Blaise Cendrars cytaty

Blaise Cendrars Fotografia
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Blaise Cendrars

Data urodzenia: 1. Wrzesień 1887
Data zgonu: 21. Styczeń 1961

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Blaise Cendrars, właśc. Frédéric-Louis Sauser – francuski prozaik i poeta szwajcarskiego pochodzenia. Używał też pseudonimów: Freddy Sausey, Frédéric Sausey, Jack Lee, Diogène.

W wieku 15 lat uciekł z domu i rozpoczął wędrówkę po świecie. Z rosyjskim kupcem Rogowinem podróżował po Rosji , Chinach, Indiach i Persji. Spotkanie z poetą Guillaume'em Apollinaire'em w Paryżu w 1910 stało się impulsem do podjęcia własnej twórczości. W 1912 ukazuje się Wielkanoc w Nowym Jorku, a w 1913 kolejny poemat – Proza kolei transsyberyjskiej.

Po wybuchu I wojny światowej zaciągnął się do Legii Cudzoziemskiej i w czasie walk w Szampanii stracił prawą rękę. W wieku 28 lat otrzymał obywatelstwo francuskie. Zajął się filmem, ale zniechęcony brakiem powodzenia podjął dalsze podróże. W okresie międzywojennym Cendrars sporo podróżował, m.in. do krajów Ameryki Południowej. Do Brazylii pojechał na zaproszenie Paulo Prado, przedsiębiorcy i mecenasa artystów. Poznał tam Oswalda de Andrade, Mario de Andrade, Manuela Bandeirę i Carlosa Drummonda de Andrade, a także malarzy: Cicero Diasa i Tarsilę do Amaral. Imał się różnych zawodów, pracował jako żongler w cyrku i kierowca, kręcił filmy, zakładał różne firmy[potrzebny przypis].

W latach 20. zerwał z poezją i publikował utwory prozatorskie, stanowiące mieszankę reportażu i powieści . W 1940 zaczął pisać autobiograficzny cykl Kronik składający się z 4 tomów: Rażony gromem, Odcięta ręka, Od portu do portu i Gwiezdna Wieża Eiffla. Były one sukcesywnie wydawane już po II wojnie światowej.

W prozie Cendrarsa nie sposób odróżnić fikcję od rzeczywistości. Pisarz w kolejnych książkach sukcesywnie umacniał własną legendę pisarza-awanturnika.

Cytaty Blaise Cendrars

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„... Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it's not a... more "... Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it's not a question of your country, my German or French friend, or yours, whether you're black or white or Papuan or a Borneo monkey. It's a question of your life. If you want to live, kill. Kill so that you can be free, or eat, or shit. The shameful thing is to kill in masses, at a predetermined hour on a predetermined day, in honour of certain principles, under cover of a flag, with old men nodding approval, to kill in a disinterested or passive way. Stand alone against them all, young man, kill, kill, you are unique, you're the only man alive, kill until the others cut you short with the guillotine or the cord or the rope, with or without ceremony, in the name of the Community or King.
What a laugh.“

— Blaise Cendrars, Moravagine

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„As a special branch of general philosophy, pathogenesis had never been explored. In my opinion it had never been approached in a strictly scientific fashion--that is to say, objectively, amorally, intellectually.

All those who have written on the subject are filled with prejudice. Before searching out and examining the mechanism of causes of disease, they treat of 'disease as such', condemn it as an exceptional and harmful condition, and start out by detailing the thousand and one ways of combating it, disturbing it, destroying it; they define health, for this purpose, as a 'normal' condition that is absolute and immutable.

Diseases ARE. We do not make or unmake them at will. We are not their masters. They make us, they form us. They may even have created us. They belong to this state of activity which we call life. They may be its main activity. They are one of the many manifestations of universal matter. They may be the principal manifestation of that matter which we will never be able to study except through the phenomena of relationships and analogies. Diseases are a transitory, intermediary, future state of health. It may be that they are health itself.

Coming to a diagnosis is, in a way, casting a physiological horoscope.

What convention calls health is, after all, no more than this or that passing aspect of a morbid condition, frozen into an abstraction, a special case already experienced, recognized, defined, finite, extracted and generalized for everybody's use. Just as a word only finds its way into the Dictionary Of The French Academy when it is well worn stripped of the freshness of its popular origin or of the elegance of its poetic value, often more than fifty years after its creation (the last edition of the learned Dictionary is dated 1878), just as the definition given preserves a word, embalms it in its decrepitude, but in a pose which is noble, hypocritical and arbitrary--a pose it never assumed in the days of its vogue, while it was still topical, living and meaningful--so it is that health, recognized as a public Good, is only the sad mimic of some illness which has grown unfashionable, ridiculous and static, a solemnly doddering phenomenon which manages somehow to stand on its feet between the helping hands of its admirers, smiling at them with its false teeth. A commonplace, a physiological cliche, it is a dead thing. And it may be that health is death itself.

Epidemics, and even more diseases of the will or collective neuroses, mark off the different epochs of human evolution, just as tellurian cataclysms mark the history of our planet.“

— Blaise Cendrars, Moravagine

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