Inatari Добавено Юни 6, 2008 Доклад Share Добавено Юни 6, 2008 Незнам колко от вас са чували за сюрреалистите ,за стиловото направление в изкуството ,сюрреализъм . Но ето какво означава- надреалност . По- висша , по - съвършена реалност ,основаваща се на вярата в могъществото на съня и в безкористната игра на мисълта. Сюрреализмът става първопричина за появата и на фантастиката и на фентъзито /приказната фантастика/ . Това вече са познати стилове ,предполагам. Истината е ,че първи французите усещат културните тенденции и първи те създават условията за развитие на модерното изкуство от всякакъв вид . Андре Бретон - създателят на сюрреализма и основателят на движението на сюрреалистите успява да обедини в едно общество, в едно комюнити известни художници като Салвадор Дали , Рьоне Магрит , Хуан Миро , Пабло Пикасо и мн.други, известни психолози ,както и режисьори като Луис Бонюел ,писатели и поети . Всички те са се вълнували от фантастичната реалност на съновиденията , на одушевените предмети на магичните символи в реалността. В съвременният свят на 21 век ,вече понятието сюрреално се споменава само в артистичните среди ,а по широкото понятие ,което се изпозва е фантастика ,сайънс фикшън ,фентъзи . Аз реших да погледна малко по назад и да си спомним и за по - старите фантасти като Едгар Алън По, Хърбърт Уелс , Рей Бредбъри . Английските корени на фантастиката в литературата също са факт . Но като се замисля ,всичко е тръгнало от Фройд .Просто през 1910 г. той публикува своя труд"За психоанализата",през същата година Василий Кандински рисува своя първи абстрактен "непредметен ", отвлечен от реалността акварел.И ето че завесата зад подсъзнанието , сънищата ,отвлеченото, нереалното , започва да се повдига....Удивителна е и културната връзка между различните видове изкуства.... Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
Надеждна Добавено Юни 7, 2008 Доклад Share Добавено Юни 7, 2008 Определено сюрреализмът не е от стиловите направления,които добре познавам,така че ще ми бъде интересно да се образовам благодарение на знаещите повече по тази тема и предварително им благодаря! Като става дума за фантастика ми се иска да споделя с вас един разказ на Павел Вежинов,който препрочетох наскоро.Поводът беше класната работа на дъщеря ми по литература и да си призная честно се зарадвах,че има разчупване в училищната програма.Разказът можете да прочетете от ТУК Всъщност Павел Вежинов винаги ме е привличал със самобитността си,с интересната душевност на героите му,с оригиналното миксиране на психология,фантастика и реализъм едновременно. Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
Донка Добавено Юни 7, 2008 Доклад Share Добавено Юни 7, 2008 Михаил Лермонтов - Демон 1829/41 (последен вариант) "Печальный Демон, дух изгнанья, Летал над грешною землей, И лучших дней воспоминанья Пред ним теснилися толпой; ..... Давно отверженный блуждал В пустыне мира без приюта: Вослед за веком век бежал, Как за минутою минута, Однообразной чередой. Ничтожной властвуя землей, Он сеял зло без наслажденья. Нигде искусству своему Он не встречал сопротивленья - И зло наскучило ему. М. А. Врубель. Демон сидящий. Масло. 1890. Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
Inatari Добавено Юни 22, 2008 Автор Доклад Share Добавено Юни 22, 2008 (edited) Наред с класиците във фантастиката истинско удоволствие ми доставя да попадна в света на фентъзито ,или така наречената приказна фантастика. В момента дочитам "Приказки от Землемория "на Урсула Ле Гуин,която смятам за много сериозно присъствие като автор във фентъзито. Освен Толкин ,другият автор с уникално лице е Урсула Ле Гуин. Предполагам ,повечето са чели първата й книга "Землемория" може би сте гледали и филма "The Legend of Earthsee" ,който също намирам за доста интересен . Но "Приказки от Землемория 'е за тези ,които вече са прочели и гледали . Интересни са историите ,които Урсула разказва за предисторията на училището за магьосници на Роук ,както и няколко истории свързани с Гед и Оджиън като млад. Приказки ,които дават още по - голяма плътност на света на Землемория , правят го още по- истински. В нейните книги има освен една интересна ,наситена с епос и драма фантастична история ,както и много любопитни герои ,една много интересна философия на разбирането за магьосничеството ,за вълшебството. Много по - мъдро и задълбочено са представени свръхсилите ,отколкото при други фантасти. Например тезата за Древния език и истинските имена на хората ,растенията, животните ,предметите ,природата . Владеенето на силата ,която означава преди всичко баланс и равновесие ,както и отговорност . Интересен и много убедителен е пътят на израстване на Гед като магьосник ,победата над страха , съзнанието за ловец и жертва. Много ,много са нещата ,които са истини ,казани по този фантастичен начин за магията и вълшебството. Редактирано Октомври 19, 2008 от Ина Трифонова Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
Inatari Добавено Юни 23, 2008 Автор Доклад Share Добавено Юни 23, 2008 SURREALIST POETRY Federico Garcia Lorca Dawn Dawn in New York has four columns of mire and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters. Dawn in New York groans on enormous fire escapes searching between the angles for spikenards of drafted anguish. Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because morning and hope are impossible there: sometimes the furious swarming coins penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children. Those who go out early know in their bones there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, in mindless games, in fruitless labors. The light is buried under chains and noises in the impudent challenge of rootless science. And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood. Poet in New York 1929-1930 Sleepless City Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one. No one sleeps. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the brokenhearted fugitive will meet on street corners an unbelievable alligator resting beneath the tender protest of the stars. Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one. No one sleeps. In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of an arid landscape in his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet. Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the snow's edge with the voices of dead dahlias. But there is no oblivion; no dream: only flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths in a tangle of new veins, and those who hurt will hurt without rest and those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders. One day horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows. Another day we will watch the dried butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a landscape of gray sponges and silent ships we will watch our ring flash while roses spill from our tongues. Careful! Be careful! Be careful! Those still marked by claws and thunderstorms, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of bridges, or that corpse who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bear's teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the fur of the camel stands on end with a violent blue chill. Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one. No one sleeps. But if someone does close his eyes, whip him, my children, whip him! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire. Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one. I have said it before. No one is sleeping. But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight the fake goblets, the poison, and the skull of the theaters. Poet in New York 1929-1930 Andre Breton[/size] Free Union My wife with the hair of a wood fire With the thoughts of heat lightning With the waist of an hourglass With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger My wife with her rosette mouth and a bouquet of stars of the last magnitude With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes With the tongue of an unbelievable stone My wife with her eyelashes in the strokes of a child's writing With eyebrows from the edge of a swallow's nest My wife with brows of slates on a hothouse roof And with steam on the windowpanes My wife with shoulders of champagne And of a fountain with dolphin heads beneath the ice My wife with wrists of matches My wife with fingers of luck and the ace of hearts With fingers of mown hay My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut And of Midsummer Night Of privet and of an angelfish nest With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill My wife with legs of flares With the movements of clockwork and despair My wife with calves of eldertree pith My wife with feet of initials With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking My wife with a neck of unpearled barley My wife with a throat of the valley of gold Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent With breasts of night My wife with her undersea molehill breasts My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible With breasts of the spectre of the rose beneath the dew My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days With the belly of a gigantic claw My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically With a back of quicksilver With a back of light With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking My wife with hips of a skiff With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers And of shafts of white peacock plumes Of an insensible pendulum My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos My wife with buttocks of swans' backs My wife with buttocks of spring With the sex of an iris My wife with the sex of placer and platypus My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat My wife with a sex of mirror My wife with eyes full of tears With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle My wife with savanna eyes My wife with eyes of water to be drunk in prison My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe My wife with eyes of water-level air-level earth and fire 1931 Antonin Artaud Dark Poet Dark Poet, a maid's breast Haunts you, Embittered poet, life seethes And life burns, And the sky reabsorbs itself in rain, Your pen scratches at the heart of life. Forest, forest, alive with your eyes, On multiple pinions; With storm-bound hair, The poets mount horses, dogs. Eyes fume, tongues stir, The heavens surge into our senses Like blue mother's milk; Women, harsh vinegar hearts, I hang suspended from your mouths. Umbilical Limbo 1926 Robert Desnos I've Dreamed of You So Much I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality. Is it already too late for me to embrace your living and breathing body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice so dear to me? I've dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest in a desperate attempt to encircle your shadow, might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your body. And coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years might very well turn me into a shadow. Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales! I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again. I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love, and yet when it comes to you, the only being on the planet who matters to me now, I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby. I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy than that shadow which moves and will go on moving, stepping lightly and joyfully across the sundial of your life. A la mysterieuse 1926 Sleep Spaces In the night there are of course the seven wonders of the world and greatness, tragedy and enchantment. Forests collide with legendary creatures hiding in thickets. There is you. In the night there are the walker's footsteps the murderer's the town policeman's light from the street lamp and the ragman's lantern. There is you. In the night trains go past and boats and the fantasy of countries where it's daytime. The last breaths of twilight and the first shivers of dawn. There is you. A piano tune, a shout. A door slams. A clock. And not only beings and things and physical sounds. But also me chasing myself or endlessly going beyond me. There is you the sacrifice, you that I'm waiting for. Sometimes at the moment of sleep strange figures are born and disappear. When I shut my eyes phosphorescent blooms appear and fade and come to life again like fireworks made of flesh. I pass through strange lands with creatures for company. No doubt you are there, my beautiful discreet spy. And the palpable soul of the vast reaches. And perfumes of the sky and the stars, the song of a rooster from 2000 years ago and piercing screams in a flaming park and kisses. Sinister handshakes in a sickly light and axles grinding on paralyzing roads. No doubt there is you who I do not know, who on the contrary I do know. But who, here in my dreams, demands to be felt without ever appearing. You who remain out of reach in reality and in dream. You who belong to me through my will to possess your illusion but who brings your face near mine only if my eyes are closed in dream as well as in reality. You who in spite of an easy rhetoric where the waves die on the beach where crows fly into ruined factories, where the wood rots crackling under a lead sun. You who are at the depths of my dreams stirring up a mind full of metamorphoses leaving me your glove when I kiss your hand. In the night there are stars and the shadowy motion of the sea, of rivers, forests, towns, grass and the lungs of millions and millions of beings. In the night there are the seven wonders of the world. In the night there are no guardian angels, but there is sleep. In the night there is you. In the daylight too. A la mysterieuse 1926 Benjamin Peret Wink Parakeets fly through my head when I see you in profile and the greasy sky streaks with blue flashes tracing your name in all directions Rosa coiffed with a black tribe standing in rows on the stairs where women's piercing breasts point out through men's eyes Today I look out through your hair Rosa of morning opal and I wake through your site Rosa of armour I think through your exploding breasts Rosa of a pool the frogs turn green and I sleep in your navel of Caspian sea Rosa of honeysuckle in the general strike and I'm lost in your milky way shoulders impregnated by comets Rosa of jasmine in the night of washing Rosa of haunted house Rosa of black forest filled with blue and green postage stamps Rosa of kite over a vacant lot where children are fighting Rosa of cigar smoke Rosa of seafoam turned into crystal Rosa Je Sublime 1936 Paul Eluard Max Ernst In a corner agile incest Circles the virginity of a little dress. In a corner the sky turned over To the spines of the storm leaves white balls behind. In the brightest corner of every eye We're expecting the fish of anguish. In a corner the car of summer Immobile glorious and forever. In the light of youth Lamps lit very late. The first one shows its breasts that red insects are killing. Captial of Pain 1926 The Absence I speak to you across cities I speak to you across plains My mouth is upon your pillow Both faces of the walls come meeting My voice discovering you I speak to you of eternity O cities memories of cities Cities wrapped in our desires Cities come early cities come lately Cities strong and cities secret Plundered of their master's builders All their thinkers all their ghosts Fields pattern of emerald Bright living surviving The harvest of the sky over our earth Feeds my voice I dream and weep I laugh and dream among the flames Among the clusters of the sun And over my body your body spreads The sheet of it's bright mirror. 1942 Някои са в оригинал ,други са просто на английски ,но засега това намерих на някои от изявените сюрреалисти като стихове. Надявам се да разбирате английски . Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
aia Добавено Февруари 22, 2014 Доклад Share Добавено Февруари 22, 2014 Електронно списание „Сборище на трубадури“ и семейство Мелконян, за трета поредна година, обявяват конкурс за кратък фантастичен разказ по повод годишнина от рождението на Агоп Мелконян. Повече: http://trubadurs.com/2014/02/04/konkurs-za-razkaz-agop-melkonjan-2014/ Цитирай Линк към коментар Share on other sites More sharing options...
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