There is a certain equivocation on the phase of often the Absurd
“I've invited an individual :::. in order to clarify to you, ” states the Old Man within The Chair, “that often the individual”—that avatar of this self spawned by simply the Enlightenment—“and the particular person happen to be one and the similar. ” That established, he says a instant later, “I am certainly not myself. Me another. I am the particular one inside the other” (145). About the personal, in order to be sure, there has been a certain forestalling about the stage of the particular Absurd, from Beckett's tramp insisting that the very little messenger through Godot not necessarily come future and declare that he certainly not noticed him to the imbroglio about the doorbell in The Bald Soprano. “Experience teaches us, ” tells Mrs. Jones in the fit of anger, “that even when one listens to the doorbell ring that is because there is definitely by no means anyone there” (23), almost like there were zero one to be there, zero person or perhaps individual, nothing at all resembling a new personal. Associated with course, we don't have to believe her, no more than we believe Derrida or Deleuze or even the fresh orthodoxy connected with dispersed subjectivity, that typically the self is no more than liability of identities elided into language. For inside the utter untenability, untenable since utterance, the self is also liable to be obtained on trust. “This day when you looked over on your own in the mirror, an individual didn't see yourself, ” says Mrs. Martin to be able to Mister. Martin, who will be undeterred by that. “That's because I wasn't now there still, ” he says (36). How curious it is, how wondering this is, we somehow consider we exist.
As for the presence of the “work of art” within our demystifying period, when art work has not been recently completely divested of privilege, that have been relegated to be able to the status of another kind of “discourse, ” while (with the several in jeopardy too) this aesthetic has been converted into an antiaesthetic. One might think that Ionesco was there in move forward along with his notion of the antiplay, getting to its metonymic control, certainly not that, that, not necessarily that, this kind of, words falling, sliding, rotting with inexactitud, the clear play with the signifiers: epigrams, puns, évidence, suppositions, rebates, pleonasms and even paradoxes, doggerel, proverbs, fable, the repertoire of prosody, or in a vertigo of nonsense and nonsensical iterations, a good eruption of mere billet, plosives, fricatives, a cataclysm of glottals or, inside screaming choral climax in the Bald Soprano, with a new staccato of cockatoos, “cascades of cacas” (40) careening over the stage. Or maybe since the Professor demands via the Student in The Lesson, sounds expected loudly with all the push regarding her lung area, such as that great of functionality art, Diamanda Bals, not sparing this vocal wires, but doing a good virtual weapon ones. Or beat warming into their sensation—“‘Butterfly, ’ ‘Eureka, ’ ‘Trafalgar, ’ ‘Papaya’”—above the surrounding weather, “so that they may take flight without danger involving slipping on deaf ear, that happen to be, ” as in the insensible resonance of the bourgeois target audience (Brecht's culinary theater), “veritable voids, tombs of sonorities, ” to be awakened, whenever, by an accelerating combination of words, syllables, sentences, in “purely irrational montage of sound, ” an assault of sound, “denuded of all sense” (62–63).
Manic obsessive, cruel since he or she becomes, what this Teacher definitely seems to be defining, through the crescendo of violence, is not only typically the hero worship of an antiplay, yet a kind associated with alternative theater as well as one other form of fine art. Certainly, he might be conveying, “from that dizzying plus slippery perspective in which in turn every reality is lost, ” what Artaud tries to be able to reimagine, in associated typically the Orphic mysteries into the alchemical theatre, its “complete, sonorous, streaming realization, ”6 mainly because well as certain experimental events of the sixties, turned on simply by Artaud's cruelty, its faith-based effort, which came, such as return of the repressed, with the exhilarating crest with the theater of the Ludicrous. As a result, in the interval of the Living Theatre and Dionysus in 69, or Orghast on Persepolis, we saw artists (the word “actor” shunted besides, tainted like “the author” by conventional drama) pitilessly expelling air from your bronchi, or caressingly on the expressive cords, which, similar to Artaud's incantatory murmurs surrounding this time or maybe, in the Balinese drama, the “flights of elytra, [the] rustling of branches, ”7 or maybe, in the brutalizing inspiration of the Professor's lyric saying, “like harps or foliage from the wind, will unexpectedly tremble, agitate, vibrate, vibrate, vibrate or ovulate, or even fricate or jostle towards one another, or sibilate, sibilate, inserting everything in movements, typically the uvula, the tongue, this palate, the pearly whites, ” and as anyone might still notice this today (back inside an acting class) together with workouts in the tradition through Grotowski to Suzuki (tempered by the Linklater method) often the polymorphous perversity associated with it all: “Finally the words come out connected with the nostril, the lips, the pores, drawing together with them all the internal organs we have referred to as, torn up by the moth, in a impressive, majestic flight, … labials, dentals, palatals, and other individuals, some caressing some bitter and violent” (62–64). And several, too, expressing “all the perverse possibilities of this mind, ” as Artaud says with the contagious great time-saver of the Plague8—the contamination there, if not this revelation, in Ionesco's The particular Chairs, with “a bad smell from … immobile water” listed below the home window and, with mosquitos being released in (113), the unrelieved stench of the pathos involving “all that's gone along the drain” (116).