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The Surrealist Compliment Generator Paris Sewers 1789-1900 Alfred Jarry's Time Machine André Breton's The Vice of Surrealism !Surréalisme! Shot-up TV Buñuel A big nasty clownhead Borges' Circular Ruin

Buñuel Has a Hissy Fit Jorge-Luis Borges is another blind man I don't particularly like. There's no question about the fact that he's a very good writer; but then, the world is full of good writers, and in any case, just because someone writes well doesn't mean you have to like him. . . . While we're making the list of bêtes noires, I must state my hatred of pedantry and jargon. Sometimes I weep with laughter when I read certain articles in the Cahiers du Cinéma, for example. As the honorary president of the Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica in Mexico City, I once went to visit the school and was introduced to several professors, including a young man in a suit and tie who blushed a good deal. When I asked him what he taught, he replied, "The Semiology of the Clonic Image." I could have murdered him on the spot. By the way, when this kind of jargon (a typically Parisian phenomenon) works its way into the educational system, it wreaks absolute havoc in underdeveloped countries. It's the clearest sign, in my opinion, of cultural colonialism. From the book My Last Sigh: The Autobiography of Luis Buñuel, translated by Abigail Israel, Copyright 1983 by Alphred A. Knopf, Inc. "Quite simply the loveliest testament ever left by a filmdirector." –The New York Times Book Review 3 from Borges: He dreamt it as active, warm, secret, the size of a closed fist, of garnet color in the penumbra of a human body as yet without face or sex; with minute love he dreamt it, for fourteen lucid nights. A god, I reflected, ought to utter only a single word and in that word absolute fullness. No word uttered by him can be inferior to the universe or less than the sum total of time. Music, states of happiness, mythology, faces belabored by time, certain twilights and certain places try to tell us something, or have said something we should not have missed, or are about to say something; this imminence of a revelation which does not occur is, perhaps, the aesthetic phenomenon.

To bring a dead fly to life,
take a dead fly, one killed by drowning. Place it in a glass full of water, and cover it up so as to deprive the fly of all air. When the fly becomes motionless, take it out, put it in the sun, and cover it with salt. In about two minutes, it will come to life and fly away. The fly may have been dead for twenty-four hours.

From an ad for FONT HAUS anotherwordholdingplace

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