Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

ca blanched, closed the manuscript, and looked at Dali."Buiiuel's right," Dali said in his deep voice. *'Es urn wdk."Even now, I've no idea how the play ends; in fact, I have toconfess that I don't think much of any of Lorca's plays, which I findornate and bombastic. He himself, as an individual, far surpassedhis work.Some time later, I went to the premiere of Y m at the TeatroEspaiiol in Madrid, with my mother, my sister Conchita, and herhusband. My sciatica was so paihl that evening that I had to stretchmy leg out on a stool in the box. Curtain rises: we see a shepherdwalking slowly across the stage. (He needs plenty of time, becausehe has to recite a long poem.) He's wearing sheepskin leggings heldin place by bands around his calves. The poem is endless. I fight myimpatience. Scene after scene goes by until at last we get to ActThree, where the washerwomen are rinsing their clothes in a paintedstream."The flock!" they cry, when they hear the tinkle of bells. "Herecomes the flock!"Two ushers are ringing lxlls in the back of the theatre, an innovationthe toat-Madrid found extraordinarily original and avantgarde;but I was so incensed that I limped outl supported by mysister. My various experiences with surrealism meant that this kindof fake modernism left me cold.Since the scandal outside the Closerie des Lilas, I'd felt increasinglyseduced by that passion for the irrational which was so characteristicof surrealism (despite Epstein's warning). I was fascinatedby a photo in L Rhlation Sumhliste of "Benjamin Pkret Insultinga Priest" and by a survey on sexuality in the same journal. Thesurrealists answered every question with what seemed to lx totalfranknes~ fat that might seem commonplace today, but at thattimel questions on the order of "What's your favorite place to makelove? With whom? How do you masturbate?" seemed incredibleto me.In 1929, at the invitation of the lecture society of the Residencia,