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Translations, translations and more translations! Devaldes, Novatore, Bonanno and more

Building upon that gratifying Creative Nothing.

{pic: from the inserts, Dionysus & of course Saint Max, from the Distinctively Dionysian Autumn issue}

 

Bacchic feasting & forest-deep in translation projects ~ As I work on unearthed Manuel Devaldès, Ernest Cœurderoy & Gérard de Lacaze-Duthiers, le vagabond churns out Renzo Novatore.

Next up: completion of Alfredo Bonanno’s ‘Teoria dell’individuo: Max Stirner e il Pensiero Selvaggio’.

Excited to bring these works we love to English speakers and our North American friends.

Will share much of it here in this space. 

Surpassing Feuerbach ~ a Max Stirner Reader.

As we gift our subscribers a sneak peek… here is a look at another of our completed books, available through Distinctively Dionysian.

Surpassing Feuerbach ~ Max Stirner Reader.

from the Wolf & Pussycat Stirner Series

Part of the six-part book series, available Spring

2018.

The book begins with Stirner singling out the liberal humanist ideal then proceeds to Saint Max developing Feuerbach’s theological framework into a ‘theory’ of alienation, where he would then paraphrase what would later be widely attributed to Nietzsche:

God is Dead.

A peek at the Winter issue.. Poetry, by Apio Ludd

And when we’re sweet, we’re very, very sweet…

 

Wolfi's Poem for Fiona

Where nobody obeys nobody commands. —Anselme Bellegarrigue, 1850

A ‘classic’, if you will. A celebratory update, as Distinctively Dionysian translates new Anselme Bellegarigue writings…

L’Anarchie Journal de L’Ordre

 

I have no ancestors! For me the creation of the world dates from the day of my birth; for me the end of the world will be accomplished on the day when I shall restore to the elementary mass the apparatus and the afflatus which constitute my individuality. I am the first man, I shall be the last. My history is the complete result of humanity; I know no other, I care to know no other. When I suffer, what good do I get from another’s enjoyment? When I enjoy, in what do those who suffer detract from my pleasures? Of what consequence to me is that which happened before me? How am I concerned in what will happen after me? It is not for me to serve as a sacrifice to respect for extinct generations, or as an example to posterity. I confine myself within the circle of my existence, and the only problem that I have to solve is that of my welfare. I have but one doctrine, that doctrine has but one formula, that formula has but one word: ENJOY! Sincere is he who confesses it; an imposter is he who denies it.

This is bare individualism, native egoism; I do not deny it, I confess it, I verify it, I boast of it. Show me, that I may question him, the man who would reproach and blame me. Does my egoism do you any harm? If you say no, you have no reason to object to it, for i am free in all that does not injure you. If you say yes, you are a thief, for, my egoism being only the simple appropriation of myself by myself, an appeal to my identity, an affirmation of my individuality, a protest against all supremacy, if you admit that you are damaged by my act in taking possession of myself, by my retention of my own person — that is, the least disputable of my properties — you will declare thereby that I belong to you, or, at least, that you have designs on me; you are an owner of men, either established as such or intending to be, a monopolist, a coveter of another’s person, a thief. There is no middle ground; either right lies with egoism, or it lies with theft; either I belong to myself, or I become the possession of someone else. It cannot be said that I should sacrifice myself for the good of all, since, all having to similarly sacrifice themselves, no one would gain more by this stupid game than he had lost, and consequently, each would remain destitute — that is, without profit, which clearly would make such sacrifice absurd. If, then, the abnegation of all cannot be profitable to all, it must of necessity be profitable to a few; these few, then, are the possessors of all, and are probably the very ones who will complain of my egoism.

Every man is an egoist; whoever ceases to be one becomes a thing. He who pretends it is not necessary to be one is a sly thief.

Oh, yes, I know, the word has an ugly sound; so far you have applied it to those who are not satisfied with what belongs to them, to those who take to themselves what belongs to others; but such people are in accord with human impulse; you are not. In complaining of their capacity, do you know what you do? You establish your own imbecility. Hitherto you have believed there were tyrants. Well, you are mistaken: there are only slaves.

Where nobody obeys nobody commands.

Anselme Bellegarigue, 1850

“Yesterday, in the courtyard at Caponiere, in the Vincennes forest, the former dancer, Mata Hari was executed.” ~ Bruno Filippi

From the Autumn issue… Bruno Filippi..

The short, cruel words of the telegram filled my heart with sadness. Oh, Mata Hari. Oh, Mata Hari, surely you never imagined such a sad end. Surely, in spite of your skepticism, you still did not believe that the men who were crazy for you could be so vile.

Nobody tried to defend you, nobody wanted to risk a thing for you. These gentlemen who fell at your feet like rotten fruit, who revealed all the most secret documents to your eyes, who did not hesitate to ruin family and fatherland in order to possess you, these gentle men were afraid to try anything for you. And so they let a squad of common soldiers kill you like a rabid dog in a damp courtyard, by discharging red-hot lead into your divine body. And probably some of those high-toned Catos will publicly rejoice in the severity of the judges. Phew! A spy! Cowards!

Those who wouldn’t hesitate to make thousands of workers die of hunger, solely for profit; those who would risk the prosperity of entire provinces at the stock exchange simply to sate themselves with gold; those who would betray that which they call fatherland in an instant for their selfish ends; they feigned a feeling of horror when the preliminary investigation revealed what they already knew.

Phew! A spy! In order to possess you, they revealed the most delicate secrets of the nation; in order to possess you, they delivered the plans for the strongest fortress to you; in order to possess you, they gave you the lives of thousands of men as a gift. Now that you are dead, they trample you with disgust, insult you and wash their hands in your blood. Mata Hari has been executed! Poor Mata!

Who would have thought that you would meet such a savage end? When the luxurious automobile took you through the magnificent boulevards of Paris, charming in your costly gowns, who would have ever thought that a lowly prison cell would one day be your home. When your nude, throbbing, willowy body, the body of an enchantress, roused the whispers and lust of a thousand gentlemen in swallow-tailed coats and monocles in the golden salons of the high aristocracy, who would have thought that you would fall in the mud of a filthy fortress courtyard, your body riddled with bullets on a sad, rainy day?

Poor Mata!

I don’t pity the soldiers who die because of you. The brute mass that lets itself be dragged to the slaughterhouse without any impulse toward rebellion, that lets itself be butchered in such a way with no reason, that abandons everything that is most dear at mere orders from a leaflet affixed to a wall, is too vile: it deserves death, it deserves the executioner’s blade. But you, poor Mata, you were beautiful! And supreme beauty is beyond good and evil. Dying because of a marvelous woman is always the best death.

Rest in peace, poor Mata! Someone who never knew you has sworn to avenge you. And the memory of your blood-drenched eyes will drive his dagger; the vision of your mutilated body will render his bomb more effective.

 

Bruno Filippi, The Rebel’s Dark Laughter, 1916-18

From the Autumn Edition…

From the back page of the (North American / English) Autumn edition, in circulation now…

(right click and open image in a new tab to expand)

Distinctively Dionysian Autumn back page

 

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