All my plays are a new call and the appearance of nostalgia
“How curious the idea is, precisely how curious that is usually, ” as they roulé-boulé in The Bald Voz, no roots, zero origins, no authenticity, not any, little, only unmeaning, and even certainly no higher power—though the Emperor turns up invisibly from the Chairs, as from a “marvelous dream :::., the puro gaze, this noble encounter, the top, the radiance of His or her Majesty, ” the Classic Man's “last recourse” (149–50), as this individual says, prior to he entrusts the information to the Orator together with throws himself out typically the window, leaving us to discover that the Orator is deaf and idiotic. Thus the delusion associated with hierarchy and, spoken or maybe unspoken, the futile counter or vacuity of conversation. But even more wondering, “what a new coincidence! ” (17) is how this kind of empty datum of this Absurd started to be the litany of deconstruction, which hedges its gambling bets, however, with a devastating nothingness simply by letting metaphysics throughout right after presumably rubbing it, the fact that is, putting it “under erasure” (sous rature), since Derrida does in their grammatology, conceding what Nietzsche told us, that Jesus is dead, but working with the expression anyhow, mainly because we can almost never think without it, or even various other transcendental signifiers, for example attractiveness or eternity—which are usually, in fact, the words spoken by the Old Man to the undetectable Belle within The Chairs, mourning just what they didn't dare, a lost love, “Everything ;-( lost, lost, lost” (133).
There would appear to help be parody here, in addition to one might expect to have that Ionesco—in a type of descent from Nietzsche to be able to poststructuralist thought—would not only disclaim the older metaphysics although laugh as well with the ridiculousness of virtually any nostalgia regarding the idea, as for the originary moments of a sparkling beauty gifted with Platonic truth. As well as the Orator who comes up dressed as “a common painter or poet on the nineteenth century” (154) will be, with his histrionic approach and conceited air, absolutely not Lamartine, which requests “Eternité, néant, passé, sombre abîme” (“Eternity, nothingness, past—dark abyss”) to return this sublime raptures they possess stolen; nor is he / she remotely the figure involving Keats with his Grecian urn, teasing us away of concept in equating beauty plus reality. Exactly what we have rather, inside Amédée or The way to get Purge of It, is the spellbinding beauty of that which, when they forget to close the lids, emanates from the eyes, which in turn haven't aged—“Great green vision. Shimmering like beacons”—of the incurably growing corpse. “We could get along without their type of attractiveness, ” claims Madeleine, the sour together with sour partner, “it can take up too much area. ” Yet Amédée is definitely fascinated by way of the transfiguring growth of its ineluctable presence, which might came from the abyss connected with precisely what is lost, lost, lost. “He's growing. It's quite normal. He's branching out and about. ”3 But if there is anything beautiful here, the idea seems to come—if definitely not from the Romantic interval or one of typically the more memorable futurist graphics, Boccioni's The Body Climbing (Amédée's family name is usually Buccinioni)—from another poetic source: “That corpse you planted last year in your own personal garden, and Has this begun to be able to sprout? ” It's as though Ionesco ended up picking up, basically, Big t. S. big inside The Waste Land: “Will it bloom this yr? ”4 If that change , or even balloons, but lures away, getting Amédée using this, this oracle of Keats's urn—all you know on earth and all you need to help know—seems a good far cry from the hilarious mordancy of this transcendence, or maybe what in The Bar stools, set up Orator had voiced, could have radiated upon great grandchildren, if not from the eye of the corpse, through the light of the Ancient Man's mind (157).
Yet the truth is of which, intended for Ionesco, the Stupid is definitely predicated on “the memory space of a memory of a memory” associated with the actual pastoral, attractiveness and truth inside characteristics, if not quite nevertheless in art. Or so the idea appears in “Why Do you Write? A Summing Up, ” where he / she summons up his childhood at the Mill of this Chapelle-Anthenaise, a good farm inside St-Jean-sur-Mayenne, “the region, the particular bar, the fireside. ”5 Whatever it was now there he didn't understand, like the priest's questions at their first admission, it seemed to be there, too, that he was “conscious of being alive. … My spouse and i resided, ” this individual claims, “in happiness, joy, knowing for some reason that each moment had been fullness without knowing the particular word bounties. I resided in some sort of sort of dazzlement. ” Whatever then happened to impair this lively time, the dazzle proceeds in memory, while a little something some other than fool's platinum: “the world has been stunning, and I was cognizant of it, everything was fresh new and pure. I do it again: it is to locate this magnificence again, intact in the mud”—which, because a site of often the Stupid, he shares with Beckett—“that I write fictional works out. All my publications, all my takes on will be a call, the manifestation of a nostalgia, some sort of search for a treasure buried around the water, lost inside the catastrophe of history” (6).