128 - REVERDY, Pierre (1889–1960).

REVERDY, Pierre (1889–1960). Autograph manuscript signed “Pierre Reverdy,” *Mépris de la postérité* [1935]; 13 pages, in-4 format (a few tears on the last leaf, repaired on the spine). A beautiful reflection on the demands of poetic creation. Note: This text was published on October 1, 1935, in issue no. 5 of the journal *La Bête Noire artistique et littéraire*, edited by Maurice Raynal and Tériade; it was posthumously included in *Cette émotion appelée poésie* (Flammarion, 1974). The manuscript, written in large black ink, contains a few erasures and corrections; some corrections, in blue ink, are likely attributable to Maurice Raynal. “The only man with whom I could not—and did not wish to—refuse to become ever more closely acquainted leaves me today with almost no doubt that he is closer to reality through his feet than through the prestigious faculties of his mind. […] In creative work, the obsessive concern for posterity is undoubtedly a childish naivety. As for tomorrow’s audience, in fact, I can find no valid reason why it should be any dearer to me than today’s. Yet the desire for immortality—that sublime illusion of great souls, which seems to have all but vanished from the world of the arts—has always been the most powerful driving force behind artistic creation. […] It is all too obvious that the artist does not have to give back to his own era what he borrows from it. If he is great, he understands that his true mission is to pass on to the future what has enabled him to create and what the present demands he perpetuate. […] The author who frantically seeks out the reader is deeply contemptible. If the encounter is to take place one day, let it be because the reader has taken all the steps toward it. […] Almost never has the greatness of an artist been recognized or appreciated by the masses of his or her time. […] As for the poet in particular—he cannot escape his perilous fate and claim to move others by erecting plaster facades. […] The poet’s risk is that, when he performs, he puts forward what is most precious within him, and that the slightest clumsy gesture may later—and too late—become odious to him. […] As for me, who no longer writes—who have never written except for those who had almost no opportunity to hear me—who abhor casual familiarity as much as physical and intellectual intimacy, I cannot, despite the cruel bridle that has long since subdued my pride, find a breathable atmosphere except when alone or, at times, in the company of a few minds who, while retaining the truest and highest conception of themselves, would agree never to lose the extremely precise sense of the relationship that might, despite everything, exist between their immeasurable stature and my own.”