“How curious it will be, exactly how curious the idea can be, ” as they roulé-boulé in The Balding Voz, no roots, not any foundation, no authenticity, no, nothing, only unmeaning, plus certainly no higher power—though often the Emperor turns up invisibly inside the Chairs, as via a “marvelous dream ., the estupendo gaze, the noble deal with, the crowns, the radiance of His Majesty, ” the Ancient Man's “last recourse” (149–50), as he tells, prior to he entrusts the information to the Orator and throws himself out this window, making us to discover that the Orator is deaf and not smart. Thus the delusion involving hierarchy and, spoken or maybe unspoken, the futile self-importance or vacuity of talk. But even more wondering, “what the coincidence! ” (17) is how this specific empty datum of this Absurd grew to become the litany of deconstruction, which hedges its table bets, however, on a devastating nothingness by way of letting metaphysics within following presumably rubbing it, that is, putting it “under erasure” (sous rature), while Derrida does in his grammatology, conceding what Nietzsche explained to us, that Jesus can be dead, but applying the term anyhow, mainly because we can scarcely believe without it, or some other transcendental signifiers, for instance elegance or eternity—which are, in fact, the words spoken simply by the Old Man to help the unseen Belle throughout The Chairs, mourning precisely what they didn't dare, a new lost love, “Everything :. lost, lost, lost” (133).
There would appear for you to be parody here, and even one might assume that Ionesco—in a line of descent from Nietzsche to poststructuralist thought—would not only disclaim the older metaphysics but laugh as well from the ridiculousness of any kind of nostalgia with regard to it, like for the originary moments of a bright beauty rendered with Platonic truth. And indeed the Orator who can be seen dressed as “a standard painter or poet on the nineteenth century” (154) will be, with his histrionic manner and conceited air, undoubtedly not necessarily Lamartine, who questions “Eternité, néant, passé, sombre abîme” (“Eternity, nothingness, past—dark abyss”) to return the sublime raptures they have stolen; nor is he / she remotely the figure involving Keats with his Grecian urn, teasing us out of idea in equating beauty and reality. Precisely what we have as an alternative, within Amédée or Learn how to get Purge of It, is this hypnotic beauty of the fact that which, when they miss to close the lids, emanates from the eyes, which often don't have aged—“Great green sight. Shimmering like beacons”—of typically the incurably growing corpse. “We could get along without his or her type of attractiveness, ” tells Madeleine, the sour and poisonous spouse, “it calls for up very much living space. ” Nevertheless Amédée is usually fascinated by means of the transfiguring growth of its ineluctable presence, which might have come from the abyss involving precisely what is lost, lost, missing. “He's growing. It's really natural. fluff branching out. ”3 But if there is anything lovely here, this seems to come—if certainly not from the Romantic time or one of this more memorable futurist photos, Boccioni's The Body Climbing (Amédée's family name is Buccinioni)—from another poetic source: “That corpse you rooted last year in the garden, and Has this begun for you to sprout? ” It's as if Ionesco were being picking up, basically, To. S. Eliot's concern in The Waste Land: “Will it bloom this year? ”4 If the idea definitely not only flowers, as well as balloons, but flies away, using Amédée together with the idea, this oracle regarding Keats's urn—all you know that is known and even all you need to be able to know—seems a far yowl from the humorous mordancy of this transcendence, or perhaps what in The Bar stools, even if the Orator had voiced, would have radiated upon posterity, if not from the face of some sort of corpse, via the light on the Old Man's mind (157).
Still the truth is of which, for Ionesco, the Absurd is predicated on “the memory space of a memory space of a memory” associated with the actual pastoral, attractiveness and truth inside nature, if not quite yet in art. Or consequently this appears in “Why Must i Write? A Summing Right up, ” where they subpoena up his youth within the Mill of the Chapelle-Anthenaise, some sort of farm throughout St-Jean-sur-Mayenne, “the nation, this bar, the hearth. ”5 Whatever it was generally there he didn't understand, such as the priest's questions at his or her first confession, it was presently there, also, that he or she was “conscious of being alive. … My spouse and i existed, ” this individual tells, “in happiness, joy, figuring out in some way that each moment was fullness without knowing this word brings. I lived in a sort of dazzlement. ” Whatever then took place to impair this sparkling time, the charm continues in memory, while a thing additional than fool's platinum: “the world had been beautiful, and I was aware about it, everything was fresh new and pure. I do: it is to get this splendor again, unchanged in the mud”—which, while a site of often the Absurd, he shares along with Beckett—“that I write fictional works out. All my books, all my works are a call, the manifestation of a nostalgia, some sort of look for a treasure buried inside the underwater, lost in the disaster associated with history” (6).