Gisèle Prassinos – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

In this image, the fourteen-year-old schoolgirl Gisle Prassinos reads her poems to members of the surrealist group, including Andr Breton and Paul Eluard (both seated). Photographed by Man Ray.

It is still befitting to erect on the horizon of black humour what Dali called the “imperial monument to the child-woman.” I’d bet fourteen of my teeth, as Shakespeare’s nurse would say, that she was not yet fourteen years old the first time we were given the chance to hear her read, and she was also Queen Mab, “the fairies’ midwife”; she was therefore of no specific age, even though she seemed to be a generation younger than the authors who immediately precede her in these pages [The Anthology of Black Humour]. Queen Mab hasn’t changed much since Shakespeare’s day, and it’s still her role to flit athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep. She is the “young chimera” of Max Ernst or the ambiguous schoolgirl who, under the title “Automatic Writing,” adorns one cover of La Revolution surrealiste. Since pity has definitively packed up and gone, the “little old lady” on whom Salvador Dali’s “moral aerodynamism” likes to exert itself is in for a rough time.

“There she is, naked. Her body is shot through with violet knitting needles that she has intentionally stuck there because they look good; and to each needle she has tied a small green ribbon. She has no thighs, only empty space between her groin and her knees. To hold everything up, she has her legs hanging from bits of string. Finally, she gets back into bed; her eyes, out of their sockets, fall at her feet. She has turned off the little kitty’s belly. So it’s very dark.”

Very dark: she’s a child laughing, scared in the night; she is all the primitive peoples who look up to see if their ancestors, who appear a bit tired, and whom they’ve just made climb up a tree that they’re about to shake after having removed the ladder, are going to fall. It’s permanent revolution in beautiful, colored one penny images — they no longer exist — but Gisele Prassinos’ tone is unique: all the poets are jealous of it.

Swift lowers his eyes, Sade shuts his candy box.

{ Andre Breton }

by Gisele Prassinos

In a wheatfield,
The man is wearing an ochre lace tunic stained with red.
The horse is naked. Hanging from its tail is a matchbox, from which a grasshopper’s antennae are jutting.
The man is sitting on a white cushion with green designs.
The horse is on the man.

THE MAN: Have we scorned the green diamond?

THE HORSE: I believe we were forced to by law. Now that the law has been diminished, my mind requires that the candles be lowered.

THE MAN: Remember, old seal, that man does not have the right to satisfy employees and that even the telephone refuses to pay taxes.

THE HORSE: To understand is to diminish.

THE MAN: Not so, since we haven’t yet tried our luck. We could do it: it’s easier.

THE HORSE: No, no, don’t believe in those concrete things, for despite their dignity they must exhaust their chatter. Outrage them, feed them cowardly stupidities, and you’ll see how they follow us.

THE MAN: Why should I? Don’t I already have enough crudeness to keep me busy with that millionaire’s tail?

THE HORSE: The love I’ve loved has always appreciated me!

THE MAN: Yes, me too.

THE HORSE: We have reached the same summits.



About Klassy

How Klassy got her groove back.

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