{"id":5809,"date":"2013-07-13T02:04:17","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T02:04:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=5809"},"modified":"2013-07-13T02:04:17","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T02:04:17","slug":"021-undated-1956-vol-01-volume-01","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/02-works-of-the-mother\/03-agenda\/01-volume-01\/021-undated-1956-vol-01-volume-01","title":{"rendered":"-021_Undated_1956.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Undated 1956<\/h3>\n

(Letter to Mother from Satprem<\/span>)<\/i> <\/p>\n

Pondicherry <\/p>\n

All artistic creation is born of a question, a conflict, a discord with
\noneself, mankind or the cosmos. What painter, what poet, what writer has not
\nwrenched from this conflict the best of his art, from Michelangelo to Goya,
\nfrom Van Gogh to Rodin<\/span>, from Villon<\/span>
\nto Rimbaud, Baudelaire or Dostoevski<\/span>? And the work of
\nart – the painting, novel or poem – is a harmony torn from this disharmony, a
\nconquest over some chaos, a response to a question posed by man – a
\nmetamorphosis. <\/p>\n

Artistic creation relies upon that which is most unique in man, most
\nsingular with respect to others, and it is through this singular uniqueness
\nthat the artist achieves his metamorphosis, his re-creation of the world; it is
\nthrough this that he seeks to commune with others, himself and the world. <\/p>\n

Now, Yoga seeks to eliminate conflict, problems or questions. Man has to
\nforget all this, to cease being a question. <\/p>\n

Page 63<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

So when an answer has been given to every question, what place remains for
\nthe work of art? When all is metamorphosized<\/span> through
\nTranscendence, what place remains for artistic metamorphosis? When all is
\nsupreme harmony, can this harmony be expressed otherwise than through silence,
\na smile, a<\/span> radiance or ‘inspired’ poetry – of which
\nSri Aurobindo is the sole <\/i>example; even so, his poetry is not drawn from
\nthe human level, it surpasses the human, it issues from elsewhere.<\/i> <\/p>\n

Must artistic creation cease being human, then; must it cease relying upon
\nthe human? – which<\/span> would then mean having to reject so
\nmany undeniably great painters, poets or writers? Must one wait to be open to
\nthe supramental planes of consciousness before being able to reconcile
\n(assuming such reconciliation is possible) yoga and artistic creation? And,
\nuntil then, smother all that sustains the creative elan<\/span>,
\ni.e. the individual, the conflict, that part of oneself which every creator
\nfeels to be the purest human part? Must one extinguish in oneself this play of
\nlight and shadow from which art derives its highest accents? <\/p>\n

Signed: <\/i>Bernard <\/p>\n

January (?) 1956 <\/p>\n

(Letter to Mother from Satprem<\/span>)<\/i> <\/p>\n

Pondicherry <\/p>\n

Mother, I need to unburden myself of all that is wringing my heart, and if
\nthe Divine exists somewhere, it is to him that I would like to express my
\nprofound disgust. For all this is profoundly scandalous, absurd and revolting.
\nI know that the external world is absurd and that men live in it vainly; but
\nthe world of the Ashram is no less absurd, no less vain. ‘Someone’ is making
\nfun of us, ‘someone’ is deceiving us – for if truly there is some witness to
\nthis tragi<\/span>-comedy and if this whole world is his
\n‘game,’ it is a cruel game and he is a cheater, for he has all the cards in his
\nhand and he pretends to make us play a game in which we are<\/p>\n

Page 64<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

 inevitably the losers – a game we cannot play, for we
\nare helpless miserable, without strength, without light. <\/p>\n

All our efforts are vain and sadly ridiculous. At each instant we must begin
\neverything anew, one step seems to lead us forward another to draw us back. We
\ndesperately turn in circles and sometimes, in our dizziness, we believe we glimpse
\nlights, but these are only the little, dancing lights of our own fatigue, our
\nown weakness. There is no victory,<\/span> there are only
\nmoments of respite. Meditation brings calm and peace, of course, but so does
\nsleep. We are all seeking release, in love, in opium, in action, in war or in
\npower – or in Yoga; but one means is just as vain as the other. There is no
\nreal solution, there are only more or less effective ways of forgetting for an
\nhour, or a day, that we are men alone and helpless. <\/p>\n

It is quite possible, even quite probable, that
\nin another hour or another day, I may feel quite the contrary of what I now
\nwrite. But the person I am tomorrow does not negate <\/i>he who I am today,
\nit only makes him more absurd, more unbearably absurd. The one<\/span>
\nwho I am right now, for an hour perhaps, needs to cry out his disgust with this
\nnameless farce. We are puppets, fools, and I am ready to admit that everything
\nis just a state of consciousness – but it is still a fool’s state of
\nconsciousness. Tomorrow’s puppet who might ask for grace from the divine, and
\nbelieve in him, will still be a puppet, a pacified and resigned puppet – but a
\nmarionette no less absurd playing a game no less absurd. I understand those who
\ngo about planting dynamite everywhere; if they seek death, it is because they
\ndesperately wanted to live but found it impossible to live. One cannot live,<\/span> one can only flee this intolerable existence in one
\nway or another. Mother, it is impossible for a man to look at himself straight
\nin the face in a completely lucid way for more than five minutes – IF HE DID,
\nHE WOULD KILL HIMSELF … SO I wonder if the divine – if he exists – has ever
\nknown the suffering of mankind. If he exists, why doesn’t he give men the strength
\n<\/i>to break out of this ‘Magic Circle’ in which they
\nkeep turning like prisoners in a cell .<\/span> Twelve years
\nago, when I was twenty, I was turning in circles in a prison cell in Bordeaux,’
\nawaiting some execution or other – but I am still this same prisoner. If I have
\nadvanced during these twelve years, it is in despair, in misery. All this is
\noutrageous, scandalous, should the divine exist. <\/p>\n

1. Satprem<\/span> was arrested by the Gestapo in
\nBordeaux
\nin 1943 for resisting the German occupation. He was later sent to Buchenwald<\/span> and Mauthausen<\/span>.\n<\/p>\n

Page 65<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

Leave the Ashram? – But the rest of the world is just as absurd. It is man
\nwho is absurd, and god – if he exists – is a pure disgrace. Mother, I am
\nSCANDALIZED, and I feel within me the rebellion and despair of all men who
\nsurely have not deserved all this. <\/p>\n

Signed: <\/i>Bernard <\/p>\n

Page 64<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p><\/div>\n

ISBN 2-902776-33-0<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/textarea><\/form>\n

<\/title><\/a><\/div>\n

<\/span><\/table>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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