Paul Eluar biography

In the morning, endless lines stretch at the bakery door. People in well -worn clothes are chilly in their arms. Tired, hungry passengers are falling asleep in the wagons of the subway. The Nazi patrols print a step along the pavement. The city, recently lively and welcoming, frozen warily, deeply holding its pain and hope, its proud rebellion, the flame of its rebellion. The weapon of courage is in the night.

Paul Eluer of old and new masters. Especially a lot of Picasso's drawings - the owner of the house is his close friend. He sits at the desktop: a tall dome of his forehead, a beautiful elongated face, the whiskey is noticeably touched by gray hair, the eyes are large, bluish-gray, calm-such a look is only in very kind people. The fingers with which he crosses the stack of leaflets tremble slightly.

The leaflets are painted with different handwriting. In unknown ways, they fell on this table from the Nazi dungeons, prisoners of war camps, partisan shelters, and emigration. They are saturated with the blood of executed, then exiled, with a soot of London fogs, hot dust of Africa. Of these, a poetic book will have to be collected - the chronicle of the vague time of the occupation, evidence that the French poets with honor withstood the test of tragic years, giving France the weapons of their song.

A clear, almost student handwriting, the compiler displays the word of the title on the pure page of the word - “the honor of poets”. The next day, the manuscript will be sent to an underground printing house. Another of the many things that Paul Eluer is cold -blooded, with almost reckless insolence, was completed under the very nose of the invaders. In the minds of some of his long-standing fans of the Eluire underground, the singer of compatriots and the compiler of the leaflets, who had taken up the weapons, did not fit in at all once on the pages of his former books with the appearance of a desperate builder of fragile dwellings of love and joy erected among an uncomfortable, shocked world.

It was necessary to be a very sensitive friend of the poet, so that at the time, when he was painfully circling along the roundabout paths and lost on the overwhelming, to be able to distinguish in his hand a reliable thread, which led him through the labyrinth of a confused consciousness to the truth that allowed him to stand up with historical requests of the 20th century. And if the difficult “path from afar” was passed to the end to the end, then primarily because his steps invariably directed the craving for tenderness and purity, the dream of a friendly trust in the man-brown and the fullness of happiness here, on earth, everything that the “law of kindness” made the meaning of his life, searches, art.

In the city of the sorrow, Eugene Grandel, who entered the poetry under the name of the Elyuar field, belonged to the generation of those young men who had to, barely removing the gymnasium uniform, to attach soldier windings and wrap himself up in an unnecessary, stitched, covered with trench mud of a soldier's overcoat. Putting into the camping bag “Leaves of the grass” Witman and a volume of Apolliner poems, the newbin Elyar in December appeared at the draft point of his sanitary platoon.

Having served several months at different hospitals, he achieved transfer to the infantry regiment and soon went to the front. Democracy, in the name of which he was called to fight, turned out to be a meaningless massacre in trenches, sung by the brotherhood dear to his heart - gas attacks. In the Hospital Chamber for seriously wounded and poisoned and poisoned, on vacation in the front -line village, Elyar wrote his early verses about the bitter disappointments of peers - “a soldier with someone else’s gun”, about “sad lands, where people are insanely tired and joys are so far”, about the final knocking of machine guns and hollow rats, killed by shots from a pistol.

But on the roads of tears and blood, where “duty and anxiety shared a harsh life in half,” he did not get tired of keeping faith in the bloom of love and lilac, her spring keys and “calm hope” in the hidden corners of his soul. Returning home, the demobilized soldier Eluard created in his poetry one of the most beautiful humanistic “Robinsonades” that arose in a torn post -war Europe.

It was the lyrics of the converting dream, the rainbow glory in honor of one of the "lucky land" - yesterday’s soldier who returned to his native hearth: "For a long time I did not need a face, but now I have a face to be loved to be happy." He sang a friendly smile and cleanliness of expensive eyes, a gardener, the free flight of a bird, the greens of spring seedlings. He composed the anthem of the hands of a worker, who, tired of countless destruction, took up the guns of creation - a plow, a rubble, a pen, a violin bow: the poet admired the quiet comfort of the family hearth and caught a wary breath of his wife; He stubbornly erected the walls of the house, behind which the modest human happiness could hide from storms and icy winds.

Let the heavenly azure be blocked by the roof - after all, the fire in the hearth is divorced. But you can’t live a long -lasting illusion, even very carefully cherished. Sooner or later, the creators of the Robinsonada discover that the house, which seemed so strong, is too similar to the air castle. And then anxiety creeps in the heart of the builder: the eyes are cried, the misfortunes of the unfortunate.They have no knowledge, and tears are colorless, and he does not ask for anything for a sensitive heart.

In prison, he is sad, sad and free. The translation of A. Ladin's era persistently knocked on the souls of young people who returned from someone else's war. In the east, a young Soviet power stood out of the wreckage of the tsarist empire. In Europe, inflation wandered, leaving behind the green children and chubby pockets of dealers. In the Munich brewer, the holy fool has already prophesied the campaign against the Communists and made Jewish pogroms.

The era demanded from everyone: make a choice. Everyone chose his own. Some entered the gangs of fascist youth, wrote evil pamphlets and no less evil novels against workers, Moscow, and the revolution of the year. Others welcomed the light of the truth coming from Soviet Russia, collaborated with a barbus, and created a French Communist Party. Still others were amused by manifestos about the “riot of the spirit”, arranged parody courts over the chauvinist Barres and at the same time insulted the memory of the humanist France - and also chose.

Among the latter, who, according to one of them, “social illiteracy”, the “surrealist revolution” arose - one of many in those years and equally fruitless attempts to overcome the gap between the personality and society only in the imagination, with the help of Freudian myth -making. From the very beginning, the anarchist overthrow of the mind, the rebellion against the philistine “common sense” from the standpoint, testifying to the extreme dependence of the surrealists on the very bourgeois thinking of the era of decline, against which they so fiercely hung up, did not promise Elyuar neither “changing life” with the help of dreams, which he so sincerely believed, nor the acquisition of so passionately collected by him "Cleanliness." And therefore, the fascination with surrealism became the crisis of his humanism.

The lawsuits of loneliness have repeatedly constrained the poet’s impulses to excellent harmony in the world and his own soul, the “automatic letter” closed the pure source of his reverent confession, the hypnotic enchantment of death sometimes erupted his bitter, a nicer crush of the incorporated heart. Later, looking back, Elyar said about this time of his searches: my mind is in the shapeless mass, full of meaningless forms, which covers rot and decline, objection and crime, indifference and war.

That is why my brothers almost expelled me: he affirmed himself, did not understand their struggle. Translation by M. Vaxmamer Eluer and Picasso. The photograph of G. however, the neglect of the real in the name of the “super -real”, partly undermining the healthy humanism of Elyuar for a while, could not etch the need for spiritual renewal, which forced the poet to look for, to go forward all the time.

In the eyes of the leader of the group Andre Breton, he remained too "traditional", for he stubbornly refused to prefer from the beginning to the end to the conscious, creative work of the poet a certain “automatic recording” of scraps of thoughts, randomly heaped words. With the intolerance of the Secretary Fanatic, Breton forbade his like-minded people to speak with verses filled with topical public pathos.

And Elyar, despite these aesthetic “taboos”, threw the philistines in the face, “forever chewing”, the rebellious curse of his “criticism of poetry”: well, of course, I hate the kingdom of the bourgeois of the Kingdom of Spic and Popov! But even more - people who are not as much as me as me. Ladinsky surrealists obfely indulged in “black humor” - even in “City of sorrow” there is no trace of this galliness of gallows who, indiscriminately, who had clashed in the same image, completely random, beating the effect with their absurd alogism of concepts.

Such a “freedom of spirit” for Elyuar is rather a tragic impasse than overcoming earthly weaknesses, and behind the heading of his books “dying because he has not died” lies not the wit of played pessimism, but a genuine drama of a person who was insanely tired of living in a cold world and even more from the cold, which struck his soul from within: “there were several throughout the earth, that he thought that he was thinking that he was thinking that he was thinking that he was thinking that he was thinking that he was thinking Odinok.

They sang and were right that they sang. But they sang as they go to death. Raw worn night, how long will we take you out? When, finally, we will overturn your cloaks? The delusional visions for a long time held out the tentacles to the poet’s heart, but the time came when he found the strength to declare: enough! We are tired in the ruins of dreams to huddle, we are tired under the low shadow to live our helplessness and patience, we will come close to the new memory, and our feelings will serve us in a universal language!

S.'s translation followed by a mournful-sarcastic "victory at Germnika." Eluer finds his place in the ranks of the antifacial writers, who realized that Barres did not get rid of the “black humor” from the spiritual heirs, and openly went to meet their working compatriots in order to meet the tornado brown barbarism in a single system. So on the eve of World War II a meeting of Elyuar with the associates of Barbus and Vayana-Kutyuria, whose camp, he once left for the deceiving chimera of the surrealist revolution took place.The dream of New Prometheus worried Elyuar even when he carefully fanned the hearth of his house, far from the pillar roads of the century.

It took a lot of years for the poet to write “the fullness of the song” and “open book”, where he finally admitted that “we are no longer driven by the nonsense, he is a poverty,” and learned to get Promethees flame from sparks that carves during the meeting human hearts: and I do not wait: I am full of high searching. I am in search of that big call, whose only an echo is weak - my call.

Severtsev Leaders ”, could not stand before the temptation to escape from the exam on the maturity arranged by history. Eluir stood. In those days when the heroes of the resistance of Jacques Deco and Georges Politzer fell, when the Party of the Communists became a "party of executed", Eluer joined the Communists. He established underground publishers, randomly raised patriots, collaborated in the forbidden press, covered the persecuted Gestapo, and restored violated conspiracy ties.

The hour of the poetry of truth, poetry going into battle for the truth came, and Eluir entitled his collection of the year “Poetry and the truth”. The poems that came here conveyed the Radio of the Allies, in the leaflets they were dropped with parachutes, published in underground and foreign resistance publications. Until now, the few knew Elyuar, now his “freedom” was on the lips of all the French - from schoolchildren to partisans of Maki.

Face to face with the Nazis, longing for the whole of humanity on their spider swastika, Elyuar's voice became cleaner and faster, learned the stigmatizing contempt of the pamphlet and the fieryness of the prophecy, the grief of the crying and the heroic of the folk legend. In the crystal-proceeding of Elyuar, there was always a place for nightmare visions of night evil. Once it was a nest in the very heart of the poet, and from under his pen, sometimes the jacket and laughing masks of the world immersed in the ridiculous nightmare surfaced by themselves.

During the war years, these obsession of a lonely mind gave way to quite visible, although no less repulsive in their mechanical soulless, murderously sarcastic portraits of real enemies: they go and go. Go and go. They rattles, as if they were rattling with their bones.

And they freeze, honoring the herd to the drovers. Vaxmamer in this abrupt march of “stupid and evil”, each line of which repels a step that brings off the out-of-volumes to the grave, the evil from the kingdom of shadows descended to the ground, has become a living story that people make and which other people are powerful to change. The bizarre ghosts turned into a satire of a realist poet who saw the social sources, the border of evil, and in contrast to him-people with weapons in their hands and hope in the eyes, who firmly decided to remove the freaks sowing death.

Now, welcoming “the dawn that accelerates the monsters”, Elyar firmly declares: and forces return to us, we will teach the reprisal against evil. Vaksmakher, where it was talked about the prisoner, who, on the night of the execution, “at the very bottom of the pitch tormented”, suddenly smiled at the thought of millions and millions of his second-hand friends, at that moment behind the walls of the prison of the general business for the common cause.

The consciousness of the great fraternity of comrades in arms-the brotherhood, without which Eluer had longed for so long-completed the long-term searches of the inhabitant of the City of Sorrow, who entered the camp of patriots by the largest national poet, the singer of France fighting. Not all of his previous baggage needed Elyuar on the new ways for him, and he without regrets left the burden of surrealist prejudices that had interfered with ahead.

But what was expensive, which made up the rod of his deeply human talent, he took with him to clean from strata, pour fresh health into a long -standing song wise kindness. In the eyes of the poet one of the most secret mysteries of being was always love. Understanding her meant to understand the world, his own personality, the meaning of human relationships in general: "I sing to sing, I love to sing the secret, which creates love and gives myself freedom."