All my plays are a call up and the manifestation associated with nostalgia
“How curious it is, the way curious that is usually, ” as they chant in The Bald Soprano, no roots, not any origin, no authenticity, no, little, only unmeaning, and even undoubtedly no higher power—though the particular Emperor turns up invisibly from the Chairs, as via a “marvelous dream …, the celestial gaze, this noble encounter, the crown, the radiance of His / her Majesty, ” the Ancient Man's “last recourse” (149–50), as he / she affirms, before he entrusts his communication to the Orator and even throws himself out typically the window, leaving us to discover that the Orator is deaf and stupid. Thus the delusion of hierarchy and, spoken as well as unspoken, the futile counter or vacuity of dialog. But even more inquiring, “what a good coincidence! ” ( chair ) is how that bare datum of the particular Absurd grew to be the a lot of deconstruction, which hedges its bets, however, with a devastating nothingness by letting metaphysics around soon after presumably rubbing it, that is, putting it “under erasure” (sous rature), as Derrida does in the grammatology, conceding what Nietzsche told us, that Our god is dead, but using the term anyhow, due to the fact we can barely believe without it, or even some other transcendental signifiers, for instance elegance or eternity—which are usually, certainly, the words spoken by means of the Old Man to the unseen Belle throughout The Chairs, mourning exactly what they didn't dare, some sort of lost love, “Everything :::. lost, lost, lost” (133).
There would appear to be parody here, in addition to one might expect to have of which Ionesco—in a distinct ancestry from Nietzsche to help poststructuralist thought—would not only disclaim the older metaphysics although laugh as well in the ridiculousness of almost any nostalgia for the idea, like for the originary time of a radiant beauty rendered with Platonic truth. And indeed the Orator who comes up dressed as “a typical painter or poet with the nineteenth century” (154) is usually, with his histrionic fashion and conceited air, certainly definitely not Lamartine, which questions “Eternité, néant, passé, sombre abîme” (“Eternity, nothingness, past—dark abyss”) to return the particular sublime raptures they have got stolen; nor is this individual remotely the figure involving Keats with his Grecian urn, teasing us outside of notion in equating beauty and even truth. What exactly we have as a substitute, inside Amédée or Getting Free of It, is the spellbinding beauty of that will which, when they miss to close the lids, reflects from the eyes, which often haven’t aged—“Great green vision. Glowing like beacons”—of typically the incurably growing corpse. “We could easily get along without his or her kind of beauty, ” tells Madeleine, the sour plus unhealthy partner, “it will take up way too much living space. ” But Amédée can be fascinated by way of the transfiguring growth of its ineluctable presence, which might have fallen from the abyss involving what exactly is lost, lost, missing. “He's growing. It's very organic. He's branching out there. ”3 But if there's anything beautiful here, the idea seems to come—if certainly not from the Romantic period or one of typically the more memorable futurist photos, Boccioni's The Body Climbing (Amédée's family name is definitely Buccinioni)—from another poetic origin: “That corpse you placed last year in your own personal garden, / Has this begun to sprout? ” It's as if Ionesco were picking up, basically, Big t. S. Eliot's problem in The Waste Land: “Will it bloom this year? ”4 If it not necessarily only blooms, or perhaps balloons, but flies away, taking Amédée with that, the particular oracle connected with Keats's urn—all you know on this planet and all you need in order to know—seems a far cry from the humorous mordancy of this transcendence, or what in The Chairs, even if the Orator had voiced, could have radiated upon great grandchildren, if not from the sight of a good corpse, by the light in the Aged Man's mind (157).
Nevertheless the truth is that will, with regard to Ionesco, the Absurd can be predicated on “the memory of a memory of a memory” of a great actual pastoral, attractiveness and truth around characteristics, if not quite still in art. Or therefore the idea appears in “Why Should i Write? A Summing Right up, ” where he or she subpoena up his years as a child within the Mill of often the Chapelle-Anthenaise, the farm around St-Jean-sur-Mayenne, “the region, this bar, the fireside. ”5 Whatever it was now there he didn't fully grasp, like the priest's questions at their first religion, it was initially there, very, that this individual was “conscious of getting alive. … My spouse and i lived, ” he tells, “in happiness, joy, realizing in some way that each moment was fullness without knowing the particular word fullness. I existed in a good kind of dazzlement. ” Whatever in that case occurred to impair that glowing time, the charm continues in memory, as something other than fool's gold: “the world was gorgeous, and I was alert to it, everything was refreshing and pure. I repeat: it is to find this attractiveness again, intact in the mud”—which, like a site of often the Absurd, he shares using Beckett—“that I write literary works out. All my guides, all my has happen to be a call, the reflection of a nostalgia, the search for a treasure buried around the sea, lost throughout the catastrophe associated with history” (6).