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Phantagraph, v. 8, issue 3, whole 32, August 1940
Page 11
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The Phantagraph Aug '40 Page 9 ****************************************************** John B. Michel - - Suicide is not Enough I have always said so. I even painted a picture about it. They called the painting "the least smelliest of the season." What is suicide The killing of the body? The annihilation of the physical awareness? Yes, it is all that. But above all it is the supreme attempt to negate continuity. Continuity. Endless streams of vortexing lines, curving in and about. Lines of smell, sight, hearing, nostalgia. The terrible longings. The power drive. Sweating, strain, lies. Attack, and retreat. The maneuvering, the delicate maneuvering. Bodies. "with sweat in between." Is life enough? Nothing is enough. A sudden descent from the apex of smugness. A whirling of darknesses. Faces. Friends, enemies. Faces elongated, pudgy, elephantine, sugary, endless, super crowding. And voices. And smells. What the hell deserves the encumbrance of life. Why bother His Supreme Evilness with our superficial, our damp foulness? Does the amateur consort with professional, mouse outrun horse? A bee challenge the stars? Not in my universe. What is power? It lies in the voice of mornings, in the crash of bergs on the sea floor. It grows out of our bodies, ties its wings to the wind, possess jealously the large molecules of a rubber band. Power! Continuity! Onward and forever. But tasting bitterness and the dregs of bitterness is to omuch. Against my universe, against every line, I sweated, against my dictates, against morality, I raised my hand. In that hand was a gun and it fired noisily. Suicide is _not_ enough. **********************************************************
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The Phantagraph Aug '40 Page 9 ****************************************************** John B. Michel - - Suicide is not Enough I have always said so. I even painted a picture about it. They called the painting "the least smelliest of the season." What is suicide The killing of the body? The annihilation of the physical awareness? Yes, it is all that. But above all it is the supreme attempt to negate continuity. Continuity. Endless streams of vortexing lines, curving in and about. Lines of smell, sight, hearing, nostalgia. The terrible longings. The power drive. Sweating, strain, lies. Attack, and retreat. The maneuvering, the delicate maneuvering. Bodies. "with sweat in between." Is life enough? Nothing is enough. A sudden descent from the apex of smugness. A whirling of darknesses. Faces. Friends, enemies. Faces elongated, pudgy, elephantine, sugary, endless, super crowding. And voices. And smells. What the hell deserves the encumbrance of life. Why bother His Supreme Evilness with our superficial, our damp foulness? Does the amateur consort with professional, mouse outrun horse? A bee challenge the stars? Not in my universe. What is power? It lies in the voice of mornings, in the crash of bergs on the sea floor. It grows out of our bodies, ties its wings to the wind, possess jealously the large molecules of a rubber band. Power! Continuity! Onward and forever. But tasting bitterness and the dregs of bitterness is to omuch. Against my universe, against every line, I sweated, against my dictates, against morality, I raised my hand. In that hand was a gun and it fired noisily. Suicide is _not_ enough. **********************************************************
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