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Title: Beyond the Two Anarchies Author: Renzo Novatore Language: en Topics: individualist, egoist, communism, morality Source: The Collected Writings of Renzo Novatore, Ardent Press 2012 Notes: Vertice, La Spezia, Translated by Wolfi Landstreicher
The social thought saturated with the revolutionary dynamic that the
social-political concept of libertarian communists radiates breaks
through the universal depth of human pain to intertwine in an almost
monistical embrace with the higher and vaster psycho-spiritual concept
of anarchist individualism yearning for the definitive and radical
Anarchy.
But Anarchy being a “final absolute” in full harmony with the infinite
idea and communism a “relative” social, juridical passage flowing into
economic empiricism—therefore prelude and promise but not full musical
harmony and epic finale—it happens that the flourishing children of the
two theoretical currents of social becoming continue to wrangle, still
contending with each other—now tempestuous and now calm—the
philosophical-spiritual heritage of pure Anarchy. It is the ancient
dualism that, dressed up again in apparent logic, still goes round in
the vicious circle where the merry-go-round of dogma and utopia spin on
the inauspicious axle of the dream that truth deforms and life
transfigures.
And it is from this vicious circle, which neither one of the two parts
has yet boldly dared to escape, that I want to decisively free myself to
later immerse myself in the bath of a new sun.
The anarchist who aspires to communism and the individualist who aspires
to Anarchy don’t notice that they are gripped, violently, in the
shackles of castrating sociology and in the jaws of the humanism that is
a slimy blend of individual non-will and pseudo-christian morality.
Anyone who accepts a social, collective, and human cause is not in the
pure Anarchy of the free, virgin, and original instinct of the
anthropocentric inassimilables and negators.
I—anarchist and individualist—don’t want to and cannot embrace the cause
of atheist communism, because I don’t believe in the supreme elevation
of the masses and therefore I refuse the realization of Anarchy
understood as a social form of human life together.
Anarchy is in free spirits, in the instinct of great rebels, and in
great and superior minds.
Anarchy is the innermost animating mystery of misunderstood
uniquenesses, strong because alone, noble because they have the courage
of solitude and of love, aristocratic because scornful of commonness,
heroic because against all...
Anarchy is nectar for the psychic I and not sociological alcohol for the
collectivity.
The anarchist is the one who refuses every cause for the joy of his life
radiating from inner spiritual intensity.
No future and no humanity, no communism and no anarchy is worthy of the
sacrifice of my life. From the day that I discovered myself, I have
considered myself as the supreme PURPOSE.
Now I wrap myself in the rising trajectory of my liberated and
liberating spirit, I cast off the harness of the pure nakedness of
instinct to soar above the arch—ideal sociological inspiration—that
joins and combines the dogmatic utopianism of the two pale dreaming
anarchies to glorify—between the clash of the winds and the feasts of
the sun—the egoarchic and powerful lordship of myself.
Beyond the tragic bridge of the Nietzschean overman, I catch sight of a
summit even freer and more phosphorescent on which no god-man ever
celebrated his birth or his easter resurrection.
Beyond the people and humanity, the absurd and sublime mystery of the
undefined UNIQUE lives and throbs.
I—crazed human eagle—flash across the gloomy darkness of this black
night, where the storm of ideas howls and the winds of thought roar, to
later soar beyond the arms of the earliest glimmer of the dawn, among
the raging flames of the noontime sun, sensing myself in the voluptuous
and dionysian throbbing of the vital, amoralistic instinct where the
light of the spirit and the passion of emotion get drunk in the wild and
virgin springs of blood and flesh.
Joy is—above all—a special way of feeling life.
For the higher man who feels elevated, there is the sublime joy of
sorrow and the deep sadness of happiness. Zarathustra who, through the
painful and sublime solitude of the peaks, eagerly seeks the keen joy of
knowledge, and encounters crazed, divine madness; Jules Bonnot who,
through “Crime” and “Transgression,” exalts the will of the Unique who,
beyond Good and Evil, rises toward the sky of the heroic Art of living
and dying; Bruno Filippi who is annihilated in the titanic effort, who
claims the right of the “I” against the social constraints of the
unctuous bourgeois and plebeian collectivities; these are the radiant
jewels that compose the libertarian garland of my vital amoralism, as
well as the protagonists of my spiritual tragedy.
In life I seek the joy of the spirit and the luxurious voluptuousness of
instinct. And I don’t care to know whether these have their perverse
roots in the caverns of good or in the whirling abysses of evil. I rise,
and if in rising I encounter the tragic lightning of my destiny, life
and death will bend on my twisted lips to later follow me into the
supreme turmoil where Art glorifies the strong, misunderstood rebels
whom morality reviles and condemns, whom science calls lunatics, and
whom society curses.
I am therefore the rejoicing liberated instinct. Lending an ear to
myself I hear the thunderous howl of my liberator spirit that sings the
epic and triumphant song of the final victory.
All ARCHIES have fallen shattered. Now I love myself, I exalt myself, I
sing myself, I glorify myself. My old dreams have found rest on the pale
and fragrant skin of women. My passionate, pagan mind is that of an
uninhibited poet and is voluptuously reflected in their perverse eyes
where the spirits of Pleasure and Evil dance the maddest dance. Only the
twinkling of stars, the flowing of rivers, the whispering of forests say
something of what lives in me. Anyone who can’t comprehend the strange
symphonies of nature can’t comprehend the resounding verses of my
enchanting songs.
Mine is not a thought or theory, but a state of mind, a particular way
of feeling. When I feel the need to decisively set my Centaurs and my
raging stallions free, there will be around me a mad orgy of love and
blood, because I am—I feel it—what the inhabitants of the moral swamps
of society call a “common criminal.”
Madman? As you will! Normal beings have never enjoyed my affections.
Among human beings, the ones I love most are the “criminals” of Thought
and Action (Artists, Thieves, Vagabonds, Poets).
Among women I love the perverts. I love them dressed in blue in the
evening sunset. I love them dressed in red among the golden rays of the
coming dawn; I love them naked and perfumed on the bed of love, I love
them dressed in white on the small bed of death.
Poor, small, great sisters of mine who I have always loved and never
possessed. I love you! I love you! I love you!
Tell me, oh my living sisters, oh my deceased sisters: who? who among
you was the most famous, the greatest, the most perverted?
Ah, I remember, I remember!...
Clara, it was you!... But where are you now?
I knew you once through Octave Mirbeau’s The Torture Garden. I knew you
and I loved you! You are the strangest and most delicate creature, the
most romantically and deeply human and cruel, who has known how to feel
life keenly, to feel love exquisitely amidst the moaning of the tortured
and the aroma of the flowers. When I think of you running, mad and
light, under the blonde prelude of the golden twilight to find green sod
reddened with blood and make yourself a wedding bed from it to grant
yourself the deepest loving embrace, I feel exalted by admiration for
you.
Ah, romantic and refined creature, how you are able to penetrate the
divine miracle of flowers and how the sensual perfume of the Chinese
meadow rue teaches you to exalt….
Only a great voluptuary and a great pervert could hear as your
equal—still amidst the heartrending and terrible cries of the
tortured—the strong and powerful voice of instinctive nature that cries:
“Love yourself!... Love yourself!... Make yourself also like the
flowers... In truth, there is only Love!” And I understand it and I feel
it, oh Clara, your wicked and amoral love, damned and abominated by the
castrated purity of the morality of the chaste and of men. I feel it,
how it rises, mad and impetuous, from the most subterranean depths of
instinct, to spread—with the musical harmony of eagerness and
mysteries—uninhibited and superb before the cruel and barbarous
spectacle of human sacrifice and to celebrate the supreme and vigorous
throb of the most painfully profound JOY, resonating in the bleeding
heart of the fullest, most tragic life.
Oh perverse heroine of Octave Mirbeau, I exalt you and sing you because
I am the barbarous singer of Evil.
Above the two Anarchies of Reason and Good—glorious and triumphant—I
raise the banner of the Anarchy of Instinct and Evil.