Not to be one to just hark on about general observations of london v melbourne, I thought today's entry will be a cut'n'paste jobbie regarding an old dead creative human that was recently directed to my path. A rather witty Russian animator pal introduced me to the work of Daniil Kharms which I find amusing and melancholic - not a bad combo at all. I have since been force fed a plethora of 'other' Russian literature from said manic of the stop motion world and once i begin to gobble up said feast maybe i will enter more 'net nicking' for yr collective curiosities.

For now, a briefer than brief background:

DANIIL KHARMS (1905-1942)



In 1928, Daniil Kharms founded the avant-garde collective OBERIU, or Union of Real Art. He embraced the new movements of Futurism as laid out by his idols, Kazimir Malevich, Velemir Khlebnikov, and Igor Terentiev, among others. Their ideas served as a springboard for his idiosyncratic vision and an aesthetic centered around a belief in the autonomy of art from real world rules and logic, and the intrinsic meaning to be found in objects and words outside of their practical function.

By the late 1920s, his antirational verse, nonlinear theatrical performances, and public displays of decadent and illogical behavior earned Kharms - who always dressed like an English dandy with a calabash pipe - the reputation of being a “fool” or a “crazy-man” in Leningrad cultural circles. Soviet authorities, having become increasingly hostile toward the avant-garde in general, deemed Kharms’ writing for children anti-Soviet because of its absurd logic and its refusal to instill materialist Soviet values. In 1931 he was arrested and prosecuted for his involvement in a group of “anti-Soviet children’s writers.” After serving a short time in exile, he was no longer allowed to perform his work. He found it increasingly difficult to publish even children’s books, which had been his sole source of income, and Kharms became evermore destitute over the next decade. He wrote for the desk drawer, for his wife, Marina Malich, and for a small group of friends, the “chinari,” who met privately to discuss matters of philosophy, music, mathematics, and literature.

Kharms lived in debt and hunger for several years until his final arrest on suspicion of treason in the summer of 1941. He was imprisoned in the psychiatric ward at Leningrad Prison No. 1. and died in his cell in February, 1942. His work was saved from the war by loyal friends and hidden until the 1960s when his children’s writing became widely published and scholars began the job of recovering his manuscripts and publishing them in the west.


THE DREAM

Kalugin fell asleep and had a dream that he was sitting in some bushes and a policeman was walking past the bushes.
Kalugin woke up, scratched his mouth and went to sleep again and had another dream that he was walking past some bushes and that a policeman had hidden in the bushes and was sitting there.

Kalugin woke up, put a newspaper under his head, so as not to wet the pillow with his dribblings, and went to sleep again; and again he had a dream that he was sitting in some bushes and a policeman was walking past the bushes.

Kalugin woke up, changed the newspaper, lay down and went to sleep again. He fell asleep and had another dream that he was walking past some bushes and a policeman was sitting in the bushes.

At this point Kalugin woke up and decided not to sleep any more, but he immediately fell asleep and had a dream that he was sitting behind a policeman and some bushes were walking past.

Kalugin let out a yell and tossed around in his bed but couldn't wake up.

Kalugin slept straight through for four days and four nights and on the fifth day he awoke so emaciated that he had to tie his boots to his feet with string, so that they didn't fall off. In the bakery where Kalugin always bought wheaten bread, they didn't recognize him and handed him a half-rye loaf.

And a sanitary commission, which was going round the apartments, on catching sight of Kalugin, decided that he was unsanitary and no use for anything and instructed the janitors to throw Kalugin out with the rubbish.

Kalugin was folded in two and thrown out as rubbish.

PERECHIN

Perechin sat on a drawing pin and, from this moment, his life changed abruptly. From a contemplative, quiet man Perechin turned into a downright scoundrel. He grew himself a moustache and henceforth trimmed it extremely untidily, in such a way that the one side of his moustache was always longer than the other. And so his moustache came to grow somehow askew. It became impossible to look at Perechin. What is more, he would give a repulsive wink of the eye and twitch his cheek. For a certain time Perechin confined himself to petty and reprehensible tricks: he told tales, denounced people, and cheated tram conductors by paying them his fare in the very smallest copper coin and each time two or three kopecks short.

CLUNK

Summer. A writing table. A door to the right. A picture on the wall.
The picture is a drawing of a horse, the horse has a gypsum in its teeth. OLGA PETROVNA is chopping wood. At every blow Olga Petrovna's pince-nez leaps from her nose. YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH is seated in an armchair smoking.
OLGA PETROVNA: (Strikes with the chopper at the log, which, however, does not as much as splinter)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: (Putting on her pince-nez, swipes at the log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: (Putting on her pince-nez, swipes at the log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: (Putting on her pince-nez, swipes at the log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: (Putting on her pince-nez) Yevdokim Osipovich! I implore you, don't keep saying that word 'clunk'.
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Very well, very well.
OLGA PETROVNA: (Striking with the chopper at the log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: Yevdokim Osipovich. You promised not to keep saying that word 'clunk'.
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Very well, very well, Olga Petrovna. I won't any more.
OLGA PETROVNA: (Striking with the chopper at log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA: (Putting on her pince-nez) This is disgraceful. A grown-up, middle-aged man, and he doesn't understand a simple human request.
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Olga Petrovna! You may carry on with your work in peace. I won't disturb you any more.
OLGA PETROVNA: I implore you, I really implore you: let me chop this log at least.
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Chop away, of course you can, chop away.
OLGA PETROVNA: (Striking with chopper at log)
YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH: Clunk!
OLGA PETROVNA drops the chopper, opens her mouth, but is unable lo say anything. YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH gets up from the armchair, looks OLGA PETROVNA up and down and slowly walks away. OLGA PETROVNA Stays immobile, mouth open, and gazes after the retreating YEVDOKIM OSIPOVICH.

FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS OF HOW A NEW IDEA DISCONCERTS A MAN UNPRERPARED FOR IT

1.
WRITER: I'm a writer.
READER: In my opinion you're shit!
THE WRITER stands for a few minutes, shaken by this new idea, and falls down in a dead faint. He is carried out.
2.
ARTIST: I'm an artist.
WORKER: In my opinion you're shit!
THE ARTIST turns as white as a sheet, sways like a thin reed and unexpectedly expires. He is carried out.
3.
COMPOSER: I am a composer.
VANYA RUBLYOV: In my opinion you are . . .!
THE COMPOSER, breathing heavily, sank back. He is unexpectedly carried out.
4.
CHEMIST: I'm a chemist.
PHYSICIST: In my opinion you're . . .!
THE CHEMIST said not another word and collapsed heavily to the floor.