Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

ways, but I remember going to see him back in ~ebruar~ 1934, theday after the riots in Paris. I was very nervous about the politicalsituation, but there he was, already married to Gala, and sculptinga naked woman down on all fours. To be more precise, he was inthe process of enlarging the volume of her derrikre~and whollyindifferent to what was happening in the world outside his studio.Later, during the Civil War, he was quite clear about his sympathiesfor the Fascists. He even proposed a bizarre commemorativemonument to them, which was to be made by melting down into asingle mass the bones of all those who'd died during the war. Then,at each milestone between Madrid and the Escorial, a pedestal wasto be erected which would hold a skeleton sculpted from the realbones. As they approached the Escorial, the skeletons would getlarger; the first, just outside Madrid, would be only a few centimetershigh, but the last, at the Escorial, would be at least three or fourmeters.In his book The Secret Life of Salvador Dali, I was described as anatheist, an accusation that at the time was worse than being calleda Communist. Ironically, at the same moment that Dali's bookappeared, a man named Prendergast who was part of the Catholiclobby in Washington began using his influence with governmentofficials to get me fired. I knew nothing at all about it, but one daywhen I arrived at my office, I found my two secretaries in tears. Theyshowed me an article in a movie magazine called Motion Picture Heraldabout a certain peculiar character named Luis Bunuel, author of thescandalous L'Age d'w and now an editor at the Museum of ModernArt. Slander wasn't exactly new to me, so I shrugged it off, but mysecretaries insisted that this was really very serious. When I wentinto the projection room, the projectionist, who'd also read the piece,greeted me by wagging his finger in my face and smirking, "BadBoy!"Finally, I too became concerned and went to see Iris, who wasalso in tears. I felt as if I'd suddenly been sentenced to the electricchair. She told me that the year before, when Dali's book had ap-