Their works was diverse as Surrealist approach in the visual arts. The major Surrealist painters were Salvador Dalí, Pierre Roy and Paul Delvaux, Joan Miró, Jean Arp and Max Ernst, André Masson, René Magritte and Yves Tanguy. In literature, Surrealism it was an artistic attempt to bridge reality and the imagination. Surrealists seek to overcome the contradictions of the minds, by creating unreal or bizarre stories full of juxtapositions. Surrealist literature had have contrasting ideas, used to help readers expand their reality. Stéphane Mallarmé was a French poet, well known for his obscure and surreal writing style. One collection of poetry (Les Poésies de S. Mallarmé), is known to have inspired the surrealist movement.
The sun, on the sand, o sleeping wrestler, warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair, melting the incense on your hostile features, mixing an amorous liquid with the tears. The immutable calm of this white burning, o my fearful kisses, makes you say, sadly. Will we ever be one mummified winding, under the ancient sands and palms so happy? But your tresses are a tepid river, where the soul that haunts us drowns, without a shiver and finds the Nothingness you cannot know! I’ll taste the unguent of your eyelids’ shore, to see if it can grant to the heart, at your blow, the insensibility of stones and the azure.
The practice of Surrealist art, emphasized experimentation, stressing the art as a means for prompting personal psychic revelation. Surrealism – in visual art and literature – flourishing in Europe in the first half of the 20th century. According to André Breton – who published The Surrealist Manifesto – this movement was a means of reuniting conscious and unconscious realms of experience. He saw the unconscious as the wellspring of the imagination. In the poetry of the surrealist writers (such as Breton, Éluard and Reverdy), Surrealism has manifested itself not by logical but by psychological processes. Although the Surrealists held a group show in Paris, its history is full of expulsions and personal attacks.
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die. I’ve taken account of everything, there you have it. I’ve made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some others. I’ve distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I’ve kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don’t keep a reasonable account of them. I’m alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes. You don’t know this man? It’s Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam. Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don’t know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule. The names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I’ll change at X. Provided I don’t miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God’s perpendicular.
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