Squidmek

Been reading prose poetry lately. Two brief instances in which dreams came up, and both are from the late nineteenth century.

Mallarme's is interesting because it reminded me so much of our blog project. This is the opening excerpt from his "An Interrupted Performance," from Divigations, 2007:
"How far from procuring its much-touted pleasures the civilized state really is! One should, for example, be astonished that in every big city there doesn't exist an association of dreamers who happen to be there, an association supporting a journal that recounts current events from the particular perspective of dreams. Reality is just an artifice, good for anchoring the average intellect among the mirages of fact..."

Baudelaire's is notable for, simply, how beautiful it is. This is a small excerpt from "V: The Double Room," from Paris Spleen, 1869, New Directions, 1970:
"A room that is like a dream, a truly spiritual room, where the stagnant atmosphere is nebulously tinted pink and blue.
...Every piece of furniture is of an elongated form, languid and prostrate, and seems to be dreaming; endowed, one would say, witha somnambular existence like minerals and vegetables. The hangings speak a silent language, like flowers, skies and setting suns.
No artistic abominations on the walls. Definite positive art is blasphemy compared to dream and the unanalyzed impression. Here everything is bathed in harmony's own adequate and delicious obscurity..."

The piece goes on in this dream-like way, describing the room for maybe ten more paragraphs and concludes. It's very pretty and, I think, very creative in the way it creates a dreamy atmosphere. I wonder if Dali had read this. Perhaps this was an inspiration.