Book Review: The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí by Salvador Dalí

By Chris Stokum

“At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.”

           Thus begins The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí, the autobiography of one of the 20th Century’s most engaging and enigmatic artists. A self-portrait in true Dalinian fashion, the book is a paranoiac, chaotic, undeniably brilliant exploration of – as Dalí does not let the reader forget – a genius.

           In the early chapters, Dalí seems to be little more than a highly creative but spoiled child. As Dalí reflects on his young adulthood, however, a new facet of his personality begins to emerge. Dalí’s actions, we find, are never as senseless as they appear, his radical opinions never as unfounded as one might be tempted to think. In fact, Dalí’s reasoning, based largely on his aesthetic sense, is often just as convincing as the common rationale he rebels against. Dalí has a piercing critical gaze that he turns equally on himself and those around him. Even the reader does not escape; Dalí predicts and addresses objections, hesitations and disbelief with surprising accuracy.

           Taken alone, this aspect of the book is somewhat alienating, but Dalí offsets his confidence and independence with a very human element: a love story – at least, his version of one. Dalí reserves kind words for a select group, including Raphael and Picasso, while he is overtly critical of such heavyweights as Michelangelo, Freud and Kant. Above even those select individuals he respects, he cherishes his wife, Gala. His meditations on the nature of their relationship are some of the most emotionally direct and sympathetic moments in the book.

           A translator’s note shows the strength of the bond between Dalí and Gala. The translator writes that the manuscript for The Secret Life was “one of the most fantastically indecipherable documents ever to come from the pen of someone having a real feeling for the value and weight of words,” littered with practically illegible handwriting, almost no punctuation or paragraphing, and “deliriously fanciful” spelling. It was only with Gala’s help that Dalí’s raving notes could be put into a form that the average reader can understand.

           While the book is a valuable resource for anyone interested in Dalí’s artwork – the origins of his crutches, grasshoppers, ants and soft watches are all explained – it will appeal to anyone with an appreciation for individuality and creativity. Dalí’s narrative voice ranges from playful to violent; he is fanatical, staunchly unapologetic and most of all, honest. As he writes, “it is at the supreme moment of reaching the marrow of anything that you discover the very taste of truth,” and in his autobiography, Dalí casts away the bone and offers only marrow.