De Italiaans futuristische dichters lieten een schrijfstijl zien
die ze Parole in
libertà, of wel vrijgelaten woorden,
It is from Italy that we launch through
the world this violently upsetting incendiary manifesto of ours
With it, today, we establish Futurism, because we want to free
this land from its smelly gangrene of professors, archaeologists,
ciceroni and antiquarians. For too long has Italy been a dealer
in second-hand clothes. We mean to free her from the numberless
museums that cover her like so many graveyards.
surely, in the sinister promiscuity of so many bodies unknown
to one another. Museums: public dormitories where one lies forever
beside hated or unknown beings. Museums: absurd abattoirs of painters
and sculptors ferociously slaughtering each other with color-blows
and line-blows, the length of the fought-over walls!
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. Why poison ourselves? Why rot?
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.
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?
truth I tell you that daily visits to museums,
libraries, and academies (cemeteries of empty exertion, Calvaries
of crucified dreams, registries of aborted beginnings!) are, for
artists, as damaging as the prolonged supervision by parents of
certain young people drunk with their talent and their ambitious
wills. 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!
let them come, the gay incendiaries with charred fingers!
Here they are! Here they are!... Come on! set fire to the library
shelves! 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!
oldest of us is thirty:
so we have at least a decade for finishing our work.
When we are forty, other younger and stronger men will probably
throw us in the wastebasket like useless manuscripts-we want it
will come against us,
our 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 the 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.
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 hatred the more implacable the more their hearts
will be drunk with love and admiration for us.
strong and sane, will break out radiantly in their eyes.
Art, in fact, can be nothing but violence,
cruelty, and injustice.
oldest of us is thirty:
even so we have already scattered treasures, a thousand treasures
of force, love, courage, astuteness, and raw will-power; have
thrown them impatiently away, with fury, carelessly, unhesitatingly,
breathless, and unresting... Look at us! We are still untired!
Our hearts know no weariness because they are fed with fire, hatred,
and speed!... Does that amaze you? 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!
Enough! Enough! We know them... We've understood!... Our fine
deceitful intelligence tells us that we are the revival and extension
of our ancestors-Perhaps!... If only it were so!-But who cares?
We don't want to understand!... Woe to anyone who says those infamous
words to us again!
up your heads!
Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl defiance
to the stars