'천국보다 낯선' 혹은 '악어의 목을 조르다'

낮에 EBS 세계명화에서 짐 자무쉬(1953- )의 <천국보다 낯선>(1984)을 다시 봤다. 집안 청소를 하면서 봤기 때문에 제대로 봤다기보다는 그냥 틀어놨었다고 해야 맞겠다(중간에는 분리수거도 하러 내려갔다 오고). 사실 이 영화는 국내에 개봉되기 이전에 아주 오래전 한 대학의 영화제에서 거푸 두 번을 본 적이 있다. 이후에 개봉관에서도 한번 보고. 그러는 사이에 80년대 대학가의 '전설'이었던 이 영화는 이젠 '낯익은' 영화가 되었다. '포스트모던적'이었던 영화의 포스터는 거의 키치가 되었고.   

<천국보다 낯선>은 얼마전 최근작 <브로큰 플라워>(2005)가 국내 개봉된바 있는 미국 독립영화계의 '기린아' 짐 자무쉬의 두번째 장편영화이고, 일설에는 빔 벤더스가 <파리, 텍사스>(1984)를 찍고 남은 필름으로 찍은 영화이다(자무시는 벤더스의 조감독 출신이다). 영화 속 이야기나 화면은 쓸쓸하고 황량하지만, 처음 볼 때는 아주 낯설고 참신한 영화였다(빅토르 슈클로프스키의 고전적인 정의에 따르자면, 예술은 '낯설게 하기'이다). '진공청소기를 돌리다'는 '악어의 목을 조르다'라고 표현하는 게 '미국식'이라고, 헝가리에서 날아온 사촌동생 에바에게 '미국인' 윌리가 한 수 가르쳐주는 대사처럼. 나 또한 악어의 목을 한참 조르고 난 후에 이 페이퍼를 쓴다.

먼저, 의례적인 영화 줄거리를 이미지들과 함께 옮겨온다. 영화는 '신세계(The New World)', '1년 후(One year Later)', '천국(Paradise)'이란 소제목으로 나뉘어진다.

-뉴욕 빈민가의 낡은 아파트에 사는 윌리에게 어느 날 사촌 에바가 찾아온다. 갑자기 군식구를 떠맡게 된 윌리는 처음엔 그녀를 성가셔 하지만 10일이 지나 에바가 떠날 무렵이 되자 왠지 모를 아쉬움을 느낀다.  

-일년 후 윌리는 친구 에디와 함께 에바를 만나러 클리블랜드로 무작정 떠난다. 괴짜 로티 아주머니와 함께 사는 에바는 핫도그 가게 점원으로 무료한 일상을 보내고 있다. 세 사람은 함께 플로리다로 떠나기로 한다. 이들의 여정은 개경주에서 윌리와 에디가 가진 돈을 거의 다 날리게 되면서 어긋나기 시작한다. 두 사람이 남은 돈을 털어 경마에서 마지막 승부를 걸고 있을 때 에바는 우연치 않게 큰 돈을 손에 넣는다.  

-윌리와 에디를 기다리던 에바는 결국 혼자 공항으로 떠나고, 세 사람은 뿔뿔이 흩어진다. 언제 도착했건 이방인이기는 마찬가지인 이민자들에게 미국이라는 나라는 할리우드 영화가 보여주는 화려하고 꿈같은 파라다이스와는 거리가 멀다. 신세계의 꿈을 안고 도착한 에바에게 이 거대한 나라는 뉴욕이건, 클리블랜드건, 플로리다건 간에 쓸쓸하고 황량할 뿐이다. 

<천국보다 낯선>은 한겨레신문이 선정한 세계영화 100선에도 꼽혔던 작품이니만큼 이미 '고전'의 반열에 올라 있기도 하다. 영화평론가 김영진의 작품 해설은 이렇다. 

-헝가리 아가씨 에바가 뉴욕에 사는 건달 친척 윌리의 집에 찾아오는 것으로 시작되는 <천국보다 낯선>은 착상이 도전적이다. 이 영화에 담긴 미국 사회의 풍경은 아메리칸 드림, 모든 것이 넘쳐나는 풍요의 천국과는 거리가 멀다. 이 흑백 장편영화는 삭막하고 스산하기조차 한 미국을 보여줬다. 그리고  이 영화로 청년 감독 짐 자무쉬는 84년의 칸 영화제 신인감독상과 로카르노 영화제 황금 표범상을 받았다. 그는 단숨에 뉴욕 독립영화계의 총아로 떠올랐다.

-<천국보다 낯선>은 미국영화지만 사실 미국영화라기보다는 미국을 배경으로 한 유럽영화를 보는 것 같은 느낌을 준다. 한 화면이 한 장면을 이루는 길게 찍기, 시선의 비상한 집중을 요구하는 고정된 카메라 스타일, 서로 진정한 의사소통에 이르지 못하는 인간관계, 여기저기 떠돌지만 정신적으로 건조한 삶의 조건, 긴 페이드 아웃의 화면전환이 주는 형식의 단절감 등은 무엇보다 대리만족을 주는 이야기체 영화를 중시했던 미국영화의 전통과는 별로 상관없다. 자무쉬는 빔 벤더스, 미켈란젤로 안토니오니, 로베르 브레송 등의 유럽 영화감독과 일본 영화의 대가 오즈 야스지로 등의 영화로부터 영감을 빌려와 황폐한 미국 생활의 이미지를 재구성했다. 영화 표현의 뿌리를 여러 혈통에서 빌려온 셈이다. 그래서 곧잘 '포스트모던'이란 수식어가 붙는다.

-그러나 자무쉬 영화의 새로움은 유럽영화에서는 이미 상투화한 진술을 미국의 상황으로 옮겨놓은 낯설음에서 온다. 예를 들면 에바와 에바의 사촌 오빠 윌리가 식탁에서 TV 디너에 관해 대화하는 장면같은 것이다. "티브이 디너 안먹을래?" "안먹어, 배 고프지 않아." "왜 티브이 디너라고 부르지?" "그냥... 티브이를 보면서 먹으니까... 텔레비전말이야." "텔레비전이 뭔지는 나도 알아." "그 고기는 어디서 난거야?" "뭐?" "그 고기는 어디서 난거야?" "쇠고기지 뭐." "쇠고기야? 고기같이 보이지 않는데." "휴... 상관하지마. 어쨌든 여기선 이런 걸 먹는다구. 고기, 야채, 디저트, 그리고 설거지할 필요도 없어." 이런 식의 반복된 대화의 연속과 단조로운 양식은 황폐한 미국생활을 암시하는 놀라운 공명을 불러일으킨다.

-자무쉬는 원래 이 영화의 1부인 <신세계>를 단편영화로 발표했었다. 영화가 평판이 좋자 자무쉬는 두 단락을 더 붙여서 장편영화로 공개했다. 그러나 1부 '신세계'에 이어 추가된 '일년 후'와 '천국'은 1부의 부연설명에 지나지 않는다. 주인공들은 뉴욕에서 클리블랜드와 플로리다로 옮겨 다닌다. 이 여정은 야만의 땅에 문명을 심으며 서부영화의 주인공들이 걷던 신화적인 여정과 유사하다. 그러나 이 영화에서의 장소이동 모티브에는 더 이상 상징적인 의미가 없다. 클리블랜드로 가는 차 안에서 주인공들은 어딜 가나 다 똑같다고 중얼거린다. 어디나 다 마찬가지인 것이다. 그저 천국보다 낯선 곳일 뿐이다.

-자무쉬는 그러나 <천국보다 낯선> 이후에 만든 영화들에서 <천국보다 낯선>의 신선함에 맞먹는 결실을 거두지는 못했다. 형식이 매너리즘에 빠져버린 것이다. 그러나 그렇더라도 그는 종래의 미국적인 이미지를 뒤집는데 꾸준한 관심을 보여 왔다. 재미있는 것은 이 관심이 모방과 짜집기와 재구성이라는 80년대 이후의 양식적 경향 속에서 추구된다는 점이다. 그런 면에서 그는 아주 미국적인 감독이다.

한데, 영화를 여러 차례 보다 보면, 메시지는 모두 증발해버리고, 형식미나 디테일 정도만이 인상에 남는다. <천국보다 낯선>에서 그러한 디테일은 여주인공 에바가 듣는 음악들인데, 그 중에서도 'Screamin' Jay Hawkins'란 이름으로 더 유명하다는 잴러시 호킨스(Jalacy Hawkins; 1929-2000)의 '절규하는' 로큰롤 'I put a spell on you'(1956)가 가장 인상적이다(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvWf9djVg9c).  

I put a spell on you
Because you're mine.
I can't stand the things that you do.
No, no, no, I ain't lyin'.
No.
I don't care if you don't want me
'Cause I'm yours, yours, yours anyhow.
Yeah, I'm yours, yours, yours.
I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you.

Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah....
I put a spell on you.
Lord! Lord! Lord! ...
.'Cause you're mine, yeah.
I can't stand the things that you do
When you're foolin' around.
I don't care if you don't want me.
'Cause I'm yours, yours, yours anyhow.

Yeah, yours, yours, yours!
I can't stand your foolin' around.
If I can't have you,
No one will!

I love you, you, you! I love you. I love you. I love you!
I love you, you, you!
I don't care if you don't want me.
'Cause I'm yours, yours, yours anyhow.

가사에서 'I put a spell on you'는 ("나는 당신에게 말을 걸어요'라고 옮긴 경우도 있던데) '나는 당신에게 주문을 걸어요'란 뜻이겠다. 왜냐면, "당신은 내 거니까." 마지막 가사도 "나는 당신을 사랑한다. 당신을 나를 원하지 않더라도 나는 신경쓰지 않는다. 왜냐하면 나는, 어쨌거나 당신 거니까."란 식이니까, 거의 '당신'의 목을 조르는 내용이다.

해서, '아메리칸 드림'이라는 것은 '천국보다 낯선' 아메리카가 우리에게 거는 '주문'인지도 모르겠다. 벤더스의 영화 <파리, 텍사스>에서 황량한 텍사스 사막에 '파리'라는 지명이 붙은 것처럼, <천국보다 낯선>에서는 황량한 들판이 (천국보다 낯선) '천국'에 비유된다. 우리가 에바처럼 서 있는 이 자리, 끊임없이 주문/마법이 필요한 이 자리...

 

06. 04. 09. 

 P.S. 한편, 아메리카의 반대편 러시아에서 '악어'하면 떠오르는 두 작품은 도스토예프스키의 풍자소설 <악어>와 러시아 어린이들의 친구이자 마스코트 <체브라시카>에 등장하는 악어 친구 '게나'이다. <악어>는 당대 19세기 유럽이란 (천국보다 낯선) '천국'에 대한 도스토예프스키의 신랄한 풍자와 조소를 담고 있는 작품이며, <체브라시카>는 원송이도 아니고 곰도 아닌 주인공이 자기 자신의 정체성을 찾아가는 모험담이다. 동물원에 출퇴근하다가 체브라시카의 모험을 따라나선 악어 게나는 그런 체브라시카를 도와주는 친구. 만약 아이가 미키마우스 대신에 이런 만화/동화를 좋아한다면, (아메리칸 스타일이 아닌) 러시안 스타일로 키우셔도 되겠다...   

P.S. 짐 자무시(자무쉬)의 인터뷰집이 출간됐다. <짐 자무시>(마음산책, 2007). "1981년부터 2000년까지, 20여 년에 걸쳐 다양한 국적의 인터뷰어들이 기록한 열다섯 편의 글을 묶"은 것이라고 한다. 소개에 따르면, "인터뷰는 '영원한 휴가'부터 '커피와 담배'에 이르기까지, 짐 자무시 자신이 영화에 담고자 했던 것들이 무엇인지를 하나하나 들려준다. 영화 제작 과정에 대한 에피소드 외에, 그의 삶과 개인적 이야기를 담은 글들도 많다. 그의 세계관, 정치적인 입장 등이 드러나기도 하며, 로베르토 베니니, 카우리스마키 형제, 빔 벤더스 등과 같은 동료들과의 만남이 소개되기도 한다."

아직 빔 벤더스에 관한 책도 변변한 게 나오지 않은 것과 비교하면 의외이긴 한데, 여하튼 반갑다. 짐 자무시보다 더 고대하는 건 아키 카우리스마키에 관한 책이긴 하지만(언젠가 소개한 바 있지만 나는 러시아어에서 나온 연구서 하나를 갖고 있다). "원서인 (University Press of Mississippi)에 수록된 17편의 인터뷰 가운데, 15편을 골라 편집했다."고 하는데, 굳이 2편을 뺄 필요가 있었는지는 의문이다... 

07. 04. 20.

줄리 델피와 바타이유

필요 때문에 바타이유를 읽다가(생각보다 안 읽히는 대목이 많다) 기분전환 삼아 자료 검색을 했다. 그러다 발견한 글꼭지는 얼마전(2006. 03. 24) '한겨레'의 기획연재 '스크린 속 나의 연인'에 게재되었던 글이다. 영화 <분홍신>의 프로듀서 신창길씨가 필자이고, 그는 거기서 <비포 선라이즈>(1995)의 '셀린느'(줄리 델피를) 자신의' 연인'으로 호출하고 있었다. 한데, 그게 나에겐 줄리 델피와 바타이유의 '희귀한' 접속점을 알게 해준 점에서 의미가 있다. 일단은 필자의 그 연애담을 조금 따라가본다.  

 -그녀는 내가 결혼을 생각하게 만든 첫번째 여자였다. 가장 가슴 벅찬 열망과 가장 고통스런 비애감을 동시에 느끼게 한 그녀. 벌써 10년도 더 지난 이야기지만, 당시 그녀는 실패한 연애의 상처로 인해 심한 무력감에 시달리고 있었다. 그런 그녀에게 난 달콤한 탈출구였다. 영화 하겠다고 늦은 나이에 다시 대학을 다니고 있었던 나는, 하고 싶은 일을 하며 진지하게 삶을 꾸려가는 것이 진정 의미있는 인생일 거라고, 순진하고 치기어린 얘기들을 들려주었고, 그녀는 나와 함께 대학로와 인사동을 오가며 영화와 공연장을 순례하고 둘만의 여행으로 고단하고 무기력한 일상을 잠시 벗어날 수 있었다.

-연애의 모양새는 갖췄지만, 늘 아슬아슬하고 불안했던 그녀와의 관계는 매순간 희열과 좌절의 극단을 넘나들게 했다. 내가 그녀와 결혼하고 싶었던 것은 순간순간 나타났다 사라지는 환희와 열정을 붙잡고 싶은 욕망에서였다. 그녀의 일상이 편안해지고 문화탐험을 위주로 한 교양연애도 시들해지자, 결국 그녀는 좀 더 안정되고 부가가치 높은 삶을 향해 나를 떠나고 말았다. 결혼이라는 선택을 통해 보다 확실하게 자신의 삶을 위치지우고 싶어한 그녀는, 결혼에 대해 진지한 고민을 내비친 나를 정말 순진하고 치기 어리게 바라보았다.

-내가 가진 현실적인 불확실함까지 감내할 자신이 없었던 그녀의 선택에 난 크게 반발하지 않았지만, 희열과 열정이 사라진 공백과 허탈의 상처는 생각보다 컸다. 그때, 코아아트홀 일요일 조조상영에서 만난 그녀 ‘셀린느’(<비포 선라이즈>의 줄리 델피)는, 그때까지 내가 알던 연애와 사랑에 대한 생각을 한순간에 뒤집어놓은, 말 그대로 ‘발견’이었다(*나도 코아아트홀에서 봤었는데). 그동안 내가 붙들려 있었던 연애가 얼마나 과도한 욕망과 집착으로 버무려진 열병덩어리였는지, 정말 내가 사랑을 느끼는 대상은 누구이며 사랑을 이뤄가는 내용과 방식은 어떠해야하는지에 대해 뒤통수를 치는 듯한 깨우침을 ‘셀린느’는 보여주었다.

-그들에게 주어진 것은 단 하룻밤의 시간뿐. 비엔나 거리를 거닐면서 제시와 셀린느는 참 많은 얘기를 나눈다. 고즈녁히 책을 보며 대화를 하는 그녀. 서글서글한 눈매에 담백한 인상의 그녀는 지적이고 사려 깊기까지 하다. 매력적인 눈웃음에 천진한 미소, 나긋한 목소리에 맑고 풍부한 감수성까지…. 내가 제시가 되어 비엔나의 밤거리를 함께 거니는 듯 나른한 흥분에 빠져들었다. 제시가 그녀에게 처음 말을 건네게 만든, 기차 안에서 그녀가 읽고 있었던 바타이유의 <죽은 자>도 서점을 뒤져가며 열심히 찾아보기까지 했는데, 불행히도 번역본을 구할 수 없었다.

(*)나는 셀린느가 무슨 책을 읽고 있었는지에 대한 기억이 전혀 없는데, 바타이유의 <죽은 자>라고 하니까, 아마도 그의 소설 'The Dead Man'을 가리키는 것 같고, 보통의 영역본에는 'My Mother', 'Madame Edwarda'와 함께 묶여 있다(내가 갖고 있는 러시아어 바타이유 소설선에는 포함돼 있지 않다). 여하튼 그래서 '줄리 델피와 바타이유'가 한데 묶이게 되는 것.  

-그때 이후, 별 내세울 것도 없는 내 사랑과 연애는 이른바 ‘셀린느 찾기’의 흥미롭고도 지난한 과정이었던 셈이다. 그리고 적지 않은 시행착오와 신념어린 의지(!) 끝에 마침내, 나는 나의 셀린느를 발견하고야 말았다. 제시와 셀린느가 <비포 선셋>에서 다시 만난 바로 그때, 나는 나의 셀린느와 함께 옛날의 추억들을 떠올리며 그들을 바라보고 있었다.

-스크린 속 10년 만에 만난 그들은, 지난 시간의 엇갈림과 회한 속에 아쉬운 두 번째 이별을 정리하지 못하고 있었지만, 객석의 나는 흐뭇한 행복감을 만끽하며 나의 셀린느의 손을 꼭 쥔 채, 그들을 애틋하게 지켜볼 수 있었다. 세월이 지난 후 다시 보는 셀린느. 늘어난 잔주름과 시간이 남기고 간 흔적들은 오랜만의 그녀에게서 발견한 안타까움이었지만, 나에게 그녀는, 사려깊고 당당하며 진지하고 순수한 10년 전 비엔나 밤거리의 셀린느, 그대로였다.

(*)나는 <비포 선셋>(2004)은 모스크바에서 돌아온 작년에 비디오로 봤는데(그러니까 해가 뜨고 지기까지 내겐 10년이 걸렸다), 어느덧 '선라이즈'보다 '선셋'에 더 공감하는 나이가 됐음을 확인하고 좀 씁슬했다. 내친 김에 <비포 선셋>에 등장하는 제시와 셀린느의 '10년후'도 따라가보기로 한다. 사이즈가 좀 큰게 흠이군...

 

우리는 저마다 가슴에 '비엔나'를 품고 있지만(이 스틸 사진들 속에 각자의 연인들을 채워넣는 일은 부득불하며 불가피하다. 그것이 어떤 풍경이든지간에), 비엔나에도 해는 진다. 사랑하기에도 짧은 시간에, 젠장, 책까지 읽어야 하다니!..

06. 04. 09.

P.S. 때아닌 감상으로 글을 마무리하는 것은 예의가 아닌 듯해서, 얼마전에 나온 유기환 교수의 <조르주 바타이유>(살림, 2006)에 대한 동아일보의 리뷰(2006. 02. 25)를 옮겨온다. 책은 나도 단번에 읽었었는데, 리뷰를 쓰는 건 다른 일들에 밀려 늦추어졌었다. 조만간 기회가 있을 것이다.   

-“흔히 바타이유의 사상은 난해하고 복잡하기 이를 데 없다고 알려져 있다. 하지만 실은 난해하기보다는 난삽하고, 복잡하기보다는 산만하다고 해야 옳을 듯하다.”(*난삽하고 산만하다는 걸 <저주의 몫>을 읽으며 새삼 깨닫게 됐다.) 흔히 ‘저주받은 작가’로 불리는 조르주 바타이유(1897∼1962)의 사상 체계를 조리 있게 정리한 이 책에서 불문학자인 유기환 한국외국어대 교수는 이렇게 바타이유에 대해 독자들이 품고 있는 ‘죄책감’을 말끔히 씻어 준다.

-바타이유는 초현실주의의 제왕 브르통과 실존주의의 지존 사르트르조차도 제대로 이해하지 못해 비판을 했던 작가였다(*서로 사이가 다 안 좋았다). 이는 그의 글이 니체의 강한 영향 아래 애초부터 사유할 수 없는 것을 사유함에 따라 늘 모순과 역설에 빠지기 때문이다. 이 책은 바타이유가 자신의 대표작으로 꼽은 <저주의 몫>(1949년)과 가장 영향력 있는 작품으로 꼽히는 <에로티시즘>(1957년)을 통해 그의 사상을 체계적으로 설명해 준다(*<에로티시즘>이 아니라 <에로티즘>이다. 영역본도 그렇게 표기한다). 특히 그의 정치경제학 저서라고 할 <저주의 몫>에 대한 이해는 매우 중요하다.

-바타이유는 마르크스처럼 ‘과잉(잉여)’의 문제에 천착했다. 마르크스는 이를 부자연스러운 것으로 보았지만 바타이유는 자연스러운 것으로 봤다. 태양이 지구에 필요 이상의 에너지를 보내는 것처럼. 문제는 이 과잉 자체가 아니라 이를 제대로 해소하지 못할 때 발생한다. 양차 대전의 발발은 바로 과잉을 제대로 해소하지 못해 발생한 부작용의 극치였다. 바타이유는 이 과잉을 해소하는 방법으로 ‘비생산적 소비’를 제시한다. 그것은 아메리칸 인디언들이 자신의 권위를 인정받기 위해 자신의 재산을 대가 없이 증여하거나 심지어 불태우는 ‘포틀래치’처럼 수요공급의 법칙에 어긋나는 소비다. 바타이유가 발견한 이 ‘소비의 경제학’은 오늘날 얼마나 의미심장하게 다가서는가.

-생식을 목적으로 하지 않는 성행위를 뜻하는 에로티시즘은 그러한 비생산적 소비의 또 다른 대표 사례다. 인간이 에로티시즘에 몰두하는 이유는 무엇인가. 그것은 비록 순간일지라도 타자와의 합일을 추구하는 인간의 욕망 때문이며 금기의 위반을 통해 증대하는 쾌락의 경제학이 작용하기 때문이다. 우리가 여전히 바타이유에 대한 저주의 봉인을 풀어야 할 이유는 어디에 있을까. 그것은 금기와 위반의 변증법적 사유를 통해, ‘돌이 될 것’이라는 위협에도 신이 돌아보지 말라고 했던 곳을 응시함으로써 예언력을 획득한 그의 신탁을 듣기 위함은 아닐까.

바타이유의 관점에서 볼 때, 제시와 셀린느의 사랑은 '사랑의 이전의 사랑' 혹은 '에로티즘 없는 사랑'이다('비포 러브'라고 해야 할까?). 왜냐하면, 거기엔 어떠한 과잉도 어떠한 비생산적 소비도 자리하고 있지 않기 때문이다. 그들은 감정의 너울거림에 잠시 삶을 의탁하지만, 그 경계에서 다시 회수해간다. 그들의 만남과 대화에는 언제나 테이블 하나 정도의 거리가 끼여드는 것. 그 거리는 (불가피하다고 믿어지기에) 아쉽고, 안타깝고, 서운하고, 애틋하다. 그러한 여운 속에 그들이 남겨놓은 질문은 한 가지이다. '그들은 정말 사랑한 걸까?' 예의상, 이 질문을 우리 자신들에게는 던지지 말도록 하자...  

도스토예프스키와 타르코프스키

도스토예프스키(1821-1881)와 타르코프스키(1932-1986)는 물론 러시아를 대표하는 작가와 감독이다. 두 사람의 이름을 제목으로 달았지만, 내가 맘잡고 이들에 대해서 몇 마디 하겠다는 건 전혀 아니다. 읽어야 할 책이 잘 읽히지 않아서 이것저것 뒤적이다가 <타르코프스키의 순교일기>(두레, 1997)을 펴들게 됐는데, 1970년부터 시작되는 이 일기의 첫 페이지가 우연히도 도스토예프스키에 관한 것이었을 뿐이다(이 책을 몇 년만에 펴든 듯하다. 참고로, 타르코프스키의 이 일기는 1986년 12월 그가 폐암으로 사망하기 불과 2주전의 기록까지도 포함하고 있다). 그 4월 30일자 일기를 따라가 본다. 아래는 자신의 어머니에게 바쳐진 영화 <거울>(1975)에 등장하는 실제의 어머니.

-우리는 다시 한번 <도스토예프스키>를 영화화하는 작업에 관해 사샤 마사린과 이야기했다(*역주에도 있지만, 마사린은 영화 <거울>의 시나리오 작업을 타르코프스키와 함께 했었다). 당연히 우선 작품구상을 문서로 작성해야 한다는 대답이었고 당분간 연출구상은 하지 말라는 것이다. 도스토예프스키의 작품을 영화화하려는 계획은 의미가 없을 것이며 도스토예프스키 자신에 관한 영화를 찍어야 할 것이다...(*마치 <페테르부르크의 대가>(책세상, 2001)를 쓴 존 쿳시처럼. 쿳시의 책은 러시아어로도 번역돼 있다.)

-도스토예프스키의 성격, 그의 신, 그의 악령들, 그가 이룩한 일들에 관한 영화를 만들어야 할 것이다. 톨야 솔로니친은 도스토예프스키 역할을 훌륭하게 해낼 수 있을 것이다.(*'톨랴 솔로니친'이 맞는 표기겠다. '톨랴'는 '아나톨리'의 애칭이며, 아나톨리 솔로니친(1934-1982)은 <안드레이 루블료프>에서 주역을 맡았던 그 배우이다. 타르코프스키는 이 솔로니친을 도스토예프스키의 배역으로 염두에 두고 있었다는 것. 아래 사진은 <안드레이 루블료프>의 솔로니친과 도스토예프스키.)  

-이제 나는 우선 도스토예프스키 자신이 쓴 글을 모조리 읽어야만 하겠다. 그리고 그에 관해 쓴 모든 글들 그리고 러시아 종교철학자들인 솔로비요프, 베르쟈예프, 레온체프의 글들도 모두 읽어야겠다. 도스토예프스키는 내가 영화 속에서 실현시키고자 하는 이 모든 것들의 총체가 될 수 있을 것이다.(*해서 도스토예프스키를 읽지 않고 타르코프스키의 영화를 이야기한다는 것은 제법 '용감한' 일에 속한다. 아래 사진은 모스크바의 국립레닌도서관 앞에 있는 도스토예프스키 동상. 그의 동상으로서는 가장 유명하다.) 

(*)타르코프스키가 언급하고 있는 러시아의 (종교)철학자들 가운데, 국내에는 베르쟈예프 정도만 소개돼 있다. 그리고, 물론 도스토예프스키를 영화화하려던 타르코프스키의 계획은 실현되지 못했다. 그가 세번째로 찍게 된 영화를 스타니슬라프 렘 원작의 <솔라리스>였으며, 그에게 다른 기회는 주어지지 않았다. <순교일기>를 가득 채우고 있는 그의 '계획'들에 비추어 보면, 우리에게 주어진 7편의 '타르코프스키'는 정말로 '한줌'밖에 되지 않는다. 몇 달 뒤, 그러니까 1970년 9월 7일 일기의 한 대목.

-알베르 카뮈의 <페스트>가 영화화되었는지를 꼭 알아보아야겠다고 별렀으면서도 아직도 알아보지 못했다. 아직도 영화화된 적이 없다면 테니슈빌리가 감바로프에게 두 개의 주제를 제안했으면 한다. '카뮈'와 '도스토예프스키'에 관한 시나리오, 사샤 마샤린이 우리와 함께 이 시나리오를 쓰고자 했었지. 솔로니친은 도스토예프스키의 역할을 멋지게 해낼 수 있을 것이다.(40쪽)

이어서 그는 '내가 기꺼이 만들고 싶은 영화들'의 목록을 적어놓고 있는데, 13편이다. 그 중에는 토마스 만의 <요셉과 그 형제들>과 솔제니친의 <마트료나의 마당>(*<마트료나의 집>이라 번역돼 있다), 그리고 카뮈의 <페스트>가 포함돼 있다. 도스토예프스키 원작으로는 <젊은이>(*<미성년>을 가리키는 것이겠다)가 올라와 있다.

-좋은 시절이라면 나도 백만장자가 될 수 있을 텐데! 내가 만일 일년에 영화 두 편씩을 찍을 수 있다면 1960년부터 시작해서 이미 20편을 찍었을 것이다. 바보 천치 같은 자들이 결재를 하고 있는 판에 무슨 영화를 찍을 수 있단 말인가!(*1970년이면 타르코프스키의 나이가 바로 내 나이이다. 나도 주변에서 '바보 천치'들을 찾아봐야겠다!) 

-자기자신을 구원함으로써만 모든 사람을 구원할 수 있다.(41쪽)(*이것이 '오늘의 밑줄'이다. 나도 물론 진작부터 알고 있는 '지혜'이긴 하지만, 타르코프스키의 '어록'에 올려놓도록 한다.) 

06. 04. 08.

러시아의 국영백화점 <굼>

올 12월에 모스크바의 아르바트 거리에 롯데백화점이 개점할 예정이라고 이미 보도된 바 있다(내가 알기에 러시아에 최초로 들어서는 외국 백화점이다). 러시아 최대 백화점은 모스크바의 <굼(GUM)>이다. GUM은 'Gosudarstvenniy Universalniy Magazin'의 약자로 국영백화점' 정도의 뜻이며, 모스크바의 굼은 크레믈린 바로 옆, 붉은광장 동편에 있다. 굼 광장과 내부 모습을 담은 몇 장의 사진을 옮겨놓는다.

06. 04. 07.

앙드레 브르통의 '초현실주의 선언'(자료)

Manifesto of Surrealism

by

André Breton

1924

So strong is the belief in life, in what is most fragile in life--real life, I mean--that in the end this belief is lost. Man, that inveterate dreamer, daily more discontent with his destiny, has trouble assessing the objects he has been led to use, objects that his nonchalance has brought his way, or that he has earned through his own efforts, almost always through his own efforts, for he has agreed to work, at least he has not refused to try his luck (or what he calls his luck!). At this point he feels extremely modest: he knows what women he has had, what silly affairs he has been involved in; he is unimpressed by his wealth or his poverty, in this respect he is still a newborn babe and, as for the approval of his conscience, I confess that he does very nicely without it. If he still retains a certain lucidity, all he can do is turn back toward his childhood which, however his guides and mentors may have botched it, still strikes him as somehow charming. There, the absence of any known restrictions allows him the perspective of several lives lived at once; this illusion becomes firmly rooted within him; now he is only interested in the fleeting, the extreme facility of everything. Children set off each day without a worry in the world. Everything is near at hand, the worst material conditions are fine. The woods are white or black, one will never sleep.

But it is true that we would not dare venture so far, it is not merely a question of distance. Threat is piled upon threat, one yields, abandons a portion of the terrain to be conquered. This imagination which knows no bounds is henceforth allowed to be exercised only in strict accordance with the laws of an arbitrary utility; it is incapable of assuming this inferior role for very long and, in the vicinity of the twentieth year, generally prefers to abandon man to his lusterless fate.

Though he may later try to pull himself together on occasion, having felt that he is losing by slow degrees all reason for living, incapable as he has become of being able to rise to some exceptional situation such as love, he will hardly succeed. This is because he henceforth belongs body and soul to an imperative practical necessity which demands his constant attention. None of his gestures will be expansive, none of his ideas generous or far-reaching. In his mind’s eye, events real or imagined will be seen only as they relate to a welter of similar events, events in which he has not participated, abortive events. What am I saying: he will judge them in relationship to one of these events whose consequences are more reassuring than the others. On no account will he view them as his salvation.

Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality.

There remains madness, "the madness that one locks up," as it has aptly been described. That madness or another.... We all know, in fact, that the insane owe their incarceration to a tiny number of legally reprehensible acts and that, were it not for these acts their freedom (or what we see as their freedom) would not be threatened. I am willing to admit that they are, to some degree, victims of their imagination, in that it induces them not to pay attention to certain rules--outside of which the species feels threatened--which we are all supposed to know and respect. But their profound indifference to the way in which we judge them, and even to the various punishments meted out to them, allows us to suppose that they derive a great deal of comfort and consolation from their imagination, that they enjoy their madness sufficiently to endure the thought that its validity does not extend beyond themselves. And, indeed, hallucinations, illusions, etc., are not a source of trifling pleasure. The best controlled sensuality partakes of it, and I know that there are many evenings when I would gladly that pretty hand which, during the last pages of Taine’s L’Intelligence, indulges in some curious misdeeds. I could spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane. These people are honest to a fault, and their naiveté has no peer but my own. Christopher Columbus should have set out to discover America with a boatload of madmen. And note how this madness has taken shape, and endured.  

It is not the fear of madness which will oblige us to leave the flag of imagination furled.

The case against the realistic attitude demands to be examined, following the case against the materialistic attitude. The latter, more poetic in fact than the former, admittedly implies on the part of man a kind of monstrous pride which, admittedly, is monstrous, but not a new and more complete decay. It should above all be viewed as a welcome reaction against certain ridiculous tendencies of spiritualism. Finally, it is not incompatible with a certain nobility of thought.

By contrast, the realistic attitude, inspired by positivism, from Saint Thomas Aquinas to Anatole France, clearly seems to me to be hostile to any intellectual or moral advancement. I loathe it, for it is made up of mediocrity, hate, and dull conceit. It is this attitude which today gives birth to these ridiculous books, these insulting plays. It constantly feeds on and derives strength from the newspapers and stultifies both science and art by assiduously flattering the lowest of tastes; clarity bordering on stupidity, a dog’s life. The activity of the best minds feels the effects of it; the law of the lowest common denominator finally prevails upon them as it does upon the others. An amusing result of this state of affairs, in literature for example, is the generous supply of novels. Each person adds his personal little "observation" to the whole. As a cleansing antidote to all this, M. Paul Valéry recently suggested that an anthology be compiled in which the largest possible number of opening passages from novels be offered; the resulting insanity, he predicted, would be a source of considerable edification. The most famous authors would be included. Such a though reflects great credit on Paul Valéry who, some time ago, speaking of novels, assured me that, so far as he was concerned, he would continue to refrain from writing: "The Marquise went out at five." But has he kept his word?

If the purely informative style, of which the sentence just quoted is a prime example, is virtually the rule rather than the exception in the novel form, it is because, in all fairness, the author’s ambition is severely circumscribed. The circumstantial, needlessly specific nature of each of their notations leads me to believe that they are perpetrating a joke at my expense. I am spared not even one of the character’s slightest vacillations: will he be fairhaired? what will his name be? will we first meet him during the summer? So many questions resolved once and for all, as chance directs; the only discretionary power left me is to close the book, which I am careful to do somewhere in the vicinity of the first page. And the descriptions! There is nothing to which their vacuity can be compared; they are nothing but so many superimposed images taken from some stock catalogue, which the author utilizes more and more whenever he chooses; he seizes the opportunity to slip me his postcards, he tries to make me agree with him about the clichés:

The small room into which the young man was shown was covered with yellow wallpaper: there were geraniums in the windows, which were covered with muslin curtains; the setting sun cast a harsh light over the entire setting.... There was nothing special about the room. The furniture, of yellow wood, was all very old. A sofa with a tall back turned down, an oval table opposite the sofa, a dressing table and a mirror set against the pierglass, some chairs along the walls, two or three etchings of no value portraying some German girls with birds in their hands--such were the furnishings. (Dostoevski, Crime and Punishment) 

I am in no mood to admit that the mind is interested in occupying itself with such matters, even fleetingly. It may be argued that this school-boy description has its place, and that at this juncture of the book the author has his reasons for burdening me. Nevertheless he is wasting his time, for I refuse to go into his room. Others’ laziness or fatigue does not interest me. I have too unstable a notion of the continuity of life to equate or compare my moments of depression or weakness with my best moments. When one ceases to feel, I am of the opinion one should keep quiet. And I would like it understood that I am not accusing or condemning lack of originality as such. I am only saying that I do not take particular note of the empty moments of my life, that it may be unworthy for any man to crystallize those which seem to him to be so. I shall, with your permission, ignore the description of that room, and many more like it.

Not so fast, there; I’m getting into the area of psychology, a subject about which I shall be careful not to joke.

The author attacks a character and, this being settled upon, parades his hero to and fro across the world. No matter what happens, this hero, whose actions and reactions are admirably predictable, is compelled not to thwart or upset--even though he looks as though he is--the calculations of which he is the object. The currents of life can appear to lift him up, roll him over, cast him down, he will still belong to this readymade human type. A simple game of chess which doesn't interest me in the least--man, whoever he may be, being for me a mediocre opponent. What I cannot bear are those wretched discussions relative to such and such a move, since winning or losing is not in question. And if the game is not worth the candle, if objective reason does a frightful job--as indeed it does--of serving him who calls upon it, is it not fitting and proper to avoid all contact with these categories? "Diversity is so vast that every different tone of voice, every step, cough, every wipe of the nose, every sneeze...."* (Pascal.) If in a cluster of grapes there are no two alike, why do you want me to describe this grape by the other, by all the others, why do you want me to make a palatable grape? Our brains are dulled by the incurable mania of wanting to make the unknown known, classifiable. The desire for analysis wins out over the sentiments.** (Barrès, Proust.) The result is statements of undue length whose persuasive power is attributable solely to their strangeness and which impress the reader only by the abstract quality of their vocabulary, which moreover is ill-defined. If the general ideas that philosophy has thus far come up with as topics of discussion revealed by their very nature their definitive incursion into a broader or more general area. I would be the first to greet the news with joy. But up till now it has been nothing but idle repartee; the flashes of wit and other niceties vie in concealing from us the true thought in search of itself, instead of concentrating on obtaining successes. It seems to me that every act is its own justification, at least for the person who has been capable of committing it, that it is endowed with a radiant power which the slightest gloss is certain to diminish. Because of this gloss, it even in a sense ceases to happen. It gains nothing to be thus distinguished. Stendhal's heroes are subject to the comments and appraisals--appraisals which are more or less successful--made by that author, which add not one whit to their glory. Where we really find them again is at the point at which Stendahl has lost them. 

We are still living under the reign of logic: this, of course, is what I have been driving at. But in this day and age logical methods are applicable only to solving problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism that is still in vogue allows us to consider only facts relating directly to our experience. Logical ends, on the contrary, escape us. It is pointless to add that experience itself has found itself increasingly circumscribed. It paces back and forth in a cage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge. It too leans for support on what is most immediately expedient, and it is protected by the sentinels of common sense. Under the pretense of civilization and progress, we have managed to banish from the mind everything that may rightly or wrongly be termed superstition, or fancy; forbidden is any kind of search for truth which is not in conformance with accepted practices. It was, apparently, by pure chance that a part of our mental world which we pretended not to be concerned with any longer--and, in my opinion by far the most important part--has been brought back to light. For this we must give thanks to the discoveries of Sigmund Freud. On the basis of these discoveries a current of opinion is finally forming by means of which the human explorer will be able to carry his investigation much further, authorized as he will henceforth be not to confine himself solely to the most summary realities. The imagination is perhaps on the point of reasserting itself, of reclaiming its rights. If the depths of our mind contain within it strange forces capable of augmenting those on the surface, or of waging a victorious battle against them, there is every reason to seize them--first to seize them, then, if need be, to submit them to the control of our reason. The analysts themselves have everything to gain by it. But it is worth noting that no means has been designated a priori for carrying out this undertaking, that until further notice it can be construed to be the province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success is not dependent upon the more or less capricious paths that will be followed.  

Freud very rightly brought his critical faculties to bear upon the dream. It is, in fact, inadmissible that this considerable portion of psychic activity (since, at least from man's birth until his death, thought offers no solution of continuity, the sum of the moments of the dream, from the point of view of time, and taking into consideration only the time of pure dreaming, that is the dreams of sleep, is not inferior to the sum of the moments of reality, or, to be more precisely limiting, the moments of waking) has still today been so grossly neglected. I have always been amazed at the way an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams. It is because man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all the plaything of his memory, and in its normal state memory takes pleasure in weakly retracing for him the circumstances of the dream, in stripping it of any real importance, and in dismissing the only determinant from the point where he thinks he has left it a few hours before: this firm hope, this concern. He is under the impression of continuing something that is worthwhile. Thus the dream finds itself reduced to a mere parenthesis, as is the night. And, like the night, dreams generally contribute little to furthering our understanding. This curious state of affairs seems to me to call for certain reflections:

1) Within the limits where they operate (or are thought to operate) dreams give every evidence of being continuous and show signs of organization. Memory alone arrogates to itself the right to excerpt from dreams, to ignore the transitions, and to depict for us rather a series of dreams than the dream itself. By the same token, at any given moment we have only a distinct notion of realities, the coordination of which is a question of will.* (Account must be taken of the depth of the dream. For the most part I retain only what I can glean from its most superficial layers. What I most enjoy contemplating about a dream is everything that sinks back below the surface in a waking state, everything I have forgotten about my activities in the course of the preceding day, dark foliage, stupid branches. In "reality," likewise, I prefer to fall.) What is worth noting is that nothing allows us to presuppose a greater dissipation of the elements of which the dream is constituted. I am sorry to have to speak about it according to a formula which in principle excludes the dream. When will we have sleeping logicians, sleeping philosophers? I would like to sleep, in order to surrender myself to the dreamers, the way I surrender myself to those who read me with eyes wide open; in order to stop imposing, in this realm, the conscious rhythm of my thought. Perhaps my dream last night follows that of the night before, and will be continued the next night, with an exemplary strictness. It's quite possible, as the saying goes. And since it has not been proved in the slightest that, in doing so, the "reality" with which I am kept busy continues to exist in the state of dream, that it does not sink back down into the immemorial, why should I not grant to dreams what I occasionally refuse reality, that is, this value of certainty in itself which, in its own time, is not open to my repudiation? Why should I not expect from the sign of the dream more than I expect from a degree of consciousness which is daily more acute? Can't the dream also be used in solving the fundamental questions of life? Are these questions the same in one case as in the other and, in the dream, do these questions already exist? Is the dream any less restrictive or punitive than the rest? I am growing old and, more than that reality to which I believe I subject myself, it is perhaps the dream, the difference with which I treat the dream, which makes me grow old.

2) Let me come back again to the waking state. I have no choice but to consider it a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the mind display, in this state, a strange tendency to lose its bearings (as evidenced by the slips and mistakes the secrets of which are just beginning to be revealed to us), but, what is more, it does not appear that, when the mind is functioning normally, it really responds to anything but the suggestions which come to it from the depths of that dark night to which I commend it. However conditioned it may be, its balance is relative. It scarcely dares express itself and, if it does, it confines itself to verifying that such and such an idea, or such and such a woman, has made an impression on it. What impression it would be hard pressed to say, by which it reveals the degree of its subjectivity, and nothing more. This idea, this woman, disturb it, they tend to make it less severe. What they do is isolate the mind for a second from its solvent and spirit it to heaven, as the beautiful precipitate it can be, that it is. When all else fails, it then calls upon chance, a divinity even more obscure than the others to whom it ascribes all its aberrations. Who can say to me that the angle by which that idea which affects it is offered, that what it likes in the eye of that woman is not precisely what links it to its dream, binds it to those fundamental facts which, through its own fault, it has lost? And if things were different, what might it be capable of? I would like to provide it with the key to this corridor.

3) The mind of the man who dreams is fully satisfied by what happens to him. The agonizing question of possibility is no longer pertinent. Kill, fly faster, love to your heart's content. And if you should die, are you not certain of reawaking among the dead? Let yourself be carried along, events will not tolerate your interference. You are nameless. The ease of everything is priceless.

What reason, I ask, a reason so much vaster than the other, makes dreams seem so natural and allows me to welcome unreservedly a welter of episodes so strange that they could confound me now as I write? And yet I can believe my eyes, my ears; this great day has arrived, this beast has spoken.

If man's awaking is harder, if it breaks the spell too abruptly, it is because he has been led to make for himself too impoverished a notion of atonement.

4) From the moment when it is subjected to a methodical examination, when, by means yet to be determined, we succeed in recording the contents of dreams in their entirety (and that presupposes a discipline of memory spanning generations; but let us nonetheless begin by noting the most salient facts), when its graph will expand with unparalleled volume and regularity, we may hope that the mysteries which really are not will give way to the great Mystery. I believe in the future resolution of these two states, dream and reality, which are seemingly so contradictory, into a kind of absolute reality, a surreality, if one may so speak. It is in quest of this surreality that I am going, certain not to find it but too unmindful of my death not to calculate to some slight degree the joys of its possession.

A story is told according to which Saint-Pol-Roux, in times gone by, used to have a notice posted on the door of his manor house in Camaret, every evening before he went to sleep, which read: THE POET IS WORKING.

A great deal more could be said, but in passing I merely wanted to touch upon a subject which in itself would require a very long and much more detailed discussion; I shall come back to it. At this juncture, my intention was merely to mark a point by noting the hate of the marvelous which rages in certain men, this absurdity beneath which they try to bury it. Let us not mince words: the marvelous is always beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only the marvelous is beautiful.  

In the realm of literature, only the marvelous is capable of fecundating works which belong to an inferior category such as the novel, and generally speaking, anything that involves storytelling. Lewis' The Monk is an admirable proof of this. It is infused throughout with the presence of the marvelous. Long before the author has freed his main characters from all temporal constraints, one feels them ready to act with an unprecedented pride. This passion for eternity with which they are constantly stirred lends an unforgettable intensity to their torments, and to mine. I mean that this book, from beginning to end, and in the purest way imaginable, exercises an exalting effect only upon that part of the mind which aspires to leave the earth and that, stripped of an insignificant part of its plot, which belongs to the period in which it was written, it constitutes a paragon of precision and innocent grandeur.* (What is admirable about the fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there is only the real.) It seems to me none better has been done, and that the character of Mathilda in particular is the most moving creation that one can credit to this figurative fashion in literature. She is less a character than a continual temptation. And if a character is not a temptation, what is he? An extreme temptation, she. In The Monk the "nothing is impossible for him who dares try" gives it its full, convincing measure. Ghosts play a logical role in the book, since the critical mind does not seize them in order to dispute them. Ambrosio's punishment is likewise treated in a legitimate manner, since it is finally accepted by the critical faculty as a natural denouement.

It may seem arbitrary on my part, when discussing the marvelous, to choose this model, from which both the Nordic literatures and Oriental literatures have borrowed time and time again, not to mention the religious literatures of every country. This is because most of the examples which these literatures could have furnished me with are tainted by puerility, for the simple reason that they are addressed to children. At an early age children are weaned on the marvelous, and later on they fail to retain a sufficient virginity of mind to thoroughly enjoy fairy tales. No matter how charming they may be, a grown man would think he were reverting to childhood by nourishing himself on fairy tales, and I am the first to admit that all such tales are not suitable for him. The fabric of adorable improbabilities must be made a trifle more subtle the older we grow, and we are still at the age of waiting for this kind of spider.... But the faculties do not change radically. Fear, the attraction of the unusual, chance, the taste for things extravagant are all devices which we can always call upon without fear of deception. There are fairy tales to be written for adults, fairy tales still almost blue.

The marvelous is not the same in every period of history: it partakes in some obscure way of a sort of general revelation only the fragments of which come down to us: they are the romantic ruins, the modern mannequin, or any other symbol capable of affecting the human sensibility for a period of time. In these areas which make us smile, there is still portrayed the incurable human restlessness, and this is why I take them into consideration and why I judge them inseparable from certain productions of genius which are, more than the others, painfully afflicted by them. They are Villon's gibbets, Racine's Greeks, Baudelaire's couches. They coincide with an eclipse of the taste I am made to endure, I whose notion of taste is the image of a big spot. Amid the bad taste of my time I strive to go further than anyone else. It would have been I, had I lived in 1820, I "the bleeding nun," I who would not have spared this cunning and banal "let us conceal" whereof the parodical Cuisin speaks, it would have been I, I who would have reveled in the enormous metaphors, as he says, all phases of the "silver disk." For today I think of a castle, half of which is not necessarily in ruins; this castle belongs to me, I picture it in a rustic setting, not far from Paris. The outbuildings are too numerous to mention, and, as for the interior, it has been frightfully restored, in such manner as to leave nothing to be desired from the viewpoint of comfort. Automobiles are parked before the door, concealed by the shade of trees. A few of my friends are living here as permanent guests: there is Louis Aragon leaving; he only has time enough to say hello; Philippe Soupault gets up with the stars, and Paul Eluard, our great Eluard, has not yet come home. There are Robert Desnos and Roger Vitrac out on the grounds poring over an ancient edict on duelling; Georges Auric, Jean Paulhan; Max Morise, who rows so well, and Benjamin Péret, busy with his equations with birds; and Joseph Delteil; and Jean Carrive; and Georges Limbour, and Georges Limbours (there is a whole hedge of Georges Limbours); and Marcel Noll; there is T. Fraenkel waving to us from his captive balloon, Georges Malkine, Antonin Artaud, Francis Gérard, Pierre Naville, J.-A. Boiffard, and after them Jacques Baron and his brother, handsome and cordial, and so many others besides, and gorgeous women, I might add. Nothing is too good for these young men, their wishes are, as to wealth, so many commands. Francis Picabia comes to pay us a call, and last week, in the hall of mirrors, we received a certain Marcel Duchamp whom we had not hitherto known. Picasso goes hunting in the neighborhood. The spirit of demoralization has elected domicile in the castle, and it is with it we have to deal every time it is a question of contact with our fellowmen, but the doors are always open, and one does not begin by "thanking" everyone, you know. Moreover, the solitude is vast, we don't often run into one another. And anyway, isn't what matters that we be the masters of ourselves, the masters of women, and of love too?

I shall be proved guilty of poetic dishonesty: everyone will go parading about saying that I live on the rue Fontaine and that he will have none of the water that flows therefrom. To be sure! But is he certain that this castle into which I cordially invite him is an image? What if this castle really existed! My guests are there to prove it does; their whim is the luminous road that leads to it. We really live by our fantasies when we give free reign to them. And how could what one might do bother the other, there, safely sheltered from the sentimental pursuit and at the trysting place of opportunities? 

Man proposes and disposes. He and he alone can determine whether he is completely master of himself, that is, whether he maintains the body of his desires, daily more formidable, in a state of anarchy. Poetry teaches him to. It bears within itself the perfect compensation for the miseries we endure. It can also be an organizer, if ever, as the result of a less intimate disappointment, we contemplate taking it seriously. The time is coming when it decrees the end of money and by itself will break the bread of heaven for the earth! There will still be gatherings on the public squares, and movements you never dared hope participate in. Farewell to absurd choices, the dreams of dark abyss, rivalries, the prolonged patience, the flight of the seasons, the artificial order of ideas, the ramp of danger, time for everything! May you only take the trouble to practice poetry. Is it not incumbent upon us, who are already living off it, to try and impose what we hold to be our case for further inquiry?

It matters not whether there is a certain disproportion between this defense and the illustration that will follow it. It was a question of going back to the sources of poetic imagination and, what is more, of remaining there. Not that I pretend to have done so. It requires a great deal of fortitude to try to set up one's abode in these distant regions where everything seems at first to be so awkward and difficult, all the more so if one wants to try to take someone there. Besides, one is never sure of really being there. If one is going to all that trouble, one might as well stop off somewhere else. Be that as it may, the fact is that the way to these regions is clearly marked, and that to attain the true goal is now merely a matter of the travelers' ability to endure. 

We are all more or less aware of the road traveled. I was careful to relate, in the course of a study of the case of Robert Desnos entitled ENTRÉE DES MÉDIUMS,* (See Les Pas perdus, published by N.R.F.) that I had been led to" concentrate my attention on the more or less partial sentences which, when one is quite alone and on the verge of falling asleep, become perceptible for the mind without its being possible to discover what provoked them." I had then just attempted the poetic adventure with the minimum of risks, that is, my aspirations were the same as they are today but I trusted in the slowness of formulation to keep me from useless contacts, contacts of which I completely disapproved. This attitude involved a modesty of thought certain vestiges of which I still retain. At the end of my life, I shall doubtless manage to speak with great effort the way people speak, to apologize for my voice and my few remaining gestures. The virtue of the spoken word (and the written word all the more so) seemed to me to derive from the faculty of foreshortening in a striking manner the exposition (since there was exposition) of a small number of facts, poetic or other, of which I made myself the substance. I had come to the conclusion that Rimbaud had not proceeded any differently. I was composing, with a concern for variety that deserved better, the final poems of Mont de piété, that is, I managed to extract from the blank lines of this book an incredible advantage. These lines were the closed eye to the operations of thought that I believed I was obliged to keep hidden from the reader. It was not deceit on my part, but my love of shocking the reader. I had the illusion of a possible complicity, which I had more and more difficulty giving up. I had begun to cherish words excessively for the space they allow around them, for their tangencies with countless other words which I did not utter. The poem BLACK FOREST derives precisely from this state of mind. It took me six months to write it, and you may take my word for it that I did not rest a single day. But this stemmed from the opinion I had of myself in those days, which was high, please don't judge me too harshly. I enjoy these stupid confessions. At that point cubist pseudo-poetry was trying to get a foothold, but it had emerged defenseless from Picasso's brain, and I was thought to be as dull as dishwater (and still am). I had a sneaking suspicion, moreover, that from the viewpoint of poetry I was off on the wrong road, but I hedged my bet as best I could, defying lyricism with salvos of definitions and formulas (the Dada phenomena were waiting in the wings, ready to come on stage) and pretending to search for an application of poetry to advertising (I went so far as to claim that the world would end, not with a good book but with a beautiful advertisement for heaven or for hell).

In those days, a man at least as boring as I, Pierre Reverdy, was writing:

The image is a pure creation of the mind.

It cannot be born from a comparison but from a juxtaposition of two more or less distant realities.

The more the relationship between the two juxtaposed realities is distant and true, the stronger the image will be--the greater its emotional power and poetic reality...* (Nord-Sud, March 1918)

These words, however sibylline for the uninitiated, were extremely revealing, and I pondered them for a long time. But the image eluded me. Reverdy's aesthetic, a completely a posteriori aesthetic, led me to mistake the effects for the causes. It was in the midst of all this that I renounced irrevocably my point of view. 

One evening, therefore, before I fell asleep, I perceived, so clearly articulated that it was impossible to change a word, but nonetheless removed from the sound of any voice, a rather strange phrase which came to me without any apparent relationship to the events in which, my consciousness agrees, I was then involved, a phrase which seemed to me insistent, a phrase, if I may be so bold, which was knocking at the window. I took cursory note of it and prepared to move on when its organic character caught my attention. Actually, this phrase astonished me: unfortunately I cannot remember it exactly, but it was something like: "There is a man cut in two by the window," but there could be no question of ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the faint visual image* (Were I a painter, this visual depiction would doubtless have become more important for me than the other. It was most certainly my previous predispositions which decided the matter. Since that day, I have had occasion to concentrate my attention voluntarily on similar apparitions, and I know they are fully as clear as auditory phenomena. With a pencil and white sheet of paper to hand, I could easily trace their outlines. Here again it is not a matter of drawing, but simply of tracing. I could thus depict a tree, a wave, a musical instrument, all manner of things of which I am presently incapable of providing even the roughest sketch. I would plunge into it, convinced that I would find my way again, in a maze of lines which at first glance would seem to be going nowhere. And, upon opening my eyes, I would get the very strong impression of something "never seen." The proof of what I am saying has been provided many times by Robert Desnos: to be convinced, one has only to leaf through the pages of issue number 36 of Feuilles libres which contains several of his drawings (Romeo and Juliet, A Man Died This Morning, etc.) which were taken by this magazine as the drawings of a madman and published as such.) of a man walking cut half way up by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body. Beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt, what I saw was the simple reconstruction in space of a man leaning out a window. But this window having shifted with the man, I realized that I was dealing with an image of a fairly rare sort, and all I could think of was to incorporate it into my material for poetic construction. No sooner had I granted it this capacity than it was in fact succeeded by a whole series of phrases, with only brief pauses between them, which surprised me only slightly less and left me with the impression of their being so gratuitous that the control I had then exercised upon myself seemed to me illusory and all I could think of was putting an end to the interminable quarrel raging within me.* (Knut Hamsum ascribes this sort of revelation to which I had been subjected as deriving from hunger, and he may not be wrong. (The fact is I did not eat every day during that period of my life). Most certainly the manifestations that he describes in these terms are clearly the same:

"The following day I awoke at an early hour. It was still dark. My eyes had been open for a long time when I heard the clock in the apartment above strike five. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I couldn't; I was wide awake and a thousand thoughts were crowding through my mind.

"Suddenly a few good fragments came to mind, quite suitable to be used in a rough draft, or serialized; all of a sudden I found, quite by chance, beautiful phrases, phrases such as I had never written. I repeated them to myself slowly, word by word; they were excellent. And there were still more coming. I got up and picked up a pencil and some paper that were on a table behind my bed. It was as though some vein had burst within me, one word followed another, found its proper place, adapted itself to the situation, scene piled upon scene, the action unfolded, one retort after another welled up in my mind, I was enjoying myself immensely. Thoughts came to me so rapidly and continued to flow so abundantly that I lost a whole host of delicate details, because my pencil could not keep up with them, and yet I went as fast as I could, my hand in constant motion, I did not lose a minute. The sentences continued to well up within me, I was pregnant with my subject."

Apollinaire asserted that Chirico's first paintings were done under the influence of cenesthesic disorders (migraines, colics, etc.).) 

Completely occupied as I still was with Freud at that time, and familiar as I was with his methods of examination which I had some slight occasion to use on some patients during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what we were trying to obtain from them, namely, a monologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention on the part of the critical faculties, a monologue consequently unencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought. It had seemed to me, and still does--the way in which the phrase about the man cut in two had come to me is an indication of it--that the speed of thought is no greater than the speed of speech, and that thought does not necessarily defy language, nor even the fast-moving pen. It was in this frame of mind that Philippe Soupault--to whom I had confided these initial conclusions--and I decided to blacken some paper, with a praiseworthy disdain for what might result from a literary point of view. The ease of execution did the rest. By the end of the first day we were able to read to ourselves some fifty or so pages obtained in this manner, and begin to compare our results. All in all, Soupault's pages and mine proved to be remarkably similar: the same overconstruction, shortcomings of a similar nature, but also, on both our parts, the illusion of an extraordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, a considerable choice of images of a quality such that we would not have been capable of preparing a single one in longhand, a very special picturesque quality and, here and there, a strong comical effect. The only difference between our two texts seemed to me to derive essentially from our respective tempers. Soupault's being less static than mine, and, if he does not mind my offering this one slight criticism, from the fact that he had made the error of putting a few words by way of titles at the top of certain pages, I suppose in a spirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give credit where credit is due and say that he constantly and vigorously opposed any effort to retouch or correct, however slightly, any passage of this kind which seemed to me unfortunate. In this he was, to be sure, absolutely right.* (I believe more and more in the infallibility of my thought with respect to myself, and this is too fair. Nonetheless, with this thought-writing, where one is at the mercy of the first outside distraction, "ebullutions" can occur. It would be inexcusable for us to pretend otherwise. By definition, thought is strong, and incapable of catching itself in error. The blame for these obvious weaknesses must be placed on suggestions that come to it from without.) It is, in fact, difficult to appreciate fairly the various elements present: one may even go so far as to say that it is impossible to appreciate them at a first reading. To you who write, these elements are, on the surface, as strange to you as they are to anyone else, and naturally you are wary of them. Poetically speaking, what strikes you about them above all is their extreme degree of immediate absurdity, the quality of this absurdity, upon closer scrutiny, being to give way to everything admissible, everything legitimate in the world: the disclosure of a certain number of properties and of facts no less objective, in the final analysis, than the others.

In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire, who had just died and who, on several occasions, seemed to us to have followed a discipline of this kind, without however having sacrificed to it any mediocre literary means, Soupault and I baptized the new mode of pure expression which we had at our disposal and which we wished to pass on to our friends, by the name of SURREALISM. I believe that there is no point today in dwelling any further on this word and that the meaning we gave it initially has generally prevailed over its Apollinarian sense. To be even fairer, we could probably have taken over the word SUPERNATURALISM employed by Gérard de Nerval in his dedication to the Filles de feu.* (And also by Thomas Carlyle in Sartor Resartus ([Book III] Chapter VIII, "Natural Supernaturalism"), 1833-34.) It appears, in fact, that Nerval possessed to a tee the spirit with which we claim a kinship, Apollinaire having possessed, on the contrary, naught but the letter, still imperfect, of Surrealism, having shown himself powerless to give a valid theoretical idea of it. Here are two passages by Nerval which seem to me to be extremely significant in this respect:

I am going to explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of which you have spoken a short while ago. There are, as you know, certain storytellers who cannot invent without identifying with the characters their imagination has dreamt up. You may recall how convincingly our old friend Nodier used to tell how it had been his misfortune during the Revolution to be guillotined; one became so completely convinced of what he was saying that one began to wonder how he had managed to have his head glued back on.

...And since you have been indiscreet enough to quote one of the sonnets composed in this SUPERNATURALISTIC dream-state, as the Germans would call it, you will have to hear them all. You will find them at the end of the volume. They are hardly any more obscure than Hegel's metaphysics or Swedenborg's MEMORABILIA, and would lose their charm if they were explained, if such were possible; at least admit the worth of the expression....** (See also L'Idéoréalisme by Saint-Pol-Roux.)

Those who might dispute our right to employ the term SURREALISM in the very special sense that we understand it are being extremely dishonest, for there can be no doubt that this word had no currency before we came along. Therefore, I am defining it once and for all:

SURREALISM, n. Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express--verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner--the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by the thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.

ENCYCLOPEDIA. Philosophy. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of previously neglected associations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested play of thought. It tends to ruin once and for all all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solving all the principal problems of life. The following have performed acts of ABSOLUTE SURREALISM: Messrs. Aragon, Baron, Boiffard, Breton, Carrive, Crevel, Delteil, Desnos, Eluard, Gérard, Limbour, Malkine, Morise, Naville, Noll, Péret, Picon, Soupault, Vitrac.

They seem to be, up to the present time, the only ones, and there would be no ambiguity about it were it not for the case of Isidore Ducasse, about whom I lack information. And, of course, if one is to judge them only superficially by their results, a good number of poets could pass for Surrealists, beginning with Dante and, in his finer moments, Shakespeare. In the course of the various attempts I have made to reduce what is, by breach of trust, called genius, I have found nothing which in the final analysis can be attributed to any other method than that.

Young's Nights are Surrealist from one end to the other; unfortunately it is a priest who is speaking, a bad priest no doubt, but a priest nonetheless.

Swift is Surrealist in malice,

Sade is Surrealist in sadism.

Chateaubriand is Surrealist in exoticism.

Constant is Surrealist in politics.

Hugo is Surrealist when he isn't stupid.

Desbordes-Valmore is Surrealist in love.

Bertrand is Surrealist in the past.

Rabbe is Surrealist in death.

Poe is Surrealist in adventure.

Baudelaire is Surrealist in morality.

Rimbaud is Surrealist in the way he lived, and elsewhere.

Mallarmé is Surrealist when he is confiding.

Jarry is Surrealist in absinthe.

Nouveau is Surrealist in the kiss.

Saint-Pol-Roux is Surrealist in his use of symbols.

Fargue is Surrealist in the atmosphere.

Vaché is Surrealist in me.

Reverdy is Surrealist at home.

Saint-Jean-Perse is Surrealist at a distance.

Roussel is Surrealist as a storyteller.

Etc.

I would like to stress the point: they are not always Surrealists, in that I discern in each of them a certain number of preconceived ideas to which--very naively!--they hold. They hold to them because they had not heard the Surrealist voice, the one that continues to preach on the eve of death and above the storms, because they did not want to serve simply to orchestrate the marvelous score. They were instruments too full of pride, and this is why they have not always produced a harmonious sound.* (I could say the same of a number of philosophers and painters, including, among the latter, Uccello, from painters of the past, and, in the modern era, Seurat, Gustave Moreau, Matisse (in "La Musique," for example), Derain, Picasso, (by far the most pure), Braque, Duchamp, Picabia, Chirico (so admirable for so long), Klee, Man Ray, Max Ernst, and, one so close to us, André Masson.)

But we, who have made no effort whatsoever to filter, who in our works have made ourselves into simple receptacles of so many echoes, modest recording instruments who are not mesmerized by the drawings we are making, perhaps we serve an even nobler cause. Thus do we render with integrity the "talent" which has been lent to us. You might as well speak of the talent of this platinum ruler, this mirror, this door, and of the sky, if you like.

We do not have any talent; ask Philippe Soupault:

"Anatomical products of manufacture and low-income dwellings will destroy the tallest cities."

Ask Roger Vitrac:

"No sooner had I called forth the marble-admiral than he turned on his heel like a horse which rears at the sight of the North star and showed me, in the plane of his two-pointed cocked hat, a region where I was to spend my life."

Ask Paul Eluard:

"This is an oft-told tale that I tell, a famous poem that I reread: I am leaning against a wall, with my verdant ears and my lips burned to a crisp."

Ask Max Morise:

"The bear of the caves and his friend the bittern, the vol-au-vent and his valet the wind, the Lord Chancellor with his Lady, the scarecrow for sparrows and his accomplice the sparrow, the test tube and his daughter the needle, this carnivore and his brother the carnival, the sweeper and his monocle, the Mississippi and its little dog, the coral and its jug of milk, the Miracle and its Good Lord, might just as well go and disappear from the surface of the sea."

Ask Joseph Delteil:

"Alas! I believe in the virtue of birds. And a feather is all it takes to make me die laughing."

Ask Louis Aragon:

"During a short break in the party, as the players were gathering around a bowl of flaming punch, I asked a tree if it still had its red ribbon."

And ask me, who was unable to keep myself from writing the serpentine, distracting lines of this preface.

Ask Robert Desnos, he who, more than any of us, has perhaps got closest to the Surrealist truth, he who, in his still unpublished works* (NOUVELLES HÉBRIDES, DÉSORDRE FORMEL, DEUIL POUR DEUIL.) and in the course of the numerous experiments he has been a party to, has fully justified the hope I placed in Surrealism and leads me to believe that a great deal more will still come of it. Desnos speaks Surrealist at will. His extraordinary agility in orally following his thought is worth as much to us as any number of splendid speeches which are lost, Desnos having better things to do than record them. He reads himself like an open book, and does nothing to retain the pages, which fly away in the windy wake of his life.

(*)앙드레 브르통의 (1차) '초현실주의 선언'(1924)을 세미나 자료로 올려놓는다. 브르통은 이 선언문에서 '심리적 오토마티즘(Psychic automatism)'을 초현실주의의 핵심적인 규정으로 제시한다: "Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express -- verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner -- the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by the thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern."

더불어, 사드, 보들레르, 랭보, 로트레아몽, 레이몽 루셀, 심지어 단테의 작품들까지도 '초현실주의 이전의 초현실주의'로 규정함으로써 자신들의 문학사/예술사적 계보를 정립하고자 한다. 이 선언문의 우리말 번역은 송재영 편역, <다다/쉬르레알리슴 선언>(문학과지성사, 1987)에 수록돼 있다. 초현실주의의 역사에 관한 기본 문헌은 모리스 나도의 <초현실주의의 역사>(고려원, 1985; 원저는 1945)이다.

06. 04. 07.