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Title: Heroic Spring Author: Enzo Martucci Date: 1922 Language: en Topics: egoist, individualist Source: Retrieved on June 6, 2011 from http://sites.google.com/site/anarchyinitaly/enzo-martucci/heroic-spring Notes: From Proletario # 5, December 12, 1922
To nomads, to vagabonds, to rebels.
Where is the man, brothers, where is the man that I seek?
Where is the valiant and reckless rebel, where the heroic warrior,
filled with a dream of freedom or greatness like the Argonauts, who
playfully faces the titanic battle against the universe, for the
conquest of a higher, more beautiful life? Where are the strength, the
courage and the daring that my pagan spirit, anarchically, loves?
Wherever are they? ... Oh! ... It is useless to trouble myself in
looking... In today’s bourgeois, industrial society, there are only the
base and cowardly... There are only servile slaves...
The hero belongs to a past era, to the splendor of gallant epics and of
free, adventurous, warrior energy... Perhaps he will belong to future
Anarchy, when the individual, no longer tethered by the legal yoke, will
renew the audacious deeds of the past for the complete triumph of
himself...
But now? Now there is only the brutalized plebeian, resigned to his
fate, and the small-minded, pitiful petty-bourgeois, puffed up with
arrogance and saturated with vulgarity... Obsequious subjects and
despotic masters splash about in the filth that covers the world in a
sad shroud, like worms in the mud. But under the rags of the one and the
luxurious clothes of the other, a chicken’s heart beats. Both are weak,
enervated... Thus, the proletarian isn’t able to emancipate himself, as
the tyrant rules not by virtue of his own force, but only through the
passivity and renunciation of the people...
Today there is only litter, mud, dung...
The pirates have disappeared from the Oceans, the bandits have
disappeared from the forests... The virile instincts and vigorous
feeling of humanity — distant memories... The hero is dead...
Flowering oases in the sad desert of human putridity — blossoming roses
amidst the stinking fetor of the sewer — we, nomads, vagabonds, rebels,
will produce the divine miracle. We, we will revive the Hero. Banned
from society and damned by the oblivious crowd, we preserve in the
fragrant garden of our hearts a gentle nightingale that sings melodious
songs of Nostalgia and sorrow.
Tempered by struggle and arduous peril, we host in the cavernous twists
and turns of our minds a red demon, always ready to go wild with
irresistible force.
And when the nightingale warbles, the demon leaps onto the bloodstained
battlefield where the furies dance the macabre round dance of
destruction and the waltz of death.
We are the poets of negation and revolt, the singers and authors of ever
more sublime madness.
In the fiery craters of our inner volcanoes, made with the lava of
emotion and the fire of passion, we’ve fed our lust for life... And to
Society that wanted to impose its laws and its morals on us, we will
firmly respond with our “no,” while all others repeat their cowardly
“yes.”
Now we are at the mercy of the battle. The decisive, mortal battle...
With smiles on our lips, we have leapt into the abyss of supreme
adventure, at the bottom of which the nymph and the harpy wait for us.
Either the intoxication of triumph and liberation from every shackle, or
the glorious end in the whirl of war.
Proud and disdainful, we have valiantly played our last card, and it is,
therefore, necessary for us to intensify our effort and increase our
energy a hundredfold to achieve victory.
We have already been brave fighters. Now we much become heroes. It is
necessary, indispensable.
For the good outcome of our cause, for the elevation of our
individuality.
And toward Anarchy — matrix of liberty, fount of joy, treasury of power
— we, children of Pride and eternal Rebellion, will go forward with
greater energy and force, toward the Anarchy that is not the dream of
pietists, not the goal of the weak, but the means with which intrepid
and desperate iconoclasts are able to get rid of even the harshest
chain.
We will all march on while the blue river of courage overflows from the
deeps and the mad wind of Audacity batters us with wild fury, in the
thick of battle.
And we will fire our arrows, honed with hatred, against the strongholds
of the law and of Society ... And we will embrace freedom on Christ’s
desecrated altars... Hypocrites and cowards will fear us; the rabble
will shout for our heads without thinking... But what do the curses of
fools matter to us?
We are the aristocrats of thought and action, solitary dweller of the
highest peaks, and reptile drool could never concern us...