as though you were in a hurry to get it over
and put an end to everything, in any way. And this is all the
worse (in my opinion) since one has the distinct feeling that the
characters are at their wits' end and that you confined them in
spite of themselves. You always have the right (because I do
not want you to think I have not understood your intention,
your point of view)--you always have the right not to impose
unity of interest on your play, not to limit us to one situation
or one story. But it seems to me that until the end of the second
act the whole play was going to be enacted on the premisses set
at the beginning of the first scene of that act, and one is
rather surprised by the sudden collapse of an intrigue which
seemed so well organised. You can of course have ten intrigues
in one play and there is no rule, but as far as that particular
intrigue is concerned, one sees through it too quickly and it
looks like a joke. You will retort that it is a joke, but then it does
not seem intentional. One simply feels that the author has run
1 52
out of breath. There is too much real mystery, the characters
are drawn too boldly, to brutally, too strikingly for things to be
suddenly cut short. And that which comes out of their comings
and goings, their appearance, their character, is too slender,
too slim. One feels one is losing the thread. And until the end
of the second act one is still really waiting for the real play,
heralded by all these movements. It all looks like an enormous
exposition. The three scenes seem to announce a play that
never comes. Anyhow, after the general explosion at the end of
the first act-which is splendid-<me expects surprising events,
one wonders what that ' genius ' whom the midwife announces
is going to do, and it seems to me that after that he no longer
has the right (in view of the play itself, its atmosphere, its
spirit, its movement) to be merely facetious. In short one ex
pects some action, not because everything has to have action,
but because this play, by the way in which it evolves, attracts
the attention and demands violent, powerful action. After the
first act, the spectator's faculties are aroused to their highest
pitch. He only wishes to use them. And indeed, strange charac
ters arrive, move, show their faults, emerge surprisingly, but do
not act. The whole play is a multiple depiction of characters lit
by a curious light, but these characters remain unused. All this,
as it is, is really valid, but to justify this means of proceeding
there should be twenty acts which can explain this sort of
failure of the intrigue by putting it on its real level, that is to say
by mixing it with numerous other intrigues of which this par
ticular one, broached in this way, would only be an example.
I am not picking a quarrel with you, nor am I trying to ex
cuse myself. I deplore the regression of this play which collap
ses after the first act.
You can of course follow Chekhov's example, but it seems to
me that Chekhov regulated the interest, above all that he regu
lated the emphasis. I believe that in the theatre there is a unity
of tone, or at least a unity of attention to which one must con
form. I am no school-master. You know that as well as I do,
but maybe, as an author, it is far less easy for you than for me
to judge your play objectively, and I therefore take the liberty
1 53
of pointing out what seems to me a sort of fault of construc
tion. Besides, you can do what you like with my remarks and I
am almost sure that you will take no notice of them ; but
1 . I do not think I am wrong,
2 . I would always think twice before presenting a play con
structed in that way,
3. I do not like Chekhov and I do not regard Chekhov as
theatre, at least not as the theatre we are waiting for, which we
are striving towards.
Anyhow, one can use the stage to do anything ; without
writing what is called a play one can stitch together, as in your
play, a certain number of situations which revolve round a
certain number of characters. And the characters have always
got the right to send us home after the curtain has fallen with
out having revealed their depths. And this can contribute a
valid play, which I will always stage even if it is not up my
street, but on condition that I do not have the impression that
the author, as in this case, has suddenly dried up. This is what
I wanted to tell you. Even in this state, and provided that the
last act arrives, I will stage the play and stick up for it, but I
fear that the fault I have pointed out may affect its reception.
Besides, where is the last act? How far have you got? What
has become of the play? Why don't you send me the end?
We have now reached the time set by Berlin to resume negoti
ations.87 I cannot resume them if I am not sure of having a
complete play to present. Besides, I am sure that as it stands,
and whatever the faults of its construction, the almost super
natural atmosphere which pervades it from beginning to end,
with these characters drawn in incisive lines which hit us
broadside on, makes your play striking and unusual, and I am
sure that the mere pleasure of seeing the characters develop
makes it worth staging. But once again, I need a complete play.
And I impatiently await the end.
Can I rely on it soon?
Yours ever,
Antonin Artaud
1 54
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Paris, 1 5 April, 1 9 3 1
Dear Sir,
If the Alfred Jarry Theatre is no more, I, unfortunately for
me, am still alive, and am in an awkward situation. I am in
urgent need of work and I thought that you could not not give
me a hand. You can see from my film performances what parts
you could give me without running any risks, but I expect
something else from you.
You know about my attempts at directing from having
severely criticised them ! Think what you like about them, they
were trying to express a modern mentality similar to the one I
express in my writing. This mentality exists ; it has dominated,
nourished all literature for the past ten years. I am not asking
you for the means to stage a play in your theatre which has
been censored by modem ideas. I am asking you to give me a
chance to practise my activity as director in your theatre in a
limited field. And this is how it seems practical and possible to
me. I do not aspire to working for you as stage manager, I can
already see the smile of derision, the shrug of your shoulders at
the mere idea. I need to eat ; my inactivity oppresses me and it
seems faintly monstrous to me to be restricted to the position of
a mere performer. I will accept the parts which people are kind
enough to give me, but I am also sure that if you look hard,
with a little good will, you will find an interesting job for me
in your theatre. You could use me to polish up productions and
to edit the plays. Then, I may be able to make some remarks at
the rehearsals which would prove useful, exert some critical
1 55
faculties which might contribute to the perfection of a work.
Mere suggestions. With this purpose, and to show you what I
can do, I am sending you :
( a) a production project for Strindberg's Ghost Sonata.
(b) a short talking pantomime.ss This pantomime, which has
already been sold to someone, does not really belong to me any
more, although I wrote it, but it is unpublished and is in search
of a stage. I think it gives a fairly accurate idea of my idea, not
of the pantomime but of the theatre. I think it would be a
good curtain raiser.
I await your reply and hope that you will consider my de
mand. Yours very sincerely,
Antonin Artaud
45 , rue Pigalle, Hotel Saint-Charles.
Paris, 2 7 April, I 93 I 8 9
Dear Sir,
At our last meeting you mentioned your plan to expand dur
ing the next season. Although I did not exactly have the impres
sion that you wanted to take me on I am sending you a second
production plan,90 for a modem play,91 this time.
Even your repertory proves that you are trying to concen
trate on a modem school of theatre.92 And yet all the plays
which you have performed so far remain within certain limits
and conform to a certain view, a certain tradition. You obvi
ously agree with me, as everybody today does, that one can go
further, that the real theatre we are all waiting for implies a
complete reversal of standard, structure and orientation, that
its centre of gravity is elsewhere. And it seems to me that, how
ever little you enlarge your repertory, you should add other
plays to your conventional plays, plays which are more reso
lutely, more essentially revolutionary.93 This can only be done
if you have entirely reliable productions to support these plays.
But there is no reason why plays which are revolutionary in my
sense of the word should not become reliable, because they will
suddenly appear as the only plays which conform to the new
visual angle of a public starved of novelty and the unexpec
ted. 94 The modem theatre is waiting for its form in accordance
with the moral, intellectual and sentimental perspectives of the
time. However little we succeed in providing it,95 the public
will never want another one. In short, my theory is that it is
very cunning to be revolutionary nowadays : it is the only way
1 57
of becoming commercial ! ! !
I am not sending you the play on which my project is based
as an example of this type of theatre. It only shows one side of
the theatre which we are hoping for, but which in my opinion
should be far freer intellectually, and more liberated morally,
physically and in every sense.
Cordially yours,
Antonin Artaud
45, rue Pigalle.
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Paris, 2 9 April, 1 93 1
Dear Sir,
I enclose the second project which I mentioned to you.96
Some newspapers say-so I am not being indiscreet if I
mention it to you-that you are thinking of directing the
Theatre Pigalle in the next season.
I apologise for importuning you so often and at such length,
but I want to specify a certain number of points. You must
realise that this instability, this irregularity which is held
against me is only the result of the instability and irregularity
of a life which has not accomplished its purpose. I am far less
mad than people think ; I will no longer be at all mad when I
have some important responsibilities and find myself able to
deploy all my activity in an interesting direction.
I felt, and I may be wrong, that you thought the idea of ask
ing me to collaborate with you was faintly absurd. The few
prejudices you may have would not survive the shortest test.
I would work with you without any reservations, entirely on
your side. Finally, I hope that you do not judge me by the im
provised performances at the Alfred Jarry Theatre : you know
better than I do how indirect staging is and how much one is
betrayed
1 first by the actors
.
2 . then by circumstances.
And I can say that I was betrayed as much as one can be.
The theatre can stand improvisation less than anything else, un
less it has trained improvisers ready for everything,97 which was
1 59
certainly not the case.
Finally, whether it be good or bad, I am bringing the theatre
a new point of view. I have the impression that the public is
fed up, that they need a change and that the only way to
bring it back to the theatre is to invent plastically, physically
and psychologically an unexpected form which grips them, but
which is itself based on the oldest theatrical tradition.
I would like it to be you who enables me to find my way
and I dare to say that it will be in your interest.
Very cordially yours,
Ant. Artaud
1 60
TO MA I TRE MAURICE GARQ ON
(Draft of letter)98
Sunday, 3 May
Maitre,
I am preparing a film on sorcery and the occult sciences. My
aim is to give visual proof of the acts and manifestations of
sorcery at the present time, to show how occultism proves its
existence physically and, how it conveys itself to the mob and
to others.
I show what the practice of higher sciences has come to in
our modern world and above all the elements of these sciences
which have passed into the treatment of disease.
So there are two films to be made,
1 . one about pure sorcery
2 . the other showing the scientific and physically accessible
aspect of this ancient sorcery.
The scenario is ready, a business deal is being negotiated, and
production companies have been informed. And I can see a
way of bringing in a speaker who would be a man occupying
an important position in our world of science and letters, with
an interest in the occult sciences. I believe this matter might
interest you. Your opinion would interest me. I would like to
see you and hear your suggestions. Talk to you about all I have
done.
May I make an appointment?
Yours etc.,
Ant. Artaud
45 , rue Pigalle, E.V.
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Rheims, 26 June, I 93 I
Dear Sir,
Two months ago you did not seem to reject the idea of col
laborating with me in at least some of the plays which you in
tend to stage in the course of the next season. Your decision
was to depend on the success or conclusion of certain plans. I
am at the moment on the point of signing a long term contract
with Pathe-Nathan. A contract which would tie me down com
pletely for about a year. I will only sign this contract, which is
very profitable to me financially, if I have to give up all hopes
of indulging in an activity of far greater interest to me than
the profession of a film actor which is devoid of all personal
initiative !
I think I have something to say about the stage, something
absolutely personal, like a modem painter who contributes his
own formula to other living formulae. And I believe that the
public is unconsciously waiting for something from the theatre
which painting, music and poetry have already provided. No
modern play, of the plays by young playwrights with the pos
sible exception of Salacrou (and then only occasionally, fleet
ingly) gives the stage the equivalent of Chirico, say, or of any
other painter in the most modern style. I also admit that this
is as much a question of general tendency as of personality.
I wrote you two rather theoretical letters to express some
thing very simple : I have the feeling that it would be in your
1 62
interest to give other procedures, inspired by modern tenden
cies, a chance to express themselves next to the solid plays per
formed according to established methods of production.
I hope to hear from you soon, and I remain yours sincerely,
Antonin Artaud
TO REN E DAUMAL
(Draft of letter)99
Paris, 1 4 July, 1 93 1
MANIFESTO
Dear friend,
I am still wondering about the point of your objection con-
100
cerning the intervention of the notion of duality in [ J.
And yet you agree with me in thinking that the sort of mani
festo which we must draw up together to explain the aims of
the theatre should be based on absolutely concrete objectives,
should depart from the present situation of the theatre in
France and Europe, and should say, for instance, that :
to the state of organic degeneration in which the French
theatre has been struggling since the war, a sort of industrial
crisis has been added of late which has just forced a large
number of theatres in Paris to close prematurely.
However, the fact that a certain number of cinemas should
continue to play to full houses is most significant for the future
of French theatre. We do not believe that the relatively low
prices of the cinema are enough to explain this sudden lapse of
public interest in the theatre and sudden dislike of a form of ex
pression for which the public once felt, especially in moments
of crisis, a need comparable to that for provisions of prime
necessity. It seems, however, that the taste for the theatre of
that part of the public which only went to a theatrical per
formance in search of relaxation of a purely digestive order,
finds the requisite satisfaction in the cinema. Because if we
can see that the theatre, as it is used in France today, is in-
1 64
ferior to any film, however banal, we cannot see how it can
manifest its superiority either in the intellectual sphere or from
the point of view of the spectacle. Besides, the audience which
walks out of all theatres where literally pretentious plays of
dubious psychological merit survive, does justice to something
which has long been out of date.
It the theatre is made to condense a system of life, if it has
to constitute the heroic synthesis of the epoch in which it was
conceived, if it can be defined as the concrete residue and the
reflection of the customs and habits of an epoch, it is certain
that the cinema gives us a dynamic and complete image of
modern life in its most varied aspects which the theatre comes
nowhere near.
The stage as it has been used not only in France, but in the
whole of Europe for over a century is limited to the psychologi
cal and spoken depiction of the individual. All the specifically
theatrical means of expression have gradually made way for
the text which absorbed the action to such an extent that one
finally saw the entire theatrical spectacle reduced to a single
person soliloquising in front of a screen.
The concept, however valid it may be in itself, consecrates,
for the western mind, the supremacy of the articulated lan
guage which is more precise and more abstract, over every
other. And its unexpected result was to make that art of images,
the cinema, a substitute for the spoken theatre !
If the cinema won the first round in its competition with the
theatre, it seems to have lost the second. But it is not as if the
theatre, now become irremediably passive, had drawn from
this state of affairs a life which it had long lost.
And yet, while French theatre seems unable to escape from
a stuffy room and never exceed the interest of a court session,
an effort was made in certain European countries before the
war, (and particularly in Germany), and in Russia since the
war to restore a lost lustre to theatrical production. The Bal
lets Russes have returned the feeling of colour to the stage. And
from now on, when we stage a play, we will have to reckon
with the necessity of visual harmony, just as, after Piscator, we
1 65
have to reckon with the dynamic and plastic necessity of move
ment, just as, after Meyerhold and Appia, we have to reckon
with an architectural concept of decor used not only in depth
but also in height, and employing masses and volumes instead
of flat surfaces and trompe-l'oeil.
According to the psychological concept, to the old classical
concept of the theatre de moeurs and the theatre de caractere,
man was studied inertly, almost photographically, he was dead
from the start, anti-heroic by definition, and was observed
with his passions in an everyday setting so that every play was
like a game of chess or psychological construction and only
managed to give us a desolate and flat image of reality ; and
when, through some innovation, the usual concept of man cast
in a simple mould, acting by thrusts and jerks, was succeeded
by a scattered and multiform concept of man divided into a
gallery of mirrors, as in the masterpieces of Pirandello, we left
the court of summary justice, or at least the assize court, for
the psychoanalyst's consulting room and descended a step in
our psychological and demoralising experience of man, who re
mained the man of everyday, whatever monsters he produced
and kept company with. Since then the only really theatrical ex
periment was performed in Russia, during the Revolution, in
an attempt to make a theatre of action and of the masses suc
ceed to this concept of man in ecstacy before his personal mon
strosities.
Sunday, 2 August
Dear friend,
I would like to remind you that we were to meet on your re
turn at the end of July.
I am determined, or tenacious, because I feel that I have
something to say. And what I have always considered a sort of
impermeability of the theatrical world against all that does not
strictly belong to it, what I have always thought of the virtual
usel<:,SS11ess of the wol"d which is no longer the vehicle but the
link of thought, of the vanity of our sentimental or psycho
logical preoccupations in the theatrical field ,, of the necessity
for the theatre to represent some of the strange aspects of the
unconscious in depth and perceptive, in hieroglyphic move
ments which are disinterested, entirely new constructions of
the mind, all this fulfilled and represented by the amazing per
formances of the Balinese Theatre, which is a fine snub to our
idea of the theatre. I would like to talk to you about this and
many other things in the hope that our collaboration turns into
more than a few hurried conversations about the theatre with
references to the play you are about to stage.
I am not a man for money and once my life is assured, the
rest is indifferent to me.
Cordially yours,
Antonin Artaud
58, rue La Bruyere, Paris IX.
1 68
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Sir,
In view of the impossibility of obtaining any sort of reply to
my proposals, I must ask you to send me back the manuscripts :
production projects, dramatic pantomime, etc., which I en
trusted to you.
When I have taken the trouble to send someone even an out
line of my ideas, I am not prepared to let them go without a
reply and without discussing them. I have been accustomed to
better treatment in recent years in the French literary world,
and even in the cinema. Besides, I am just about to realise the
plans, which I could not realise with you, elsewhere, and it will
be to your loss. The theatre is not the coarse product of a stu
dious artisan which you make it, the product of a geometer of
skins which leaves all else unexplored. It will develop along the
lines which I suggest. It will get there with or without me.
Yours faithfully,
Antonin Artaud
5 8 , rue La Bruyere, Paris IX
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Thursday evening
103
1 7 September, 1 93 1
Dear friend,
What I want to say to you, now, urgently, can be said in a
few words, and I prefer to say it in writing so that you can
think it over at leisure and give me a fully considered reply
when me meet. So, without being able to give me a definite
date, you offer me-if the circumstances are propitious-the
chance to stage a play at the Theatre Pigalle, and you cannot
say whether it will be this season or another. That will of course
depend on the success of your next play. So you are prepared to
let me stage a play, you sincerely believe that I would not do
it too badly, but you are not convinced of the necessity of let
ting me prove myself at once. But I think there is some ur
gency. Besides, this is not exactly what I expected from you nor
what I thought you were going to suggest. I am talking as a
friend, as a chum, and my policy is not to be diplomatic but to
say exactly what I think, to reveal the bottom of my heart. I
am sure I am right in thinking that this attitude will appeal to
you and that you will understand me if I express myself
frankly.
I had gathered that you required assistance in your work,
but I thought you expected precise and immediate assistance
from me which would consist of more than relieving you as
director and directing a play in your theatre some time in the
future. You obviously think I have no reason to refuse. But
what shall I do between now and then? Since nobody is sup-
1 70
porting me I have to think about earning by daily bread. I
can work in the cinema but, contrary to what you think, this
might tie me down for ever. Since I do not know when or how
I shall direct with you I cannot refuse offers from the cinema,
and this might lead me
1 . first to sign long term contracts which would leave me no
liberty by day or night or at times when you might need me,
2 . then to leave the country, as I did last year when I spent
six months in Berlin.
Then, having no contract in Paris, I might have to remain
abroad as I did last year when I was a hair's breadth from
signing on as a stage director in one of the main theatres in
Berlin. What nearly succeeded a year ago might fully succeed
this year. It seems to me that if you want to have me, and it
may be naive of me to think so, you must want to be sure of
my co-operation. And I thought this co-operation could be
effective and continuous. That I could in some way become
your right arm and assist you in all sorts of things : ' Polish up
productions begun by you, read and scout for manuscripts, re
place you at rehearsals which you will be unable to attend, edit
press releases, draw up programmes, adjust the sets and the
lighting in accordance with your own schemes, all jobs giving
me experience of the inner workings of the theatre where you
will then be able to make an effort and get through a great
deal of work, and the small monthly wage which I would get
would be amply earned by my work and the stimulus given
to the theatre. I would even accept a lower figure than the one
I mentioned provided that I am allowed to make ends meet in
my spare time. But I will belong to you completely and will
not have to direct in any other theatres. I have clearly ex
plained my position to you, which is that of a man who lives
by his work alone. I believe that if you really wanted me, it
would be child's play to convince the management of the
Pigalle. But I do not believe you want me, at least not on the
conditions I suggested. That is why I want to know exactly
what you intend, so that I can make my own arrangements.
You suggested that I should offer my services as director to
171
Paramount, among other companies. In the present state of the
cinema and in view of the present mentality I am the last per
son they would take. Can you see or have you a way of over
coming their resistance and telling Paramount who I am and
what I have done and how far I am to be relied on. Of course,
if I could direct one or two sketches to start with it would be
a temporary solution. But that would mean that the cinema
has changed its pathetic, scandalous direction. And that would
enable me to wait until you need me.
Finally I must again insist on the urgency in experimenting
with theatrical procedures which have never been used on the
French stage, on the urgency of taking the first steps, of taking
priority over what could be done abroad in the same direction.
Everything that seems bloody theoretical as long as one simply
talks about it, seems even more theoretical and gratuitous under
my pen, and even contrary to experience, as long as it has not
been realised. Because there are things which cannot be inter
preted in words, which words betray, and it is at least to give
an idea of future realisation that I would like to work as a
general assistant immediately, before coming to you as a direc
tor, so that you can judge the work to come by the details. Do
not reply. I will come and see you tomorrow, or after the day
after tomorrow evening, and I will ask you to grant me an hour.
I do not think you will regret it.
Yours ever,
Antonin Artaud
Dear friend,
I shall call for you on Wednesday evening at about 1 2 .30
at the cafe opposite the Theatre Pigalle. I hope you will be
free and that we shall be able to have a talk. I now need defi
nite news-in as far as you can give it to me--either about
what you can do, or about what you cannot do, so as to be able
to make my own arrangements and take some important de
cisions.
Yours ever,
Antonin Artaud
1 73
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Paris, 23 September, 1 93 1
1 74
TO LOUIS JOUVET
[Around 1 5 October, 1 93 1 ]
Thursday evening
Dear friend,
When could you see me? I mean, let me have an hour of
your time? I will not ask you that before the first night of
Judith.104 But afterwards ! I have a play which I would like to
read to you, not to show you its beauty, which would be ab
surd, but so that you can hear my interpretation, to show you
my personal note. Nothing exists at present in the theatre
seems to be more urgent than to perform this play.1 0 5-Let
alone the perversion, the more or less advanced squalor of this
age, just consider the painfully human sound of this play, the
echoes like cries in a cavern or a dream. No man, at any period,
is unaffected by the workings of his unconscious. Why not let
me stage this play at the Theatre Pigalle? Even if Judith is a
success. That would make two of them if I am allowed the time
to work as I wish. That would not raise the expenses of the
Theatre Pigalle excessively, since you have the company. If
there is a difference of a few thousand francs for the sets I may
be able to find them.
Very cordially yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 75
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Tuesday evening
20 October, 1 93 1
Dear friend,
Why not leave me the manuscript of Roi des Enfants a little
longer? My personal opinion of the value of this play matters
as little as the prognosis of success which I might give. I simply
wanted to know if this play was definitely going to be per
formed, and if you, Louis Jouvet, were personally counting on
a successful performance, and what sort of success you expect. I
[ 1 93 1 ]
Tuesday evening
Dear friend,
Saturday will be fine. I shall call for Groethuysen at 6.oo.
Thank you for the news. Between now and then I hope to
work something out. Besides, I hope that apart from Wozzeck
either Dullin or Jouvet will be able to use me in some way
agreeable to me. All that you do for me from the material
point of view moves me very deeply.
I saw the other Marx Brothers film, which was astonishing
and significant.
I hope to see this one and if nobody has promised you some
thing on it I shall try and write an article ;10 8 I shall tell you
about that when I have seen it.
Yours ever,
Antonin Artaud
1 79
TO AUGUSTE BOVERIO
(Draft of letter)19
[December 1 93 1 ]
Monday
My dear Boverio,
I did not come and see you after the performance because I
did not want to bother you, and not because of the appalling
impression Obey's wretched work110 made on me. It is not the
nationalism of it that disgusts me, but the silly and primitive
way in which it expresses itself. Nationalism is an attitude that
must be defended with tongs of iron and not with sticks of
marshmallow, and I am prepared to appreciate a sinister and
ghastly patriotism. It can be defended humanly. But not this
nationalism of church mice and missals, with these stupid
litanies to generals, and this Camaval prostitute, this Goddess
Reason clothed as Lady France, and who represents the Repub
lican image of France.
The wicked thing about the play is that it is admirable
theatrically, and just when one is ready to get up and shout in
disgust something concrete and plastic, something which is
rediscovered and renewed dramatic art, suddenly grips your
entrails and silences you out of respect for the actors. Yes, at
moments one feels the breath of true theatre pass over and that
is very important.
If the N.R.F. has not yet published anything on Les
Quinz,111 I am prepared to write an article either on your last
play or on all your plays. Let me know at once.
Salacrou has undoubtedly used certain elements of Vitrac's
play Le Coup de Trafalgar which he arranged in his own way,
1 80
just as certain as stage devices in his play112 are influenced by
the Alfred Jarry Theatre. There can be no doubt about it. If
I see you I shall be more specific and I think you will agree
with me.
You are excellent as the Messenger, needless to say.
Yours,
Ant. Artaud
1 2 December, 1 93 1
Dear Sir,
As you know Monsieur L. Jouvet has just given me the
manuscript of The Tricksters. He did it with your consent so
you will not be surprised to hear from me. I won't tell you what
I think of it ; I don't think anything : I admire it and find it
' stunning ' . It winded me, to put it vulgarly. Finally I find it
like one of those ingenious machines which leave a dominant
impression of dizziness and stupor. Please believe that I am not
exaggerating, but this play seems so powerful to me, intellec
tually speaking, that I am simply frightened of the reactions of
an audience which usually thinks with its penis and not with
its mind.
In your play I like the disdain for the ineradicable whore
dom of women which emerges in almost every line and every
thought of Luckmann when he agrees to ' reveal ' his thoughts.
If women are such whores, if everything to do with love de
pends on the question of Sex, if physical fidelity, like the other
sort of fidelity, is impossible, it is because our age has lost the
sense of the mystical reality of love as, furthermore, of all
reality which is not physical, material and immediately acces
sible to the senses.
In view of this, it is a good idea finally to see a play in which
a man avenges what is inaccessible in love, uses, reduces and
empties a woman on every level on which all that is not in her
physical and sexual domain can reach her, and leaves, having
drained her and annihilated her, with the mysterious image
1 82
which he was able to create. It is a good idea to be dealing for
once with a man who thinks, and who thinks forcefully enough
(whether this man be you or Luckmann) to attack the problem
which he sets, to deduce all the human consequences from it,
to set in all its rigour and to give it the only solution which it
can bear : it is because basically, (but we won't say this too
loudly at the performance), love, a spiritual image, can only
be resolved by the mind, by a sort of second creation which one
keeps and defends.
We won't say this too loudly, or maybe we must say it ex
tremely loudly, because this play can only have a conclusion in
the facts and those who demand one are morons who have not
understood.
So we all come to the same conclusion, and I am deeply im
pressed to have found, in a play by you, that for the true Or
thodox Thinker the only way out is madness or the tomb.
And that little supernatural breath on which the play ends
is still perceptible in the middle when Luckmann cannot con
ceal the real anxiety which assails him at the idea that the dead
Agatha, who killed herself, might come and plague him.
This idea that the only way out is in madness or the tomb
may seem rather stupid to you expressed in this way, but since
it is really as banal as it is true, consider that I meant that I
was impressed to see that a sort of metaphysical anxiety was
expressed in your play, by your own methods which are psy
chological, and it is an anxiety which the Jewish people may
have, but which everything of any value in our modern and
Western world possesses to a supreme degree.
I have a great deal more to say about your play.
In any case, you cannot doubt that I understood it. I do
not know where you will find Samuel Luckmann and the others
in Paris because of the infinite psychological subtlety of your
dialogue which demands from the actors a presence of mind of
which few actors here are capable.
I am at your disposal and remain yours sincerely,
Antonin Artaud
Just as absolute poetry is metaphysical in its essence, not be
cause it expresses extreme ideas, but because it is these extreme
ideas, made active once again. It expresses decisive intellectual
states, it takes back this power of dissociation, of disconnec
tion. 114
TO STEVE PASSEUR
(Draft of letter)115
Sunday
Dear Sir,
I am sure that my interpretation will seem false and slightly
ridiculous to you. I saw all that you did not put into your play
and nothing of what you wanted to put into it. I think that
your success will be due to the fact that if Luckmann cheats,
he cheats so well that after the play is over his mind still re
mains an enigma.
Yes, but does he cheat?
And in this sort of systematic, unbridled lie, is there not an
element of the unconscious, of suggestion, is there not basically
always the same desire to throw oneself back into the chimera,
the illusion, unreality, etc., etc., and other false exits. The
trickster is he who always changes destiny, hence reality, so he
is a mystic in his way.
You will understand the sort of scruples which make me
write to you as I do. I hope I have not bothered you too much
and believe me cordially yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 85
TO ROGER VITRAC
(Draft of letter)116
Monday evening
My Dear V.,
There is one question that presents itself throughout your
play : ' Why has she shaved half her head? ' You reply by tell
ing us what she did with her hair, not for what inner, myster
ious, even mystical reason, if you like, she shaved it (or if this
even mystical reason does not exist, it is insufficiently materia
lised).
There is also a further question which presents itself :
' Why did Ark. desert? '
You reply magnificently, not on the level of facts and logic,
but on an inner level, on the level of the mind, by a perfectly
valid and surprisingly intellectual attitude in view of the facts
and reality.
In my opinion, to complete your play, you must give us, on
this same inner and mysterious level, a valid reason for this
half-shaven head, which is then shaved completely.
I am all for the play not ending, and not having its climax
at the end, but it seems to me that if your play is slightly disap
pointing it is not because of the lapse of action, but of the lapse
of tone and of the interest which we have in the characters. It
is right that we should abandon them, detach ourselves from
them, that we should even find them insipid, but not that the
last scene should seem useless and that we should have the im
pression that the atmosphere which prevails in it is not that
which has prevailed throughout the play. In my opinion you
1 86
should alter this scene. It does not need much :
change or add five or six lines, then find a more surprising
explanation of the shaved hair.
I shall come to discuss this with you on Friday.
This is only because of the interest I have in the play, for
which I shall do all I can, if you allow me to.
Yours ever,
Artaud
TO ROGER VITRAC
(Draft of letter)
1 7 December, 1 93 1
Thursday
My dear Vitrac,
When you have explained the mystery of the hair in the
transcendant (I insist on this word, however pretentious it may
sound) manner on which we all rely, you will still have to ex
plain, in an equally transcendant but this time more objective
manner, the arrest of Arkade and his appearance as a statue or
a pile of gelatine tumefied by the blows he has received from
the cops. It seems to me that a spoken or written explanation
is enough for the hair, but the error of which Arkade is victim
must not be solely gratuitous, must not remain as gratuitous as
it is at the moment. Because it settles the play. Now, this arrest,
about which you want the spectator to be left in doubt so that
he does not know whether it is justified or not and which he
has to regard as the moral consequence and material punish
ment of Arkade's crimes and his suspicious attitude, this arrest
which solves the play morally, is a conclusion which must also
appear objectively, one must feel the association, feel that it is
in this moral manner that this arrest, which would otherwise
be a gratuitous mistake by the police, is motivated.
It is up to you to work out the details, elements and ob
jective witticisms which put all this into relief and bring out
the morality of the work.
Cordially yours,
Antonin Artaud
1 88
TO ROGER VITRAC
(Draft of letter)
Sunday evening
[2 7 December, 1 93 1 ]
My dear Vitrac,
I have again discussed your play with the Allendys : like me
they think that however small the changes which the explana
tion of your shaved hair may lead to, you must find some
explanation because without it your play is unfinished. But
the explanation of the shaved hair entails another. In your
play there is a natural philosophy of destruction, of which the
morbid and magnetic force is symbolised and synthesised by
the figure of Arkade and the unconscious movement that guides
it all. This movement, like this almost psychological confusion
of barely human beings at one point joins another movement,
just as unconcious but vaster and more universal, which
Arkade also expresses.
On the other hand :
the police mistake of which he is the victim and which can,
in a different way and from a different point of view to that
of the hair, close-
the play,
is only valid if it is motivated not logically, by the facts, but,
one might almost say,
metaphysically,
if it appears like a revolt of fate and destiny against Arkade
who never ceases to violate them and who has so far done it un
consciously-<:>r if it is not fate which he violates, but simply
little girls and if he simply does it like a satyr-which would be
1 89
another aspect of his character in relation to the shaved hair,
because it is all connected-it all needs to be padded
psychologically.
And the image of Arkade who lets his beard grow and
covers himself with blue glasses could end up as something
almost sublime and worrying if, in the sadistic atmosphere
which emerges, you manage to find the harmonious side, the
harmonious and musical side of violated music, the melodic
side of the process of intellectual laceration of Sade himself.
I mean, if you manage to make us feel the reason of deep
and melodious harmony for this mystery and these effusions.
It is all connected : 'the shaved hair, (shortened), the blue
glasses and Arkade's long beard'.
It contains profound ideas of mystical balance and com
pensation, if only in the domain of the hairs. But in dreams
there is no such thing as a base domain or symbol. You know
that better than I do.
I swear that my praises have not missed the point. It is by
putting all that on the elevated level which I suggest that you
will make your play into a great play, not arbitrarily, but the
great play that it must be, and maybe if you yourself have
enough lucidity to deduce these consequences which flow
spontaneously and almost mechanically from it.
Yours,
Antonin Artaud
Sunday evening
My dear Rouleau,
You did not ask me, or hardly, for my opinion of your play,
but here it is.
From the beginning to the end there are some good things
in the performance, some very good, successful parts, and
when I say in the performance I mean the acting as well as the
direction. Next to these very good things there are some faults.
A character often stands immobile without his immobility
seeming intentional.
In a word, the play lacks a little life, lacks real movement.
Tania, your wife, is remarkable. She is by far the most
alive, the most genuine and the most sincere of them all and
her part was diffi cult. The little servant under your spell is
good, but her character seemed to me composed rather too
systematically.
TO RAYMOND ROULEAU
(Draft of letter)118
Monday morning
2 January, 1 93 2
My dear Rouleau,
Your play is full of very good things, of successful parts, the
text is analysed with precision and acuteness, although perhaps
not all its nuances are equally good. Some important touches
seem to be lacking here and there.
Tania is remarkable, human, and very sincere and moving.
The little skivvy under your spell is just right. What she does is
correct and pretty, but maybe a little systematic. That is in
experience. Solange Moret is very good in the poison scene :
she is human and desperate, but somehow not moving. The
rest of her character does not develop with the sharpness
needed.
As for you, your part clashes with the others. You act it in a
stylised way totally opposed to the play. At moments I thought
I was seeing the Patrice119 of The Secrets of Love which
has nothing to do with the ultra-realistic play of Bruckner.
Those leaps with arms outstretched, those inhuman cries, those
bounds give him a fantastic and inhuman appearance which
you cannot sustain, because the human, deliberate, calculated
side of the character has nothing to do with this physical
ebriety and the result is something vague and indecisive.
And how can one explain the immobility of the characters
standing bolt upright at moments, indecisive and not knowing
what to do, if not by the inexperience and indecision of the
director who has not known how to make them move and put
them into position.
1 93
Movement is the main thing lacking in this production
movement, animation and life on one side, and a certain
general movement, a central rhythm indispensible for an
understanding of the play, and by which the production would
affirm its existence and the director would show that he has
understood his subject.
This production, successful in its details, is neither synthetic
nor conceived from above.
So the changes of situation, the psychological alterations, the
turns, the transformation of feeling, the shifts of angle are
obscure and not indicated either in the tone or in the move
ment. Inexperience, no doubt, but great inexperience. Because
that is where a director affi rms his personality.
At the point of decay which contemporary theatre has
reached, at this point of ratiocination, of senility where it only
seems able to repeat what others have done before, young
people coming to the stage only have a reason of existence if
they contribute something new, if, by their actions and gestures,
they rise up against their elders instead of following in their
footsteps.
New experiments can only be justified if they are revolution
ary. Now, apart from the play which describes a very common
degree of decay of which we see examples every day in the
minds of the young, at no moment did I find that original,
racy touch in this production, that striking device which would
indicate the presence of a vigorous and reassuring personality.
However sharp, and even subtle, the analysis of feelings may
be in places it does not express itself in sharp gestures, in ex
pressions of a reassuring truth which would give me the im
pression of the novelty and experience, of the unexpected and
the jamais vu which every poetic device which deserves to
survive should have. However that may be, the experiment is
interesting, and, coming from a young and inexperienced
director, it deserves consideration.-But be careful, and you
too consider the events. We live [in] 1 20 a state which is about
to crumble. And the only people to survive are those who will
have given surety to the future in a revolutionary sense. Whose
1 94
works will display a complete and detertnined break with all
theforms of the past.
Wishing you good luck, I remain your friend,
Antonin Artaud
1 95
TO LOUIS JOUVET
5 January, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
You think that the capitalist and bourgeois order in which
we live can still survive and resist events. I think it is ready to
crack, and events alone will prove which of us is right.
I think it is going to crack
1 . because it no longer has what it takes to face the cata
strophic necessities of the present,
2 . because it is immoral since it is based exclusively on
profit and money.
It is not fair, it is odious that money should block the road
to ideas and that you, for example, should find it impossible to
perform the plays you like because a play must be profitable
and only mediocre plays, which do not take any issue by the
horns, are profitable.-ln any case, we live in a tense period,
and I think that at this moment it would be extremely cunning
and commercial to give the public a play which shakes it,
which breaks something inside it, and makes it fork out.
I am being very frank with you. I could conceal my ideas
and titles : I give them to you.
Apart from Vitrac's play there is Ribemont-Dessaignes'
Faust at the Commerce, as well as another play by Bucher,
Leonce and Lena.
If the public still goes to the Empire (where, incidentally,
it no longer goes as eagerly as it used to), finally, if it still goes
1 96
anywhere, it will have to go to Pigalle, for the same reasons
and because we will primarily have aroused its vulgar side to
get it to accept the rest IN THAT wAY.
I hope to see you soon. Yours,
Ant. Artaud
1 97
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Sunday
I O January, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
Why, in this period of stagnation, do you not let me stage
something at the Theatre Pigalle on my own, let me put on a
trial performance which I will do on my own responsibility. Or
better still, why, since chance solutions are often the best at
times of crisis, do you not play the card that I am and which
you always have left.
You must understand me : both on principle and materially
there is nothing in the practical sphere, to which you rightly
attach a primordial importance, to prevent you from fulfilling
my demands.
You have a company which is idle, you have the theatre
which would cost you no more if I were to stage something
rather than someone else. As a director I shall ask a minute
salary, or even no salary, if you prefer, although I am poverty
stricken. We will use makeshift sets picked up somewhere or
other ; you know that my ideas about decor are as unpreten
tious as possible and that I pick up old sets and arrange them
in my own way, according to my particular angle, to give an
impression of riches and novelty !
So : With no extra expense, you will have a new play. I in
sist : if I suggested a ' trial performance ' it is because of the
reservations that certain people may retain about me.
You could give a dress-rehearsal on a Saturday morning,
and announce occasional evening performances. If it looked as
1 98
though it were going to work out you could make it a regular
performance, and in any case, since it will be an experimental
play for which the Theatre Pigalle could decline moral re
sponsibility, you will not be committed.
However much I might think about it I cannot see what
you might have against my plan. There are no objections on
the practical side. Since the problem of money, which would
have been the greatest in these uncertain times, does not exist.
On the other hand I am sure of catching the public's
attention in some way, and if it is not by the play it will be by
certain devices in the production. Furthermore 'production '
does not imply what it usually implies, that is to say decor,
costumes, and ornamentation, but something coarse and
striking which solicits the senses brutally and attracts the mind
surreptitiously without the pigs in the audience noticing it ;
I can see a way of exacerbating the attention of the spectator
without giving him time to heave a sigh.
So it seems to me that if it does not win every point, it will
at least be sure to succeed and arouse the interest of the
audience to its highest pitch.
I beg you not to say no this time.
I am your friend,
Antonin Artaud
1 9 January, 1 93 2
Tuesday
Dear friend,
A strange sort of enthusiasm appears to be arising every
where for the performance of Bruckner's Mal de la Jeunesse
now being played at the Theatre de l'Oeuvre by a company of
young actors. These actors, who have called their company the
Theatre du Marais, are all young and their youth is in their
favour and could lead to indulgence, but from indulgence to
enthusiasm is a big step, and I can assure you that everybody
who still has a sense of authenticity would be amazed to see
the Nouvelle Revue Francaise take this step. I will not go as far
as to say that the performance of Bruckner's play is of no
interest, but it is all young and terribly inexperienced, and,
what is more, with no sense of originality. Rouleau, the director
of this company, acted with me and played the lead in nearly
all the plays in the Alfred Jarry Theatre. Now, he acts the
realistic, ferocious part, full of human observation in Bruckner's
play with the same prejudices of stylisation, the same systematic
jerks with which he played Patrice in Vitrac's The Secrets of
Love, a crazy play which draws its merit from a sort of hard
logic and an excess of stylisation and bewildered fantasy. The
contrived and stereo-typed attitudes, the unexpected shouts, the
suspended silences, the contained stiffness, all this is inapplic
able to his part and introduces an incomprehensible shift into
200
the play which makes it all the more impenetrable and con
trived. In a word, he plays this part in an inhuman way while
the play, whatever the psychological excesses which it suggests,
only motivates them by presenting us with plausible characters
who may be abnormal (but even this does not seem to be the
intention of the author who entitles his play Mal de la Jeunesse
and therefore seems to want to give us a study of society and
not a landscape of puppets), but who are alive and are not
like effigies or dummies who have just been given life. So there
is a basic mistake. And this is all the more patent since the rest
of the production is full of little details which aim at truth,
accurate observation, etc. This production has some good
points, details of movement, everyday life, habits of young
students which seem genuine and well observed. All this next
to flagrant blunders which are the result of inexperience and
are repeated rather often. So, when a certain character is
spoken to, he turns his head to his interlocutor and after
having talked to him for some time, suddenly notices that it
would be more logical and plausible to tum his feet in the
direction of his head too ; and he does it. But I never felt that
a certain type of humour caused by situations, groupings,
attitudes, was free or natural. That the principal actress, Tania
Balachova, was remarkably moving, almost heart-rending, and
that she should have been the only one to act professionally,
does not make up for the faults I have mentioned. She gives
the impression of having loved and of having suffered through
love, and that is invaluable on the stage. Since few actresses
really manage to give the impression of true suffering. There
are two other women in this play who are good. One of them
gives an impressive performance during the poison scene ; the
other, who is also prey to a violent passion, only manages to
emphasise the inexperience of a production in which the
director's desire to systematise is constantly jolting the situation,
giving a jerky rhythm to the scenes which they should not have.
At one point, holding a bucket in her hand, she enters like a
dead leaf swept by the wind which has nothing to do either
with the character or the situation. I am all for the director
201
trying to convey her madness and the absorbed and hunted
quality of a woman in an inferior position in love with her
master by the brusqueness with which she enters a room and
sees characters of whom she is jealous, and the man who has her
in thrall, perhaps, but this intention is so obvious that it be
comes absurd, without introducing the bizarre element which
the director was looking for. There is also a fight between
women, who pull each other's hair-this could have had a gran
diose atrocity, but is just passably well directed, although very
well acted by Tania Balachova. Then I do not like this play in
which I consider the rotten hearts of a certain type of youth
rotten enough without these students having to hold forth
about tuberculosis of the lungs and introducing pus and other
details which they have been studying. This is useless and un
successful. Of course, it is all interesting enough, and I am all
for an interest being taken in a company of young actors who
are under thirty. I am also all for papers like Comoedia, Grin
goire, Candide, etc., taking credit for admiring an audacious
play, but the N.R.F. should think twice before being taken in
by certain false values. This performance has nothing which a
good performance of Strindberg would not have given us
twenty years ago, and a rehash of the Free Theatre will not
save the theatre from decay ; I think we must be all the harder
since we have the right, today, to expect young people to bring
us new ideas, new ways of acting, something original and un
expected, no matter how maladroitly, and this young company
does not do so. When a unanimous agreement about a new
experiment appears in the bourgeois press we must be careful.
Profound novelty usually meets with greater resistance. I be
lieve that all the shrieks which greeted the Jarry Theatre in
every milieu were more to its credit than the success of the
Theatre du Marais. That the Jarry Theatre or its principles
should now have a success would be understandable : the
ground was cleared five years ago. I only once read a compre
hensive122 article on the Jarry Theatre : it was Benjamin
Cremieux's article on the Dream and he gives his reasons. My
dear friend, I wanted to write to you at such length about this
2 02
subject, and I am sure that if you see the play you will agree
with me. The N.R.F. must not commit itself wrongly on some
thing of dubious merit.
Your friend,
Antonin Artaud
203
TO ANDRE GIDE
(Draft of letter)123
Tuesday evening
20 January, 1 93 2
Friday
2 2 January, 1 93 212 6
Dear friend,
I had the impression,-and I beg you to let me know quite
frankly, that you were a little disappointed by my lecture.127
I am not afraid of reservations, provided they are motivated
and fair, when I meet Jean Cocteau-on the contrary. I prefer
to be aware of a fault or a lacuna so as to make up for it next
time, rather than be hypnotised by qualities which are, all too
often non-existent. It would therefore be a great favour to me
if you would reply frankly and bluntly to the question I ask
you.
I suppose that when you read the lecture it did not make the
violent, splendid impression on you which it made at the Sor
bonne.
As far as I am concerned I continue to think that this lecture
is an excellent thing and even fairly important from certain
points of view, but imperfections of form, at moments flagrant
and, above all, numerous, and which my spoken lecture man
aged to conceal, struck you when you read it, and seemed
clumsy. Isn't that what happened? Otherwise how can you ex
plain that this lecture, which you said you wanted to print as
the manifesto of the N.R.F.'s ideas on the stage, did not appear
on the first page of the no. ? How can you explain that you
even hesitated for an instant to print it in the February no.
when you yourself asked me, the day after my reading it at the
Sorbonne, if February was not too soon for me, so urgent did it
205
seem to you? You must understand the spirit in which I am
asking you these questions. They are all the result of the anxiety
of an author who is worried about the value of his work.
Ah ! I certainly do not write in any ecstacy of joy. My for
mer obstacles have not yet been completely reabsorbed. All
that I write is the result of a conquest of myself, of an atrocious
inner conflict in which my mind is rarely at an advantage. You
will tell me that this happens to every poet ! But you know per
ectly well that it does not, and in any case not in the same
way, not to the same extent. My mind is sick. You must not
doubt it.
My conflicts are not the conflicts of a healthy brain. A
healthy brain, for a man who knows his language, does not
have those sudden blanks, those repeated forgetfulnesses which
are irreparable because their correction entails the full depth
of thought. Tell me the truth, Jean Paulhan. I shall not be
petty enough to resent it. One needs all the baseness of mind
of a surrealist to resent a sincere and just criticism, because
their so-called pride is nothing but the shy of a conscience
alarmed by its weakness, which bucks miserably. One day I
shall write something about all this rubbish because nothing
nauseates me more violently, nauseates my mind, than the per
sistent activity of a long exhausted group which has nothing
more to say, this sort of over-played activity, this obstinate lie,
this determination to sustain the mind and the organs of the
heart in an inhuman attitude which has long since ceased to
correspond to anything in the mind or in life. This old quarrel
between the surrealists and Cocteau is absurd. Because basically
it is all so similar, and I assure you that people who do not
know about their animal bickering put a film like L'Age d'Or
and a film like The Blood of a Poet in the same sack, the one
as gratuitous and useless as the other. Cocteau has been very
kind to me and I will not say what I think of his film in public,
at least not at the moment.-So I beg of you, in all friendship,
keep this all strictly to yourself. It is secret.-But of all these
films I think that The Shell and the Clergyman has had child
ren, and that they are all in the same spiritual tone, but what
2 06
was of interest in 1 92 7-because The Shell was a precursor-is
of none in 1 93 2 , or five years later.
I do not think people are capable of doing justice, and
intellectual honesty is nothing but a word today, a dirty and
embarrassing word, but by rights criticism, if such a thing still
exists, should recognise the affi liation between these films and
should say that they ALL stem from The Shell and the Clergy
man, except for the spirit, which no one has understood.
This sort of film composed in a state of semi-conciousness, to
the sombre and secret logic of a dream, but what the others
missed was the intellectual current, the organisation of these
dream images which are only imposed on the mind by the force
of this organising and underlying current. It is not much to say
that they must be felt like music. What is opposed to music is
arbitrariness, stupidity and gratuity. Now, however beautiful
each image may be taken on its own-and there are some
beautiful images in The Blood of a Poet as there were in L'Age
d'Or-they get their value and their sense (and by sense I do
not mean what they mean, in a clear and lucid manner, but
the reason of their existence, their power of analogy and
discrimination) from the way in which they are integrated, in
which they participate in a sort of basic intellectual music, a
music which is totally lacking both in L'Age d'Or and The
Blood of a Poet! Images must not be cast like a line, at random !
These obedient images in a film constructed according to the
sombre and hidden rules of the unconscious, are necessary
images, demanding and authoritative images, and we are wide
of the mark in every case.
Besides, I think that the time for that sort of intellectual
exercise is over, completely finished !-It may be all right, for
a short period, to find, by indirect, excessive, arbitrary ways,
naked, stripped and dry methods, polished to the bone, laws of
eternal poetry, but these laws are always the same, and the
aim of poetry cannot be to play solely with the laws with which
it has been created. Now, it is precisely around this that the
cinema, literature, painting and all the arts have been revolving
for the last ten years. Whether the rules of the game have be-
2 07
come infinitely clear because of the aid of psychoanalysis, or
whether poetic technique has given us its methods, the aim is
not to prove that we are extraordinarily intelligent and that we
know how to set about it today, but to provide at last exemplary
works of this poetry of the unconscious, of this profound
analogical poetry which I call 'of the unconscious' , for lack of
a better word, but which is the only poetry possible, the only
possible and true poetry, with metaphysical tendencies, on
which films like The Blood of a Poet tum their backs. As well
as L' Age d'Or as well as any surrealistic poem ever written.
There is a world to say about all this. One day I shall try to ex
plain what I think of it, when my mind is free, free from the
profound unconscious obstacles. All day long this mind is
bogged down, tied up ; when it escapes a little I write my lec
ture on the Theatre, for instance, with occasional faults of style,
these formal hitches which are the sign of the persistence of a
profound and terrifying disease which poisons and reforms my
whole life. I impatiently await your letter giving me your real
opinion of my lecture and the rest.
Your sincere friend,
Antonin Artaud
P.S. I did not send you the article you asked me for on the
Threepenny Opera for several reasons :
1 . First of all, I had no time ;
2 . I had not seen the film and could only see it on Wednes
day afternoon. It was too late.
3 . What I had to say about it was too important to be said
in one page. Because after having 'viewed' it, as one says in
cinema jargon, it seemed to me that the observations to which it
gave rise were so important that a mere report would not
suffice. I consider them of capital importance, and it is the
very life and raison d'etre of the cinema that is at stake in such
a film. And through it, and because of its prodigious success,
the general value of Opinion is at stake, of what is called
Opinion, at the same time as the intellectual standard of these
times which prove its baseness and complete disorientation. I
208
insist on the word. Disorientation. Lack of landmarks. ' One
really c annot find the north.' The intellectual north, of course.
4 . I myself acted in this film which I wanted to criticise and
I intend to bring serious criticisms to bear against it. And in
other terms and circumstances, and if it were about something
else, I criticise and accuse in the right place. But having
could
acted in it thisis awkward. I could only do it efficiently if in
vested with official authority, which I would only obtain if I
were the official critic of a review or a newspaper. I see you
smile and look surprised, because you think you have caught
a glimpse of a sort of petty ambition which you did not expect
to find in me. But after all, the N.R.F. has no regular film
column. Could you not start one, a column which would have
film reviews every month, in every number. This column
would be carefully kept up to date. Of course there is not a
film worth talking about every month, but the existence of this
regular column could stimulate interesting ideas about the state
of the cinema. I would of course retain complete independence,
I would be able to talk freely. No doubt my acting career
would suffer. But so much the worse. I gave up making a
career of acting in a profession rotten to the core a long time
ago, for elementary reasons. And it would be refreshing, for
me and for everyone,-to say that the world of the cinema is
more rotten than anything imaginable. A practical detail which
has its value : writing for this column would enable me to
possess a press card and have a free ticket for all performances
and important film premieres. And besides, I believe that it
could be commercially advantageous for the N.R.F. if people
knew that it had a regular film report. This would gain it all
the readers who like good cinema and do not know to whom to
tum. You will tell me that there is the Revue du cinema, but
it is not the same thing. And one can always say that the
N.R.F. has a more literary approach and the Revue du cinema
a more technical one. But all this is between ourselves ! !
As far as the Threepenny Opera in concerned, I found it
fairly mediocre for a film which has aroused the enthusiasm
of the intellectual elite for so many months ! And it even took
2 09
advantage of the censorship, which makes me dislike it still
more, because the bitter human salt of the story which it tells
has nothing which could justify such direct and excessive sever
ity, so OUT OF DATE does it all seem. And I consider that both
the censor, who saw something pernicious in this film, and the
literary and artistic elite who thought they were defending a
work of high moral and intellectual value by protesting against
the censor's idiotic decisions, took a ridiculous and unnecessary
attitude. Of course, the eighteenth-century English opera, The
Beggar's Opera, as well as the second German version of this
unique work, Die drei Groschen Oper, deserve every defence
and enthusiasm, but not G. W. Pabst's screen version.
2 10
TO JEAN PAULHAN
(Draft of letter) 129
Saturday evening
29 January, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
I can't get over the production of The Tricksters.180 Those
puppet-like characters astonished me.
None of those characters are human, act humanely, they do
not behave outwardly as their inner reactions, as their words
could lead one to believe that they feel and react. In a word,
they act conventionally, striking the attitudes of the old con
ventional style, acting a stylisation in immobility which can
produce good effects when it is intentional, but when it is in
voluntary, as it is here, has disastrous results and reveals in
sufficient understanding of the psychological tendencies and
levels of the work.
The more these characters, who reveal our feelings, em
phasise their reactions intellectually, the more concrete and
plastic must they become through movement and coarse out
lines which indicate the inner fluctuations of thought by
physical methods. Seeing such a production one would say
that the stage, with its space, its levels, its perspective and its
possibility of movement, does not exist. But it-only exists for
that, to enable everything of a senstive, psychic and intel
lectual order to materialise coarsely. A movement, a gesture in
the nick of time sometimes does more to elucidate a com
plicated thought than all the treasures of the spoken language.
That is what I think.
Next to the rhythm and structure of the word, the theatre
21 1
has rhythm and a structure of movement, of movements, which
must leave the memory of a complete whole in the mind, the
memory of a sort of perfectly balanced support, bathed in air
and space, and which plastically clarifies and orders a whole
psychology by its lines, its proportions, its general spirit. This
construction is three sided. It contains the text, its plasticity
(intonations, etc.) and the plasticity of the movements, all ar
ranged and put in position. This POSITIONING was missing in
The Tricksters.
It is this lack of positioning which undoubtedly prevented
the play from having the success it deserved, in spite of all it
may have which is artificial and contrived.
These characters, when centred round an essential problem,
when confronted with each other, do not say any of the things
which one has a right to expect from them.
The problem which they set is radiant. It is essential, and
one could almost say that for a man and a woman, for two
men and women confronted with each other, there is no other
problem. So it is really a game, a sort of modem game of love
and chance, and that is thrilling when one realises that the
chance in the play is called Luckman and that he has arranged
everything with a view to abstract and absolute ends which
he is the only person to know about and cherish. He has seen
through the sad realities of love, the wretched indecisions and
hypocritical satisfactions which love gives and then removes
treacherously, and he has rejected them. The more the ques
tions (thing-feelings) raised are of a subtle, intellectual nature,
the more coarsely they must be expressed and defined. I had
the impression of something intricately worked out and an ex
tremely elevated intellectual level. I no longer have this im
pression of extreme intellectuality. The actors devoured it so
completely that I began to wonder about the meaning of the
text, this spiritual text which has made such a deep impression
on me. Few people live for their mind alone, with their mind
alone. These actors showed us that they had senses but very
little intellect. Which falsifies their character, their position,
I might almost say their attitude to one another.
212
TO LOUIS JOUVET
(Draft of letter)m
Dear friend,
I found Savoir's play182 exactly as you described it to me.
You have caught the sense and spirit of it, and have sum
marised it admirably. Besides, all those intentions which you
pointed out to me are very clear, there is no doubt about it.
Savoir wanted to create a myth, a symbolic image, a sort of
corporeal being-the image of war. It is all clear and detailed
enough until the first blackout for it to be possible to follow the
text without adding hardly any objective or scenic detail ; you
simply have to find the movements, the shifts in the voices,
above all the tempo, the significant pitches of the voices which
grow louder at the right moment. This is all the more im
portant since the atmosphere to be created is mythical, like a
winged spirit floating in the air.
However, there is one concrete detail which is elementary,
but all the more essential.
The centre of attraction throughout the whole play until the
first black-out is the Pastry-shop.
The Pastry-shop is Heaven, the circle of the Elected, the
chosen centre.
The people outside are shut into the exterior like prisoners,
and like prisoners they come to gaze into the Pastry-shop.
So the window through which they gaze, to which they press
their noses, is of great importance and must be given a special
value. To begin with it is the window of the Officers' Mess
and then of the Pastry-shop.
After the black-out and the Armistice, it is the exterior
which is heaven, there is no window, but the front of the
Pastry-shop where the pastry cook Madeleine stands and
gazes in the opposite direction.
215
TO LOUIS JOUVET
(Draft of letter)154
Dear friend,
If fo r the first act we need a decor which is both precise and
symbolic, which sets the action in very Parisian surroundings,
recalls the architectural framework of the army and the war,
and is both realistic and significant, I think I have found a
spot that possesses all these qualities, and I suggested the idea
to Moullaert : 13 it is a view of the barracks in the avenue du
President-Wilson. There is a marvellous view of roofs which
removes all the banality and dreariness of the barracks, but
which nevertheless contains the barracks, a close view of the
Eiffel Tower, and the Invalides and the Ecole Militaire in the
background. It also shows the avenue du President-Wilson on
the right WHICH CLIMBS up, opposite several streets descending
steeply in steps, and on the left the avenue which bends as it
descends and vanishes towards the Alma. This seems to me the
synthetic landscape of one's dreams, both symbolical and real,
with the Seine which can glisten in the distance.
Since we do not want realism, but likelihood, we could have
a sort of square with benches in the middle and at the back
this square would suddenly end in a landscape of roofs and a
couple of flights of steps plunging towards the avenue du
Tokio.
2 16
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Friday
5 February, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
In the dream at the end what would you say to using about
twenty dummies five metres high, of which six would represent
the most typical characters of the play, with their prominent
features, suddenly appearing and trudging along solemnly to
the tune of a military march, which would be bizarre, full of
Oriental consonances, in the midst of light signals and flares.
Each of these personages could have a badge and one of them
could carry the arch of triumph on his shoulders.
The whole crowned by a halo of rags, stuffed to bursting
point, with podgy limbs, and floating the traditional laurel leaf
over the heads of the heroes. They would march enveloped in
gigantic flags which would hang from the sky. I see them
crossing the stage diagonally from the back right hand comer
to the front left hand corner, but marching at a certain height,
as though they were crossing a bridge.
Far from fearing the humorous side of this I would em
phasise it, I would boldly rig out the better or less known faces
with superb moustaches and fine black beards.
The fact that one would recognise some of the puppets as
certain heroes of the play would emphasise Magdeleine's ob
session. So this dream would explain itself on two sides, and its
poetic and psychological value would be considerably in
creased. I can see two great advantages in this device :
1 . There is no danger in reproducing over-familiar images
217
cinematographically, and it avoids the danger of the cinema
transported on to the stage. Which has hitherto proved very
tricky.
2 . You are sure of the hallucinatory aspect of the idea and
you are sure of conveying it.
3 . It is either an original experiment, or, in view of the
complete lack of public culture, can pass as such.
4. Psychologically, plastically, humoristically such a fan
tasy is motivated both by the spirit of the work and by its
material aspect, its practical necessities, etc.
The fantom-like nature of the dummies and the lighting will
make them unreal enough to contrast with the appearance of
the postman. As for the realisation, the obstacles should not be
insurmountable-despite the little time we have left.
I see the procession lasting one and a half to two minutes.
I have worked on the third act and hope to have found a
seductive formula which I shall tell you about this afternoon
at the Theatre Pigalle.
Yours affectionately,
Antonin Artaud
218
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Sunday
7 February, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
I wrote a fairly long article on Steve Passeur's play The
Tricksters which seems to me worth discussing at length, how
ever imperfect, limited and truncated it may be. In any case,
the considerations which it has led me to develop interest me,
and I think they will interest you. So I hope that even if some
one has already given you something on this play, or promised
to give you something-no doubt Benjamin Cremieux has done
so-you will still be able to accept my article which is an essay
after Steve Passeur's play and about it, rather than a review. 1 36
I know that your March number is very full, so I don't suppose
you can print it. On the other hand it is of current interest and
it would be better not to wait too long before it appears.
So I suggest that you print my article not as a re.view, but as
a report. Because a review is generally printed all in one while
reports can have a sequence, and to emphasise this (I admit I
would very much appreciate this because of its current interest
and for motives of opportunism which I will tell you about
when I see you), maybe you could print one page of the report
in the March number and put 'to be continued'. There is still
another possibility : it would be to start printing it in March,
but at the end of the no. in very small print, like all polemics.
Because it contains a polemical part about the inconceivable
lack of understanding of the critics. The critics could have
attacked the production and its faults, but they attacked what
the play attacked-the rigorous attitude towards the abstract
219
and pathetic outburst of passionate love.
I am your friend,
Ant. Artaud
P.S. I shall send you the article the day after tomorrow. You
decide what to do with it.
Yours,
A. Artaud
220
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Wednesday
g February, 1 932181
Dear friend,
You may think I am overstepping my duties and that I am
meddling in something which does not concern me, but the
scene of projection and evocation seems unrealisable and im
possible to me. I am prepared to admit the principle, if need
be, although I am personally not very much in favour of it, but
on condition that we manage objectively and materially to
have it accepted by the audience without hesitation, that they
never at any moment want to cry out at such an unlikely
device. For this the appearance of the soldiers must be imposed
like a real dream, a dream which would be black and grey, but
valid and admissable as such. Here are the ideas that that
suggests to me : in view of the fact that the images of the
soldiers will dissolve into each other instead of appearing clearly
separated and outlined, and that they will only appear through
a hole in the clouds intended to conceal their immobility, it
seems to me that you could start the projection with a sort of
sonorous, brutal resplendence which will distract the attention
from the images, a resplendence suddenly reconstructing all
the sounds of war. Then the images will emerge, but I feel that
instead of separating them from the rest of the stage, of de
taching them from the character of Madeleine, you could start
by projecting them directly onto her and the sets, so as to create
a vague gleam which would respond to the resplendence of the
sounds. So the images will rise on the movement of the clouds,
22 1
but in my opinion, instead of starting to sing the Madeleine at
once, you could, right at the beginning, after the war noises
with which the projection will start, introduce a strange
Oriental type of music which would emphasise the evocative,
dream-like element of the scene and would gradually turn into
the Madeleine to end briskly, be suddenly cut short, and
appear like a broken dream crashing onto Madeleine's earth.
And I then see the final lighting as banal and realistic, without
any fancy effect.
Basically, dear friend, I am very annoyed at having to con
firm my complete uselessness. What I am doing is not even
worth a metro ticket.
Yours very cordially,
Ant. Artaud
222
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Sunday, 2 7 February, 1 9 3 2 1 3 8
Dear friend,
Forgive me for saying so, but you really are discouraging.
You make me feel that the six hours we spent at the organ were
a waste of time, and that we were absolutely wrong while I am
sure that at least half of the things you heard correspond very
exactly to the definition of what you claim we have not done :
that is to say a research of imitative and basic sounds, some
times tonically transposed, but not musical. And I am sure that
it would be enough to reduce the other half of the sounds to
the elements of which they are composed and which we looked
for isolatedly, to have the entire register of the sounds corres
ponding to this play in their pure state.
I also insist on the fact that, not being a musician myself, I
cannot communicate ideas to the organist, so the organist re
sists with all the strength of his unconscious, the idea of isola
ting the non-musical sounds in this way, and his interpretation
of the precise points is never what we agreed on because of this
tendency which he cannot avoid.
Remember that I am not blaming anybody. I am only
pointing out certain difficulties.
Ever yours,
Artaud
223
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Dear friend,
This afternoon I left the rehearsal shortly before the end
after having seen the main part, and I think that if our ideas
had been introduced with taste and discernment they would
have padded out a play which needed it.
As far as I am concerned, I took a great deal of trouble and
wasted many hours, but what disappointed me and hurts me
most is the feeling that all these things were useful, that there
was a way of introducing them, if you had left us more initia
tive, because you finally came up against problems which had
been pointed out at the beginning and subsequently forgotten.
And the play will suffer because of this. But however pessimistic
I am I do not think this play will be a commercial loss.
If you want to see me before the first night, I shall be at the
Pigalle tomorrow at about four. You just need to leave a
message with the concierge.
Your faithful friend,
Ant. Artaud
224
TO LOUIS JOUVET
Dear friend,
Although I found the approach of Savoir's play interesting
and thought that the particular scenic modulations which you
wanted to impose on its secret spirit and aim might make it
a success, now that I have seen it performed, it seems flimsy
and hopeless. Above all, I blame the actors for the failure of
this play-not their profession or their talent, but their spirit.
You must not mind if I differ with you, but I do not share your
opinion about experience and its value. And having knocked
about the world a bit myself, I have a vast enough experience
of feeling, of the world of the imagination and thought, of the
active procedures of the mind, to have the right to demand
that my opinion should be taken into account. Well, I think
that Savoir's play does not stand up on its own and that it is
the duty of a good director to betray an author, if necessary,
in order to tum his play into an impressive performance. As
for my particular part, I think we should give the maximum
intensity and efficacity to the sound-track, provided it is situa
ted in places where it does not get in anybody's way and comes
off best. The purely imitative noises which the organ will never
imitate perfectly will not be understood because they are not
frank. Since we are making dissonances, let us make them, but
let us also tell the audience that we are making them. They will
scream or applaud, but they will not be in this state of un
certainty caused by half measures. At the end of the first act
we wanted to show war, its dirty, ghastly and menacing side,
225
to show that the intensity and symbolic frankness of our means
correspond to our intentions. The effect of the wind which you
want was out of place today and drowned the actors' voices,
but it seems to me indispensable en principle and very success
ful as an impression. Pierre Renoir himself came to tell me that
he found it very striking. You ask Messiaen to make his music
merrier : I do not understand why. He could make his har
monisations of bells or his amplifications on the gramophone
merrier, but not the interpolated sounds. I do not believe in
groping around and experimenting any more than I believe
in experience. I can just admit that experience enables me to
justify an hypothesis, but it will never make me give something
up which I feel to be true. I believe only in my intuition. And
the resistances of some, the incredulity of others, and above all
the fear of the reactions of the audience must on no account
make us give up our idea or prevent us from getting the most
out of it. If, instead of simply imitating the sound of the shell
flying through the air, one could hear the dramatic com
mentary of the organ letting burst a few violent dischords in
the anxiety and silence of the soldiers, it will constitute a very
important element, and it is these additional touches which
often make a work a success .
Ever yours,
Antonin Artaud
226
TO LOUIS JOUVET
(Draft of letter) uo
Paris,
1 2 March, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
I t oo could see things from the complex angle from which
you see them, remember that, but I do not do so, maybe be
cause I do not have your experience. I admit that I do not
have your experience,
1. because it is a fact, I have not worked in the theatre as
long as you because I have not had the time materially,
2 . because I did other things, my tendencies, my tum of
mind led me to other things,
but I do not think I am too stupid, I too think I have a
certain lucidity, and this lucidity allows me to say that if this
woman is created as an incarnation of the war, as a sort of
chance murderess, the author should develop the premisses
thus set, and develop his play according to them. This character
was necessary, it was necessary to undo oneself and tum, and,
in view of the objective paroxysm of this slaughter which
materialises, tries itself out on two or three points, on two or
three characters with the havoc which roves round their con
sciences, a sort of vengeance of Destiny by the events was
necessary ; the abandonment of men is not enough, and is so
feeble, so innocuous in the play,
gentle madness is too little,
but the image of this madness are, in my opinion, what
made the play fail-
1 do not demand that the author should pronounce a verdict
227
on war, for or against it, I demand a verdict by Madeleine
Jaudon, the pivot of the play,
and some sort of psychological sanction of these acts, and,
since a vision was needed, or example, I demand that the
vision should take on the form of a nightmare and not a mere
sacred evocation of uniforms ; a parade of dream uniforms,
followed by the appearance of the postman's uniform is too
little after all that has been stirred up and you can be sure that
is is the minginess, the flimsine both of the fact and the final
point of view in itself, as well as the absurd side of the details
by which it manifests itself and the psychology of the principle
character who dwindles away and turns short, which caused
the failure of the play.
I firmly believe I have grasped the point of contention, if
I may say so.
Believe me your friend,
Artaud
TO JEAN PAULHAN
[March 1 93 2 ]
229
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Tuesday evening
2 1 March, 1 93 2 1 41
Dear friend,
Since you said that provided I post the article to you this
evening and you get it tomorrow there is still time to send you
a new version of it I am sending you a new article dealing with
The Tricksters and I beg you to throw the other one away,
together with the part about the Mal de la ]eunesse. If it is too
late I urgently implore you not to print anything, but I hope
I am in time.
Your friend.
Artaud
[Berlin, 2 0 May, 1 93 2 ] 14 2
Dear friend,
I am ever more convinced that the cinema is and will re
main an art of the past. One cannot work in it without feeling
ashamed.
Ever yours,
A. Artaud
TO JEAN PAULHAN
1 6 December, 1 93 2
Dear friend,
I am reading Seneca-it seems mad to compare him with
the moralist tutor of some tyrant of the Roman decadence
or else he was the Tutor, but as an old man, having lost his
belief in magic. However this may be, he seems to me the
greatest tragedian of history, an initiate in the Secrets, who
knew better than Aeschylus how to put them into words. I
weep as I read his plays, and I feel the transparent effer
vescence of the forces of chaos groan under his words in the
most sinister manner. And this reminds me of something :
once I am better I intend to organise some lectures on drama
for a man who denies the text of the theatre this will be quite
something-public lectures at which I shall read the Tragedies
of Seneca and all the possible patrons of the Theatre of Cruelty
shall be summoned. There is no better written example of what
can be understood by cruelty in the theatre than all the
Tragedies of Seneca, but above all than A traeus and
Th yest es .148 You know, it is still more visible in the mind. Those
monsters are wicked as only blind forces can be and I believe
the theatre only exists on a level which is not quite human. Tell
me what you think of this idea.
A word from you would give me pleasure. I hope I shall be
out in ten days-a new man.
Your friend,
Antonin Artaud
In Seneca the primordial forces echo in the spasmodic
vibration of the words. And the names which designate secrets
and forces designate them in the passage of these forces and
with their uprooting and pulverising force.
TO JEAN PAULHAN
2 34
TO JEAN PAULHAN
[ 1 934] 146
Dear friend,
Here are the few lines to be added to the rest : besides, it is
all connected. 1 47
What most critics lack today is sensitivity and a head. And
it is with one's head that, after being impressed by Balthus'
forests-I do not like the courtyard of the castle, which is a
completely different set to the original model-one realises
that, unlike ordinary stage forests, these contain darkness and
a rhythm which speaks to the soul ; and that behind the trees
and the lights of nature they evoke cries, words, noises : they
are imaginary concepts in which the mind breathes.
You must also know that Balthus was let down by incom
petent executants and had to repaint over seven hundred
square metres of canvas himself, working day and night, and
thereby gave his sets a particular composition, style and order.
2 35
TO JEAN PAULHAN
Dear friend,
I have thought it over : do not print my article on Annabella.
Her performance, which was very good, does not deserve my
excessive enthusiasm. She is an intelligent and astute pupil, not
a great actress. And it would look to the Press as if I were
attacking people well disposed towards me, who will not
differentiate themselves from the others. And on the whole the
play is not worth defending so energetically. Just destroy my
manuscript.
Your friend-and I hope to see you very soon,
Antonin Artaud
INTERVIEWS
LETTERS
Saint-Denis .
l 1 2 . The play by Armand Salacrou performed on the same
day at the Theatre du Vieux-Colombier was La Vie en Rose.
1 1 3 . To Steve Passeur. Draft of letter submitted by Monsieur
Rene Thomas.
l 1 4. This sentence is written on the first page of the letter and
crossed with a single line. It seems that the letter was written
on paper already bearing this sentence.
1 1 5 . To Steve Passeur. Draft of letter submitted by Mon
sieur Rene Thomas.
1 1 6. To Roger Vitrac. These three drafts were submitted to
us by Monsieur Rene Thomas. Like the letter of February 1 1 ,
1 9 3 1 ( p. 1 52 ) it contains Antonin Artaud's comments on Le
Coup de Trafalgar. The letter of 27 December, 1 93 1 , ( p. 1 89 ) .
was in an envelope with the following note :
'Sunday, 2 7 December, 1 93 1
To R. Vitrac
on Le Coup de Trafalgar
rue de Seine
Paris.'
1 1 7 . To Raymond Rouleau. Draft of letter submitted by
Monsieur Rene Thomas.
1 1 8. To Raymond Rouleau. Draft of letter submitted by Mon
sieur Rene Thomas. There is a mistake in the date : 2 7 Decem
ber, 1 93 1 was a Sunday, the 28th was a Monday, and 2
January, 1 93 2 must have been a Saturday.
In this, as in the previous letter, Antonin Artaud gives Ray-
252
mond Rouleau his views on the production of Bruckner's Mal
de la ]eunesse which was performed by the Theatre du Marais,
directed by Raymond Rouleau, on 20 April, l 93 l in Brussels,
and then in Paris at the Theatre de l'Oeuvre on 28 December,
1 93 1 .
l 1 9. In The Secrets of Love, Raymond Rouleau had played
Patrice.
1 20. Word missing in the original.
1 2 1 . To Louis ]ouvet. This must refer to Donogoo by Jules
Romains which was performed at the Theatre Pigalle on 25
October, l 930.
1 2 2 . To Jean Paulhan. This is what is written in the original
letter, but Antonin Artaud must have wanted to write : 'I only
read one comprehensive article . . . '
1 2 3 . To Andre Gide. Draft df letter submitted by Mon
sieur Rene Thomas. 2 0 January, 1 93 2 must have been a
Wednesday, not a Tuesday.
1 24. The showing of Jean Cocteau's fihn The Blood of a Poet,
as we gather from this opening of a letter to Andre Gide, sub
mitted by Monsieur Jean-Marie Canty :
'Paris, Wednesday, 20 January, 1 93 2
Monsieur Andre Gide.
Dear Monsieur,
We were interrupted yesterday evening at the showing of
Cocteau's Blood of a Poet just as you were about to discuss
Bruckner's play. I know that the performance interested you
and I would have been interested to have a more detailed
account of your . . . '
1 2 5 . On the back of the letter were the following notes re
ferring to the performance of Mal de la ]eunesse :
'In so far as they are obeying this sort of physical temptation,
'In so far as they prove capable of making the most of the
immediate physical possibilities which the stage has to offer,
253
'In so far as the temptation of space becomes a reality on
the stage,
'In so far as the usual dead forms of the theatre,
'to substitute the frozen forms of the art by live and menacing
forms which would give the sense of the ancient ceremonial
magic a new reality on the level of the theatre.'
Another variant, this time crossed out :
' . . . to make the most of the temptation and physical possi
bilities which the stage has to offer in order to immediately
withdraw profound and decisive consequences,'
1 26. To Jean Paulhan. Letter submitted by Monsieur Rene
Thomas. This letter was never posted.
1 2 7. Antonin Artaud's lecture, Production and Metaphysics,
was published in no. 2 2 1 (February 1 932) of the Nouvelle
Revue Franfaise. It was subsequently included in The Theatre
and its Double.
1 2 8. Sentence written on the back of the last page of the letter.
1 2 9. To Jean Paulhan. Draft of letter submitted by Mon
sieur Rene Thomas. 29 January, 1 93 2 must have been a Fri
day, not a Saturday.
1 30. The Tricksters by Steve Passeur was first performed by
the Troupe de l'Atelier at the Galeries de Bruxelles on 2 1
January, 1 93 2 . The play was revived in Paris, at the Theatre
de l'Atelier, on 30 January, 1 93 2 .
1 3 1 . To Louis Jouvet. Draft o f letter submitted by Monsieur
Jean-Marie Canty.
1 3 2 . La Patissiere de Village by Alfred Savoir. The play was
directed by Louis Jouvet and first performed at the Theatre
Pigalle on 8 March, 1 93 2 .
1 33. A blank in the original letter.
1 34. To Louis Jouvet. Draft of letter submitted by Monsieur
Jean-Marie Canty.
2 54
1 3 5 The sets for Alfred Savoir's La Patissiere de Village were
designed by Rene Moulaert.
1 36. To Jean Paulhan. The article on The Tricksters appeared
in no. 224 (May 1 932) of the Nouvelle Revue Franfaise. (See
vol. 2, p. 1 38 ) .
1 3 7 To Louis Jouvet. 9 February, 1 932 must have been a
Tuesday, not a Wednesday.
1 38. To Louis Jouvet. This letter, submitted by Monsieur
Jean-Marie Conty, was never posted. 27 February, 1 932 must
have been a Saturday, not a Sunday.
l 39. To Louis Jou vet. Date of postmark.
l 40. To Louis Jou vet. Draft of letter submitted by Monsieur
Rene Thomas.
1 4 1 . To Jean Paulhan. 2 1 March, 1 932, must have been a
Sunday, not a Tuesday.
l 42 . To Louis Jou vet. Postcard sent from Berlin. Date of post
mark.
1 43 To Jean Paulhan. Cf. About a Lost Play ( vol. 2 ) .
1 44 To Jean Paulhan. The Theatre and the Plague appeared
in no. 253 (October 1 934) of the Nouvelle Revue Franfaise.
This text is also included in The Theatre and its Double.
1 45 Cf. Annabella at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees, printed
in the November 1 934 number of the Nouvelle Revue Fran
faise ( vol. 2, p. 1 47 . )
1 46. To Jean Paulhan. Letter written o n paper headed the
Brasserie Lorraine, 2 et 4 place des Ternes.
1 47 This passage is not in the text published in the Nouvelle
Revue Franfaise. Antonin Artaud may have given up the idea
since he says that he does not want this note published, in his
express letter of l 6 October, l 934.
1 48. To Jean Paulhan. Express letter. Date of postmark.
255