Nijinsky Quotes

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; 'I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work,' And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the dead, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenseless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.

because none of you know what you want follow me because I'm not going anywhere I'll just bleed so the stars can have something dark to shine in look at my legs I am the Nijinsky of dreams

I danced frightening things. They were frightened of me and therefore thought that I wanted to kill them. I did not want to kill anyone. I loved everyone, but no one loved me, and therefore I became nervous.

People like eccentrics. Therefore they will leave me alone, saying that I am a mad clown.

The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have; Not universal love But to be loved alone.

I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.

My madness is my love towards mankind.

I am not crying, but have tears in my heart.

Now I will dance you the war…. The war which you did not prevent.

What mad Nijinsky wrote/ About Diaghilev/ Is true of the normal heart;/ For the error bred in the bone/ Of each woman and each man/ Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love/ But to be loved alone.

People have nothing to do and therefore they interfere with the life of others. I dont want to interfere with the life of others.

They are stupid, they are beasts, they are meat, they are death. I am talking simply but without any affectation.

Once you familiarize yourself with your tools, you should forget about them. It will only throw you off-balance. In all these ‘rolling shit into little balls’ types who spend hours of time and reams of paper saying nothing, literary masturbators, they concentrate on the vehicle more than what they want to produce. That impedes the end result and defeats the purpose. You must lose consciousness of the medium or mechanics to do the impossible. Like Nijinsky who explained how he gave the impression of hovering in mid-air – ‘I just pause when I get there.’ In a child-like way, real magicians innocently do the simplest thing. The objective is all they think about. I just want to make music the way I hear it. The ends justify the means, and the means become inconsequential.

Tell me something, Noah. Which is more important: freedom or happiness?' What was this, a game? But Nijinsky wasn't smiling. 'You can't be happy unless your free,' Noah said.

I am not an ape, I am a man. The world has been created by God. Man has been created by God. It is not possible for man to understand God - God understands God. Man is God and therefore understands God. I am God. I am a man. I am good and not a beast. I am an animal with reason. I have flesh, I *am* flesh, I am not descended from flesh. Flesh is created by God. I am God. I am God. I am God.

I do not like eating meat because I have seen lambs and pigs killed. I saw and felt their pain. They felt the approaching death. I could not bear it. I cried like a child. I ran up a hill and could not breathe. I felt that I was choking. I felt the death of the lamb.

I seek truth in a book and not the subject.

Applause is not opinion. Applause is a feeling of love for the artist.

Diaghilev thinks I have died for the art. I am more alive than ever.

if my memory serves me right, here is my genealogical line: Boccaccio, Petronius, Rabelais, Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau, Maeterlinck, Romain Rolland, Plotinus, Heraclitus, Nietzsche, Dostoievsky (and other Russian writers of the Nineteenth Century), the ancient Greek dramatists, theElizabethan dramatists (excluding Shakespeare), Theodore Dreiser, Knut Hamsun, D. H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Thomas Mann, Elie Faure, Oswald Spengler, Marcel Proust, Van Gogh, the Dadaists and Surrealists, Balzac, Lewis Carroll, Nijinsky, Rimbaud, Blaise Cendrars, Jean Giono, Celine, everything I read on Zen Buddhism, everything I read about China, India, Tibet, Arabia, Africa, and of course the Bible, the men who wrote it and especially the men who made the King James version, for it was the language of the Bible rather than its “message” which I got first and which I will never shake off.

Voglio danzare, disegnare, suonare il pianoforte, scrivere versi, io voglio amare tutti. Questo è lo scopo della mia vita.

Fool republic!

I stayed with my wife's mother during the war. I understood the war because I fought with my wife's mother.

We're fighting for unhappiness?" Noah asked skeptically. "It sounds a bit crazy when you put it that way." Nijinsky laughed, delighted. "Oh, it is." Then, serious again, he said, "We fight for the right to be what we choose,to feel what we choose. Even if what we choose seems crazy to others." "If it's all the same to you, I'll fight for revenge," Sadie said. Nijinsky's eyes glittered. "Oh, yes. That's fine with me.

I LOV LIFE AND WANT TO LIVE, TO CRY BUT CANNOT - I FEEL SUCH A PAIN IN MY SOUL - A PAIN WHICH FRIGHTENS ME. MY SOUL IS ILL. MY SOUL, NOT MY MIND. THE DOCTORS DO NOT UNDERSTAND MY ILLNESS.

I know many people will say, "What kind of God orders you to do everything you do? You are deceiving us. You are a primitive man, quite uncivilized." I know all these objections. I will answer them simply. I am man's firstborn, with God's culture and not an animal's.

Nijinsky in 'Le Spectre de la rose' was like nothing I'd seen before. He danced a fifteen-minute solo and it passed like a dream. He was wearing a silk tricot, palest nude, onto which were pinned dozens of silk Bakst petals, pink and red and purple. The most exotic creature, so beautiful, like a shiny, graceful insect on the verge of flight. He leapt as if it cost him no effort, lingering in the air far longer than was possible, and seemed not to touch the stage between times. I believed that night that a man might fly, that anything was possible.

I am a man in death. I am not God. I am not man. I am a beast and a predator. I want to make love to prostitutes. I want to live like an unnecessary man. I know that God wants this, and therefore I will live that way. I will live that way until He stops me. I will gamble on the Stock Exchange because I want to do so at other people's expense. I am an evil man. I do not love anyone. I wish harm to everyone and good to myself. I am an egoist. I am not God. I am a beast, a predator. I will practice masturbation and spiritualism. I will eat everyone I can get hold of. I will stop at nothing. I will make love to my wife's mother and my child. I will weep, but I will do everything God commands me to. I know that everyone will be afraid of me and will commit me to a lunatic asylum. But I don't care. I am not afraid of anything. I want death. I will blow my brains out if God wants it.

It was music first of all that brought us together. Without being professionals or virtuosos, we were all passionate lovers of music; but Serge dreamed of devoting himself entirely to the art. All the time he was studying law along with us, he took singing lessons with Cotogni, the famous baritone of the Italian Opera; while for musical theory, which he wanted to master completely so as to rival Moussorgsky and Tchaikovsky, he went to the very source and studied with Rimsky-Korsakov. However, our musical tastes were not always the same. The quality our group valued most was what the Germans call Stimmung, and besides this, the power of suggestion and dramatic force. The Bach of the Passions, Gluck, Schubert, Wagner and the Russian composers – Borodin in ‘Prince Igor’, Rimsky and, above all, Tchaikovsky, were our gods. Tchaikovsky’s ‘Queen of Spades’ had just been performed for the first time at the Opera of St Petersburg, and we were ecstatic about its Hoffmannesque element, notably the scene in the old Countess’s bedroom. We liked the composer’s famous Romances much less, finding them insipid and sometimes trivial. These Romances, however, were just what Diaghilev liked. What he valued most was broad melody, and in particular whatever gave a singer the chance to display the sensuous qualities of his voice. During the years of his apprenticeship he bore our criticisms and jokes with resignation, but as he learned more about music – and about the history of art in general – he gained in self-confidence and found reasons to justify his predilections. There came a time when not only did he dare to withstand our attacks but went on to refute our arguments fiercely.

One could certainly call Diaghilev a creative genius, although it is not easy to analyse the nature of his creative gift. He practised neither painting not sculpture, nor was he a professional writer; for his few critical essays, remarkable as they were as proofs of his taste and judgement, did not amount to much – and anyway Serge hated the business of writing. He even lost faith before long in any vocation he may have felt for music, which was his real speciality. In no branch of art did he become an executant or a creator: and yet one cannot deny that his whole activity was creative.

Nijinsky got all his master classes over in a single line of explanation.

...maybe our work together is made more difficult because we are brother and sister... making us impatient with each other. Besides, Vaslav is, as always, unduly demanding with me... no different now that he is working on his own ballet, but just as he usually is for my dancing endeavors... But how much I am learning from him...

In the scales of the gigantic balance-pan in Nijinsky’s brain, the world’s misery bulked heavy on one side. But the other? First, there was dancing, the rhythmic, violent Dionysian upsurge of the vital energies; while he could dance regularly, every day, and restore contact with the vital, instinctive parts of his own being, Nijinsky could not go insane. Sanity lay in creation.

The Schubert devotee continued with her address. Eight years ago after discovering Schubert’s music, this thing she loved above all else, it was as though the scales had finally fallen from her eyes, the previously baffling vagaries of the heart resolved into a sublime symphony, and Nijinsky in his costume of yellow silk became the stars, frozen in the heavens above time’s vista, and when she first encountered that starlight shining in the sky, she drifted away along with the light, into the fine-grained matter of the distant universe, where nobody would ever find her.

Urizen is the chief villain always, because Urizen is not merely intellect; he is also personality, identity, the Spectre. As soon as man begins to think, he forms a notion of who he is. If man were entirely body or emotions, he would have no conception of his identity, consequently he could never become unbalanced like Nijinsky, Lawrence, Van Gogh. It is Urizen who starts the trouble. The Bible recounts the same legend when it ascribes the first discord in the universe to Lucifer and his pride

Dünyaya sokunmuştuk,dünya hamdı Külsüzdü ocak,tellal çarşısız Ağzımız noksandı. Rımbaud'nun haberi yoktu Menelik'ten Nijinski delirmemişti Mahler'in beş yaşındaki kızı ölmemişti daha Nehre Haşim annesiyle karanlık geceler bazı çıkardı Zonklardı öpülmek için kavlamış dudaklarımız Bekliyorduk ; alnımızın çatında Hepimizin bir çarpı.

Nijinsky was badgered by the Outsider’s greatest enemy, human triviality. There was a ballet season in New York, with Nijinsky’s own company and a new Nijinsky ballet, and endless difficulties and annoyances to be overcome. Nijinfcky had no business ability; his temperament was almost completely introverted, contemplative (various observers have spoken of him as having the face of a Tibetan Llama, of ‘a Buddha in meditation’, of an Egyptian statue); these endless, unimportant demands by the outside world were an immense strain. In this state of strain, the war began to weigh heavily on him; he was haunted by visions of dead soldiers.

Nijinsky, Lawrence, Van Gogh, each had his own form of discipline towards this end. Each one had, as it were, discovered in some moment of insight a source from which these supplies of ‘more abundant life’ flowed, and each concentrated on a discipline that would make the source accessible. Lawrence was a thinker who had found imaginative relief in his study of the past. Van Gogh’s religious temperament needed to accumulate sense impressions; his striving towards a sense of ‘otherness’ took the form of a sort of pictorial memory of other times and other places: a memory that was, after all, incomplete, since he could not capture the scent of the almond tree or the hot July wind, or the tension in the air of a rising storm on his canvas. But Nijinsky’s kingdom was the body. People who saw him dance have testified to his amazing ability to become the part he was acting, whether the Negro in Scheherezade, the puppet in Petrouchka, or the Prince in Giselle. His discipline gave him the power to dismiss his identity at will, or to expand some parts and contract others to give an illusion of a completely new personality. It was this power that, at times, became a mystical intensity of abnegation in his dancing, that occasionally gave him glimpses into the ecstasy of the saint.

the most interesting observation to be made from comparison of the three concerns their degree of ‘lostness’. Nijinsky lived so close to his instincts that it took a great deal of complexity and confusion to wrench him away from his inner certainties and make him reason about those certainties. Lawrence, on the contrary, reasoned all the time, and never knew the ground of his instincts as Nijinsky did. Yet, here is the point: Lawrence could, with an immense effort, have thrown himself into comprehension of Nijinsky’s state of mind; he could, if you like, have become a Nijinsky in all essentials. Nijinsky could never have become a Lawrence; the effort needed to develop the reasoning powers would have separated him from his instinctive certainties long before he would be capable of writing a Seven Pillars. In other words, Lawrence was paradoxically the most ‘lost’ of the three, the most destroyed by self-doubt and yet the least lost. Nijinsky was the least lost because his instincts made a better compass than Lawrence’s intellect, and yet the most lost as far as his possible development went. If the ideal combination were a compound of Lawrence’s powerful intellect, Van Gogh’s mystical nature-love and Nijinsky’s realization of his body’s potentialities, then it would be better, as it were, to start from Lawrence and add the other two to him, than to start from Van Gogh or Nijinsky and try to develop .them up to Lawrence’s level. This is not to say that Lawrence was a greater ‘artist’ or what have you than Nijinsky or Van Gogh; I am not at the moment concerned with them as artists, but as Outsiders. As far as the Outsider is concerned, it is more important to have a powerful intellect than a highly developed capacity to ‘feel’.

Sans la musique, j’aurais fini au cabanon comme Nijinski. (Ce fut justement vers cette époque qu’on s’aperçut qu’il était fou. Ne s’amusait-il pas à distribuer tout son argent aux pauvres – mauvais signe, toujours !) Mon esprit regorgeait de trésors extraordinaires, j’avais le goût aigu et exigeant, les muscles en excellent état, l’appétit vigoureux, le souffle bon. Je n’avais rien à faire que profiter, me perfectionner et je faisais tant de progrès tous les jours que j’en devenais fou. Même s’il se présentait un travail convenable, je ne pouvais l’accepter ; ce dont j’avais besoin, c’était, non de travail, mais d’une vie plus riche. Je ne pouvais perdre mon temps à donner des leçons, à devenir avocat, médecin, politicien, à répondre aux offres de la société. Mieux valait accepter des besognes serviles ; elles me laissaient ma liberté d’esprit. Je perdis ma place d’éboueur.

Je ne suis pas un singe. Je suis un homme. Le monde descend de Dieu. L'homme vient de Dieu. Il est impossible aux hommes de comprendre Dieu. Dieu comprend Dieu. L'homme est Dieu, c'est pourquoi il comprend Dieu. Je suis Dieu. Je suis un homme. Je suis bon, et pas une bête. Je suis un animal doué de raison. J'ai une chair. Je suis la chair. Je ne descends pas de la chair. La chair descend de Dieu. Je suis Dieu. Je suis Dieu. Je suis Dieu...