custodial methanol (buckposton) wrote,
custodial methanol
buckposton

please everyone read this out loud, please!

"Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but now I see that it was meant to destroy me. Today I am proud to say that I am INHUMAN, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing to do with creeds and principals. I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity-I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples. I can see about me all those cracked forbears of mine dancing around the bed, consoling me, egging me on, lashing me with their serpent tongues, grinning and leering at me with their skulking skulls. I AM INHUMAN! I say it with a mad, hallucinated grin,and I will keep on saying it though it rains crocodiles. Behind my words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lock-jaw, some grinning with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always going on. Clearer than all, I see my own grinning skull, see the skeleton dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement. And I join my slime, my excrement, my madness, my ecstasy to the great circuit which flows through the subterranean vaults of the flesh. All this unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow on endlessly through the minds of those who come in the inexhaustible vessel that contains the history of the race. Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by known impulses, take the lifless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they embue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and inert slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying everything in reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals. I see that when they tear their hair in order to comprehend, to seize this forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other path to pursue. A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and just because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less intoxicating, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness."
henry miller 1939.
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