Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. Or in this case, surrealist poetry.
Eugène Émile Paul Grindel was one of the founders of surrealism. At 16 he caught tuberculosis and ended up in a sanatorium in Davos. There he met a young woman, Gala. He married her and two days later he went to fight for the French in the First World War. During the war, he started to write poetry.
In 1919 he met Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, and Philippe Soupault, members of the Dadaists. He changed his name to Paul Éluard. Then in 1921 Gala and Paul met a German, Max Ernst who became good friends (really good friends with Gala). Then the tuberculosis returned. Paul and Gala returned to a sanitarium. Unfortunately for Paul, she met an artist, Salvador Dali (yes this is famous Gala, Dali’s model and wife).
During the twenties and thirties, Éluard became involved in the surrealist movement. He became good friends with another artist, Pablo Picasso. After the bombing of Guernica in Spain by the Nazi’s, Paul wrote a monumental poem, La Victorie de Guernica, while Picasso painted an even more monumental painting. In 1934 he married the artist and model, Maria Benz, known as Nusch. They were introduced by the photographer Man Ray.
In 1938, Éluard managed to get Ernst out of jail and to be reunited with his then lover British artist Leonora Carrington* living in the south of France. These artists stick together, don’t they?
*see the fabulous book by Elena Poniatowska
During the Second World War, Paul joins the Communist Party as well as the French Resistance, where at one point, an aircraft drops his poem Liberté to inspire the occupied citizens. After the war, Nusch dies and Paul continues with the communist party, convinces Picasso to join and later meets Pablo Neruda. It’s a small world. After remarrying in 1950, he dies of a heart attack in 1952.
That is quite the life he led. This book traces his work from 1914 right up to 1948. The early works certainly bear the surrealist mantra of blending unusual things together:
Toi la seule et j’entends les herbes de ton rire
You alone and I hear the grass of your laughter
(Premierement, 1926-29)
These poems deal with eroticism, women, love, time, place, and three to Picasso (not counting Guernica). There is a tender beauty and real playful to these poems, making them evocative and easy to read.
The war poems, and this makes up a big chunk of the book, are as can be expected. Harsh, brutal and honest. He doesn’t mince words and they are very strong but often heavy handed. Not my favourites and yet they stand out.
However the masterpiece is the title of the book, Poesie Ininterrompue. Written in 1946, it is the central poem recalling The Wasteland. It covers some 700 lines and recalls the heroics of the war, starting with a guttural, sonorous machine gun of words,
Nue effacée ensommeillé
Choisie sublime solitaire
Profonde oblique matinale
Fraîche nacrée ébouriffée
Ravivée premier régnante
Coquette vive passionnée
Orangée rose bleuissante
Naked obliterated slumbering
Selected sublime solitary
Profound sloping early
Fresh alive flurried
Brightened primal presiding
Flirtatious alive impassioned
Orange rose bluing*
*Translations by Lloyd Alexander, who knew Éluard from 1946 until his death.
Then the poem slows down:
Sommes-nous deux ou suis-je solitaire
Are we two or am I all alone
A series of quatrains, reflective, I you we returned from death. The war is over and what do we make of it? Life is changing:
Savoir vieillir savoir passé le temps
To know how to grow old to know how to pass the time
Remember that kiss, let the world unfold just as the seasons change. Remember the dead are dead. Reflect:
Le regret d’être au monde
The regret of being in the world
Then change the verse, double line stanzas, and direction. Your world becomes more solid, more straightforward, we move forward, we move up:
Le juge serait la foudre
Il n’y a pas de dieu
Si nous montions d’un degré
The judge would be god
There is no god
If we go up one degree
We climb, we climb higher, each stanza we have our faith, believe in oneself:
Nous deux nous ne vivons que pour être fidèles
A la vie
And we two we live only to be faithful
To life.
An ode to living, after so much death. Stellar in my opinion. Definitely worth reading.
A special thanks to Paula for pointing me to Éluard.