test(data): adding test corpus file

Author: accraze

tests/futuristmanifest.txt

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+The Founding and Manifesto of
+Futurism
+
+
+Original publication in French: Le Figaro, Paris, February 20, 1909
+
+This English-language translation COPYRIGHT ©1973 Thames and
+Hudson Ltd, London. All rights reserved.
+
+
+Source for translation by R.W. Flint reproduced below:
+
+
+Apollonio, Umbro, ed. Documents of 20th Century Art: Futurist
+Manifestos. Brain, Robert, R.W. Flint, J.C. Higgitt, and Caroline Tisdall,
+trans. New York: Viking Press, 1973. 19-24.
+
+The Founding and
+Manifesto of Futurism
+by F. T. Marinetti
+
+We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass,
+domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had
+trampled our atavistic ennui into rich oriental rugs, arguing up to the last confines of logic and blackening many
+reams of paper with our frenzied scribbling.
+
+An immense pride was buoying us up, because we felt ourselves alone at that hour, alone, awake, and on our
+feet, like proud beacons or forward sentries against an army of hostile stars glaring down at us from their
+celestial encampments. Alone with stokers feeding the hellish fires of great ships, alone with the black spectres
+who grope in the red-hot bellies of locomotives launched on their crazy courses, alone with drunkards reeling
+like wounded birds along the city walls.
+
+Suddenly we jumped, hearing the mighty noise of the huge double-decker trams that rumbled by outside,
+ablaze with colored lights, like villages on holiday suddenly struck and uprooted by the flooding Po and dragged
+over falls and through gourges to the sea.
+
+Then the silence deepened. But, as we listened to the old canal muttering its feeble prayers and the creaking
+bones of sickly palaces above their damp green beards, under the windows we suddenly heard the famished
+roar of automobiles.
+
+'Let's go!' I said. 'Friends, away! Let's go! Mythology and the Mystic Ideal are defeated at last. We're about to
+see the Centaur's birth and, soon after, the first flight of Angels! ... We must shake at the gates of life, test the
+bolts and hinges. Let's go! Look there, on the earth, the very first dawn! There's nothing to match the splendor
+of the sun's red sword, slashing for the first time through our millennial gloom!'
+
+We went up to the three snorting beasts, to lay amorous hands on their torrid breasts. I stretched out on my car
+like a corpse on its bier, but revived at once under the steering wheel, a guillotine blade that threatened my
+stomach.
+
+
+The raging broom of madness swept us out of ourselves and drove us through streets as rough and deep as the
+beds of torrents. Here and there, sick lamplight through window glass taught us to distrust the deceitful
+mathematics of our perishing eyes.
+
+I cried, 'The scent, the scent alone is enough for our beasts.'
+
+And like young lions we ran after Death, its dark pelt blotched with pale crosses as it escaped down the vast
+violet living and throbbing sky.
+
+But we had no ideal Mistress raising her divine form to the clouds, nor any cruel Queen to whom to offer our
+bodies, twisted like Byzantine rings! There was nothing to make us wish for death, unless the wish to be free at
+last from the weight of our courage!
+
+And on we raced, hurling watchdogs against doorsteps, curling them under our burning tires like collars
+under a flatiron. Death, domesticated, met me at every turn, gracefully holding out a paw, or once in a while
+hunkering down, making velvety caressing eyes at me from every puddle.
+
+'Let's break out of the horrible shell of wisdom and throw ourselves like pride-ripened fruit into the wide,
+contorted mouth of the wind! Let's give ourselves utterly to the Unknown, not in desperation but only to
+replenish the deep wells of the Absurd!'
+
+The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I spun my car around with the frenzy of a dog trying to
+bite its tail, and there, suddenly, were two cyclists coming towards me, shaking their fists, wobbling like two
+equally convincing but nevertheless contradictory arguments. Their stupid dilemma was blocking my way —
+Damn! Ouch!... I stopped short and to my disgust rolled over into a ditch with my wheels in the air...
+
+0 maternal ditch, almost full of muddy water! Fair factory drain! I gulped down your nourishing sludge; and I
+remembered the blessed black beast of my Sudanese nurse. . . When I came up — torn, filthy, and stinking —
+from under the capsized car, I felt the white-hot iron of joy deliciously pass through my heart!
+
+A crowd of fishermen with handlines and gouty naturalists were already swarming around the prodigy. With
+patient, loving care those people rigged a tall derrick and iron grapnels to fish out my car, like a big beached
+shark. Up it came from the ditch, slowly, leaving in the bottom, like scales, its heavy framework of good sense
+and its soft upholstery of comfort.
+
+They thought it was dead, my beautiful shark, but a caress from me was enough to revive it; and there it was,
+alive again, running on its powerful fins!
+
+And so, faces smeared with good factory muck — plastered with metallic waste, with senseless sweat, with
+celestial soot — we, bruised, our arms in slings, but unafraid, declared our high intentions to all the living of the
+earth:
+
+MANIFESTO OF FUTURISM
+
+1 . We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness.
+
+2. Courage, audacity, and revolt will be essential elements of our poetry.
+
+3. Up to now literature has exalted a pensive immobility, ecstasy, and sleep. We intend to exalt
+aggresive action, a feverish insomnia, the racer's stride, the mortal leap, the punch and the slap.
+
+4. We affirm that the world's magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A
+racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath — a roaring car
+that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.
+
+5. We want to hymn the man at the wheel, who hurls the lance of his spirit across the Earth, along the
+circle of its orbit.
+
+6. The poet must spend himself with ardor, splendor, and generosity, to swell the enthusiastic fervor of
+the primordial elements.
+
+7. Except in struggle, there is no more beauty. No work without an aggressive character can be a
+masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent attack on unknown forces, to reduce and prostrate
+them before man.
+
+8. We stand on the last promontory of the centuries! . . . Why should we look back, when what we want
+is to break down the mysterious doors of the Impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We already
+live in the absolute, because we have created eternal, omnipresent speed.
+
+9. We will glorify war — the world's only hygiene — militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of
+freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman.
+
+1 0. We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism, every
+opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice.
+
+
+
+11. We will sing of great crowds excited by work, by pleasure, and by riot; we will sing of the
+
+multicolored, polyphonic tides of revolution in the modern capitals; we will sing of the vibrant nightly
+fervor of arsenals and shipyards blazing with violent electric moons; greedy railway stations that
+devour smoke-plumed serpents; factories hung on clouds by the crooked lines of their smoke; bridges
+that stride the rivers like giant gymnasts, flashing in the sun with a glitter of knives; adventurous
+steamers that sniff the horizon; deep-chested locomotives whose wheels paw the tracks like the
+hooves of enormous steel horses bridled by tubing; and the sleek flight of planes whose propellers
+chatter in the wind like banners and seem to cheer like an enthusiastic crowd.
+
+It is from Italy that we launch through the world this violently upsetting incendiary manifesto of ours. With
+it, today, we establish Futurism, because we want to free this land from its smelly gangrene of professors,
+archaeologists, ciceroni and antiquarians. For too long has Italy been a dealer in second-hand clothes. We mean
+to free her from the numberless museums that cover her like so many graveyards.
+
+Museums: cemeteries! . . . Identical, surely, in the sinister promiscuity of so many bodies unknown to one
+another. Museums: public dormitories where one lies forever beside hated or unknown beings. Museums:
+absurd abattoirs of painters and sculptors ferociously slaughtering each other with color-blows and line-blows,
+the length of the fought-over walls!
+
+That one should make an annual pilgrimage, just as one goes to the graveyard on All Souls' Day — that I grant.
+That once a year one should leave a floral tribute beneath the Gioconda, I grant you that. . . But I don't admit
+that our sorrows, our fragile courage, our morbid restlessness should be given a daily conducted tour through
+the museums. Why poison ourselves? Why rot?
+
+And what is there to see in an old picture except the laborious contortions of an artist throwing himself against
+the barriers that thwart his desire to express his dream completely?. . . Admiring an old picture is the same as
+pouring our sensibility into a funerary urn instead of hurtling it far off, in violent spasms of action and
+creation.
+
+Do you, then, wish to waste all your best powers in this eternal and futile worship of the past, from which you
+emerge fatally exhausted, shrunken, beaten down?
+
+In truth I tell you that daily visits to museums, libraries, and academies (cemeteries of empty exertion, Calvaries
+of crucified dreams, registries of aborted beginnings!) are, for artists, as damaging as the prolonged supervision
+by parents of certain young people drunk with their talent and their ambitious wills. When the future is barred
+to them, the admirable past may be a solace for the ills of the moribund, the sickly, the prisoner. . . But we want
+no part of it, the past, we the young and strong Futurists!
+
+
+So let them come, the gay incendiaries with charred fingers! Here they are! Here they are! ... Come on! set fire
+to the library shelves! Turn aside the canals to flood the museums! ... Oh, the joy of seeing the glorious old
+canvases bobbing adrift on those waters, discolored and shredded! . . . Take up your pickaxes, your axes and
+hammers and wreck, wreck the venerable cities, pitilessly!
+
+
+The oldest of us is thirty: so we have at least a decade for finishing our work. When we are forty, other
+younger and stronger men will probably throw us in the wastebasket like useless manuscripts — we want it to
+happen!
+
+They will come against us, our successors, will come from far away, from every quarter, dancing to the winged
+cadence of their first songs, flexing the hooked claws of predators, sniffing doglike at the academy doors the
+strong odor of our decaying minds, which will have already been promised to the literary catacombs.
+
+But we won't be there. . . At last they'll find us — one winter's night — in open country, beneath a sad roof
+drummed by a monotonous rain. They'll see us crouched beside our trembling aeroplanes in the act of warming
+our hands at the poor little blaze that our books of today will give out when they take fire from the flight of our
+images.
+
+They'll storm around us, panting with scorn and anguish, and all of them, exasperated by our proud daring, will
+hurtle to kill us, driven by a hatred the more implacable the more their hearts will be drunk with love and
+admiration for us.
+
+Injustice, strong and sane, will break out radiantly in their eyes.
+
+Art, in fact, can be nothing but violence, cruelty, and injustice.
+
+
+
+The oldest of us is thirty: even so we have already scattered treasures, a thousand treasures of force, love,
+courage, astuteness, and raw will-power; have thrown them impatiently away, with fury, carelessly,
+unhesitatingly, breathless, and unresting. . . Look at us! We are still untired! Our hearts know no weariness
+because they are fed with fire, hatred, and speed! ... Does that amaze you?
+
+It should, because you can never remember having lived! Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl
+our defiance at the stars! You have objections? — Enough! Enough! We know them... We've
+understood!... Our fine deceitful intelligence tells us that we are the revival and extension of our ancestors —
+Perhaps! ... If only it were so! — But who cares? We don't want to understand! ... Woe to anyone who says
+those infamous words to us again!
+
+Lift up your heads!
+
+Erect on the summit of the world, once again we hurl defiance to the stars!