You can send signals and programs and you can futuristisches manifest pdf The Futurist Manifesto Filippo Tommaso Marinetti We have been up all night, my. · Filippo Tommaso Marinetti · Futuristisches Manifest · Home · Contents · Authors · Quotes · Keywords · About · Imprint · News.:). Their leader, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, who had since influenced every avant-garde movement—including dadaism29—with his Futuristisches Manifest .
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Filippo Tomasso Marinetti schreef in een technisch manifest voor de futuristische literatuur waarin voorgeschreven wordt: Men moet het ‘ik’ in de literatuur vernietigen. Manifesto of Futurism 1 We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness. We intend to exalt aggresive action, a feverish insomnia, the racer’s stride, the mortal leap, the punch and the slap.
A racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath-a roaring car that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace. No work without an aggressive character can be a masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent attack on unknown forces, to reduce and prostrate them before man.
Why should we look back, when what we want is to break down the mysterious doors of the Impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We already live in the absolute, because we have created eternal, omnipresent speed. We had stayed up all night, my friends and Iunder hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts.
For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui into rich oriental rugs, arguing up to the last confines of logic and blackening many reams of paper with our frenzied scribbling.
An immense pride was buoying us upbecause we felt ourselves alone at that hour, alone, awake, and on our feet, like proud beacons or forward sentries against an army of hostile stars glaring down at us from their celestial encampments.
Marinetti; futuristische tekst
Alone with stokers feeding the hellish fires of great ships, alone with the black spectres who grope in the red-hot bellies of locomotives launched on their crazy courses, alone with drunkards reeling like wounded birds along the city walls. Suddenly we jumped, hearing the mighty noise of the huge double-decker trams that rumbled by outside, ablaze with colored lights, like villages on holiday suddenly struck and uprooted by the flooding Po and dragged over falls and through gourges to the sea.
Then the silence deepened. But, as we listened to the old canal muttering its feeble prayers and the creaking bones of sickly palaces above their damp green beards, under the windows we suddenly heard the famished roar of automobiles.
Mythology and the Mystic Ideal are defeated at last. We’re about to see the Centaur’s birth and, soon after, the first flight of Angels! We must shake at the gates of life, test the bolts and hinges. Look there, on the earth, the very first dawn!
There’s nothing to match the splendor of the sun’s red sword, slashing for the first time through our millennial gloom!
We went up to the three snorting beasts, to lay amorous hands on their torrid breasts. I ffuturistisches out on my car like a corpse on its bier, but revived at once under the steering wheel, a guillotine blade that threatened my stomach. The raging broom of madness swept us out of ourselves and drove us through streets as rough and deep as the beds of torrents.
Here and there, sick lamplight through window glass taught us to distrust the deceitful mathematics of our perishing eyes. I cried, “The scent, the scent alone is enough for our beasts. But we had no ideal Mistress raising her divine form to the clouds, nor any cruel Queen to whom to offer our bodies, twisted like Byzantine rings!
There was nothing to make us wish for death, unless the wish to be free at last from the weight of our courage! And on we racedhurling watchdogs against doorsteps, curling them under our burning tires like collars mnaifest a flatiron. Death, domesticated, met me at every turn, gracefully holding out a paw, or once in a while hunkering down, making velvety caressing eyes at me from every puddle.
Let’s give ourselves utterly to the Unknown, not in desperation but only to replenish the deep wells of the Absurd! The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I spun my car around with the frenzy of a dog trying to bite its tail, and there, suddenly, were two cyclists coming towards me, shaking their fists, wobbling like two equally convincing but nevertheless contradictory arguments.
Their stupid dilemma was blocking my way-Damn! I stopped short and to my disgust rolled over into a ditch with my wheels nanifest the air O maternal ditchalmost full of muddy water!
I gulped down your nourishing sludge; and I remembered the blessed black beast of my Sudanese nurse When I came up-torn, futueistisches, and stinking-from under the capsized car, I felt the white-hot iron of joy deliciously pass through my heart! A crowd of fishermen with handlines and gouty naturalists were already swarming around the prodigy.
With patient, loving care those people rigged a tall derrick and iron grapnels to fish out my car, like a big beached shark. Up it came from the ditch, slowly, leaving in the bottom, like scales, its heavy framework of good sense and its soft upholstery of comfort. They thought it was dead, my beautiful shark, but a caress from me was enough to revive it; and there it was, alive again, running on its powerful fins!
And so, faces smeared with good factory muck-plastered with metallic waste, with senseless sweat, with celestial soot-we, bruised, our arms in slings, but unafraid, declared our high intentions to all the living of the earth. For too long msnifest Italy been a dealer in second-hand clothes.
We mean to free her from the numberless museums that cover her like so many graveyards. Identical, surely, in the sinister promiscuity of so many bodies unknown to one futhristisches.
That one should make an annual pilgrimage, just as one goes to the graveyard on All Souls’ Day-that I grant.
That once a year one should leave a floral tribute beneath the Gioconda, I grant you that But I don’t admit that our sorrows, our fragile courage, our morbid restlessness should be given a daily conducted tour through the museums.
And what is there to see in an old picture except the laborious contortions of an artist throwing himself against the barriers that thwart his desire to express his dream completely? Admiring an old picture is the same as pouring our sensibility into a funerary urn instead of hurtling it far off, in violent spasms of action and creation.
Do you, then, wish to waste all your best powers in this eternal and futile worship of the past, from which you emerge fatally exhausted, shrunken, beaten down? In truth I tell you that daily visits to museumslibraries, and academies cemeteries of empty exertion, Calvaries of crucified dreams, registries of aborted beginnings!
When the future is barred to them, the admirable past may be a solace for the ills of the moribund, the sickly, the prisoner But we want no part of it, the past, we the young and strong Futurists! So let them comethe gay incendiaries with charred fingers! Turn aside the canals to flood the museums! Oh, the joy of seeing the glorious old canvases bobbing adrift on those waters, discolored and shredded!
Take up your pickaxes, your axes and hammers and wreck, wreck the venerable cities, pitilessly! The oldest of us is thirty: When we are forty, other younger and stronger men will probably throw us in the wastebasket like useless manuscripts-we want it to happen! They will come against usour successors, will come from far away, from every quarter, dancing to the winged cadence of their first songs, flexing the hooked claws of predators, sniffing doglike at the academy doors the strong odor of our decaying minds, which will have already been promised to mabifest literary catacombs.
But we won’t be there At last they’ll find us-one winter’s night-in open country, beneath a sad roof drummed by a monotonous rain. They’ll see us crouched beside our trembling aeroplanes in the act of warming our hands at the poor little blaze that our books of today will give out when they take fire from the flight of our images.
They’ll storm around us, panting with scorn and anguish, and all of them, exasperated by our proud daring, will hurtle to kill us, driven by a futuristischrs the more implacable the more their hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us. Injustice, strong and sane, will break out radiantly in their eyes. Art, in fact, can be nothing but violence, cruelty, and injustice.
We are still untired!
Our hearts know no weariness because they are fed with fire, hatred, and speed! Does that amaze you?
Zitate von Filippo Tommaso Marinetti
It should, because you can never remember having lived! Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl our defiance at the stars!
Our fine deceitful intelligence tells us that we are the revival and extension of our ancestors-Perhaps! If only it were so! We don’t want to understand! Woe to anyone who says those infamous words to us again!
Lift up your heads! Erect manidest the summit of the world, once again we hurl defiance to the stars. Filippo Tomaso Marinetti  Marinetti is de oprichter en voorman van het Italiaans futurisme. Marinetti bracht zijn jeugd door in Parijs. Daarna woonde hij in Pavia en Genua, waar hij in in de rechten promoveerde. In publiceerde Marinetti het stichtingsmanifest van het futurisme in de Franse krant Le Figaro. Als vrijwilliger ging Marinetti tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog in dienst.
Het einde van de wereldoorlog vroeg om een nieuwe beginselverklaring en Marinetti scheef Manifesto della partito futurista Italiano In de jaren en trad hij regelmatig op aan de zijde van de latere dictator Benito Mussolini. Na hevige meningsverschillen richtte hij zich weer op de kunst. Marinetti publiceerde in het futuristiscyes manifest Futurismo e fascismo In de jaren dertig ondertekende hij verschillende futuristische manifesten. In de Tweede Wereldoorlog zat hij als vrijwilliger aan het Russische front.
Filippo Tommaso Marinetti overleed in in Bellagio.