By Andre Malraux, Terence Kilmartin
Reprint from the French version. 5 printings plus a e-book membership version. André Malraux (1901 - 1976) used to be a French adventurer, award-winning writer, and statesman. Having traveled greatly in Indochina and China, Malraux was once famous particularly for his novel entitled los angeles Humaine (Man's destiny) (1933), which gained the Prix Goncourt. He was once appointed by means of basic Charles de Gaulle as Minister of data (1945-1946), then as Minister of kingdom (1958-1959), and the 1st Minister of Cultural Affairs, serving in the course of De Gaulle's complete presidency (1959-1969).
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I use the word encounter advisedly, because excogitation, the process of elaboration and development, comes later. Nevertheless we sense at once the fecundity of these ideas-which were once called inspirations. And it was in Egypt that I encountered those which for years have gov erned my thinking about art. The first of them was born of the Sphinx. It was not yet completely uncovered; no longer buried, as in 1934, but still speaking the noble language of ruins which are in process of being transformed into archaeological sites.
Outside, the raindrops pattered on to the flat leaves of the spindle " ANTI-MEMOIRS 20 trees as though they were paper; at regular intervals a heavier drop, falling from some gutter, rang out. "When I was a child," said Walter in an undertone, "I had a terrible fear of death. Every year that has brought me closer to it has made me more indifferent toward it. ' " My father was sure Walter was lying: he could sense the anguish below the surface. "Why," the old man asked, "did Dietrich want a religious burial?
Here the tomb is enough; it is the tomb of Death. Our caves, with their flint implements and their generators, remind us that man invented the tool-but it is in Egypt that we are reminded that he invented the tomb. One approached Hitler's sanctum down a spiral staircase, of gray marble, I think. Near the still intact ramparts that encircled shattered Nuremberg, where our tanks could not even find the central squares, ANTI-MEMOIRS skeletons greeted us from a balcony: it was the Museum of Natural History, whose windows had been blown in by a shell.