Chapter 15 Chapter Eleven (2)

After reaching Port Lligat, I painted a portrait of Gala, a pair of full-rib paddles and him swinging on her shoulders.This should mean (as I later understood) that instead of eating her, I decided to eat a pair of raw ribs.In fact, the ribs seemed to be a victim of my abortive atonement, just as Abraham was partial to ewes and William Tell was to apples.I did this portrait of my childhood several times, putting a raw chop on top of my head, trying to symbolically entice my father to eat the chop instead of his son.My edible, gut-cavity, digestible drawings got intense this day.I want to eat everything and plan to build a large table to eat out of hard boiled eggs, I even want to carve a Venus de Milo, which is just a matter of breaking the shell to find the white and digging down to the yolk.Not only do I want to eat everything this summer, but I'm also extremely thirsty.I believe that the schnapps (I had to drink it to overcome my shyness in Paris) played a role in the stomach irritation, thanks to which I felt a revival of my North African ancestral consciousness, this Arab Their thirst brought them to Spain and made them create shade and water jets.

I am as thirsty as the Arabs and as quarrelsome as they are.One evening, someone invited me to Barcelona in early autumn to try my eloquence in front of the public.The presented presentations were held at the Barcelona Association, the city's knowledge center.I decided to attack the local intellectuals in the most violent and violent way, who were then grazing in a kind of Catalan patriotism with stupefied ignorance.I began by stepping back for a quarter of an hour so that I could find myself facing a restless audience.Without a prologue, I began my speech with the Marquis de Sade's eulogy to Dionysus, whom I compared as a shameful scandal of knowledge with Angel Guimera, who died a few years ago in Hella, I know He is one of the most respected Catalan separatist writers.As soon as I said, "This great chicken lover, this giant hairy scum, his name is Angel Guimera..." I knew immediately that my speech was over.The hysterical audience threw chairs at me and attacked the podium. If the staff of the association did not stop me, people would definitely smash me like a plaster cast on the spot.Putting me in a taxi, the guards said to me, "You're brave/Actually, I believe I acted quite calmly that day, but the real courage was on the part of the National Guard who took the hit for me .

This again won me an invitation to a revolutionary group with anarchist tendencies. "With us," said the chairman, "you can say anything, and the bolder the better." I accepted the invitation, asking only for a loaf as long as possible and some straps to hold it securely.On the night of the talk, I arrived a few minutes early to set up the show exactly as I had envisioned it.They showed me a large loaf that was very satisfying to me.So I explained to them that at a certain predetermined point in my ramblings, I would gesture and say, "Bring it up." Two assistants would appear with the bread, put it on my head, and wrap it around Hold it firmly by my armpits.This procedure is to be carried out with the utmost seriousness.It would be even better if the two assistants had a gloomy expression.

Dressed in provocative elegance, I was immediately greeted by a storm when I appeared on stage.The applause finally silenced the whistle.Someone said: "First of all, let him talk because I spoke. This time it was not a tribute to the Marquis de Sade, but a speech from me, and I talked endlessly, the wildest and most explicit obscenities, some of the following Some, I've never said that in my life. No doubt it was the first time anyone had dared to utter these words in public. I kept my tone genial and natural, as if I were talking about rain and fine weather. A general uneasiness gripped Yi Emotional and humane anarchist audiences, most of whom thought: "Today we are going to hear the eccentricities of this Dali, this delightful petty-bourgeois ideology, who With a gift for making his kin howl, we'd love to hear him talk. "So they came with their wives and daughters. My ramblings continued, and the dirty words got mixed up with certain thoughts about Karl Marx, materialism, idealism. But it was the dirty stuff that really mattered, and they finally I was interrupted by a thin, serious and handsome anarchist like Saint Jerome, who was emphatically drawing my attention that we were not in a brothel, and that there were some women in the audience. I answered him a The Anarchist Center is no longer a church, and my own wives are there to hear me preach these words, and their wives can hear them too. My answer silences people instantly, but I A fresh barrage of obscenities was uttered in a characteristic, and still sacrilegious, naked manner, which set the whole hall roaring like a lion. Sitting on the podium, it was difficult for me to tell whether the roar meant anger or joy. I think The most opportune psychological moment came, and I beckoned to my assistants who stayed in the background, and they appeared bearing the loaf, which caused more surprise than I could have hoped for. When this long loaf was fastened to my head, there was an uproar increased, and began to turn into a general brawl, and infected by this general hysteria, I began to recite a remarkable poem I had written about "rotten donkeys." A white man with a face as red as a lobster The bearded anarchist doctor, driven mad by a veritable psychotic fit. It would have taken a dozen men to stop him. One can easily imagine that after this final event of participation, the party It ended in a mess. The organizers all looked very satisfied. They came up to me and said:

"You may have gone a little too far, but this is wonderful. A man approached me and spoke to me.He seemed sound of mind, but there was a rather unbearable cynicism about him.He chewed mint leaves from a paper cone bag, his fingernails so black with grime it puzzled me. "Look," he said to me, "I've been an anarchist all my life. I've only eaten grasses, and sometimes a rabbit. I'll like you, but there's someone I like better, if I Tell it to you and you won't believe it. Because I myself don't believe that he is Joseph (apparently this is referring to the Joseph Stalinist. On the contrary, the other one, Hitler, if you scrape off a little bit of his skin, you will be in the Nietzsche is found there. This hitler is a morros decon, he alone can kill europe with one kick. And find, i don't care about their europe. Do you understand

Before leaving me, he showed me his peppermint bag and added with a sly wink: "Salute. Act boldly." At this time, in the field of thought, Barcelona had reached such a state of chaos that the Tower of Babel seemed childish in comparison.Factions sprang up, splintered, clashed, turned in the blink of an eye, and the general animosity grew a little more with each passing day.There are three communist parties, each of which considers itself to be the only orthodox; there are three or four slightly differentiated Trotskyist trends; there are apolitical trade unions; there are socialist trade unions; There were several anarchist groups more or less affiliated with the Spanish Anarchist Federation; there were purely Stalinist groups; there were separatist groups; there were left-wing republican groups; and so on.This situation is on the left, because the right is equally discordant.Everyone had a premonition that something astonishing was about to happen in Spain, a great flood, with archbishops, grand pianos, and rotting donkeys pouring down.A farmer from Figueres found in my presence a precise definition of the state of the country:

"If politics continues to develop like this, then we will eventually fall into a pool of mud from which we cannot get out. Even if Jesus Christ himself just came to the world, we will not understand what time period this is. As soon as we got back to Paris, we moved from 7 Rue Baker to 7 Rue Gauguet.I think this modern house was invented by architects to punish the poor.And we are poor!Unable to possess Louis XV's chest of drawers, we chose some aluminum-plated tables and some mirrors placed here and there for the large sunny window.Gala has a talent for making everything glow the moment she arrives.Yet this almost monastic simplicity aroused in me a love of luxury.I feel like a cypress tree growing in the bathroom.

For the first time, I experienced people waiting for me in Paris, a vacuum created by my absence.But how to continue?My two lectures in Barcelona cured me of what remained of my unnaturally extreme shyness.I now understood that I could stir up public enthusiasm and madness at will, and I had a growing desire to feel that I was in contact with a "new flesh," a new country sprayed with post-war pollution.This is America!I want to go there with my plan and put my bread on this continent.Julian Levy has just sent me some clippings about a little exhibition he's just had in New York with my soft watch and some pictures I've lent him.No paintings were sold, but this show will reveal an understanding that is far more objective and familiar than that of the European critics.In Paris, everyone judges and proclaims a single point of view, starting from his scientific preferences.In Europe, I was just surrounded by supporters pulling each other's guns.In America, this civil war has not touched the people.The phenomenon which in our case already reveals the outline of future tragedy is in their case only a diversion.American Cubism has never had much importance except for an empirical significance that has ended.Away from struggle, impartial, with nothing to gain and nothing to lose, nothing to defend and nothing to attack, Americans keep their heads clear and instinctively see those who impress them most , which means see me.In Europe, people are mistaken when they think America does not have poetic intuitions and intellectual intuitions.If they are not mistaken, it is not from tradition or taste, but from an atavistic prudence.America has chosen better by the deep fundamental forces of its undamaged biology than by experience and heart.It knows what it lacks, what it doesn't have.And what it lacks in the spiritual field, I will bring it with my paranoid works.

The ideas I had begun to form about America were confirmed by my meeting with Alfred Barr, director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York.I met him at a dinner party at Lord Noel's.He was a pale young man with a very bad complexion.His staccato movements were like the hops and hops of a bird in search of food.In fact, he searches for contemporary values ​​and intelligently distinguishes the good and the beautiful.His knowledge of modern art was incredible to me.Familiar with the directors of French museums who have always ignored Picasso, I found him better.Mrs. Barr predicted that if I went to America myself, my future there would be bright.Gala and I have decided on this trip.well!What should I do if I have no money?

At this time, I met an American woman who bought the Sun Mill in the Elmenonville Forest.Rene Crevel introduced us to her and took us to lunch at her house in Paris.For this lunch, everything was white except the tablecloth and dishes, which were black.If you take a photo, the negative is like the positive.Everything we ate was white.We only drink milk.The curtains, telephones, and carpets are all white, and the hostess herself is dressed in white.She was immediately intrigued by my idea of ​​a secret society, and we decided to build an oven capable of baking fifteen meters of bread.The baker of Ermenonville, interested in "weird things", will take part in the secret.This American woman was so white that if people took pictures of her she would be a black negative, and her name was Cales Crosby.Every weekend, we are invited to the Sun Mill.They dine in stables covered in tiger skins and stuffed straw parrots.On the second floor, there is a huge library.There are ice buckets in every corner, filled with hors d'oeuvres.There are always quite a few guests, upper-class people and surrealists who feel that "something is happening" here.A gramophone kept playing Cole Porter's (Night and Day. (City and Country, The New Yorker) The first few issues fell into my hands. array of impressions.

"I'm going to America, I'm going to America..." This thing takes on the form of obsession.Gala reassured me. "As soon as we have some money, we'll be off..." But it was at this moment that everything went from bad to worse.Pierre Cole informed me that our contract was over and that his financial situation did not allow him to renew it.Money worries intensified.Collectors who would buy Dali's work already have too many Dali's to dream of anything else that would tempt them to buy.Just as the publication of some of my books left me with only a small circle of friends, Port Liggat drained all of our available funds.I found that my financial possibilities dwindled.Instead of giving in, I became angry, a pent-up but uninterrupted anger.Ever since Malaga, I've been determined to make a lot of money, but I haven't been able to.Just wait and see!I was furious, and I kept furious!In the street, I tore off the buttons of my coat, crushed them with my teeth, and stamped my feet as if to sink into the gravel of the sidewalk. One evening, as I was returning home after a day of futile running, near Edgar Keeney Avenue, I saw a blind man with no legs, sitting in a small car, turning the rubber wheels with his hands. , driving with a strange coquettish posture.The moment he crossed the street, he stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, took out a small road root and slammed it on the road for help.There was something repulsive about the guy's impertinence and confidence.He asked people to help him cross the street.The sidewalk was empty and I was the only passerby.Far away, there was only one whore staring at me.I approached the blind man and kicked the back of his car hard, pushing it with all my strength.The car hit the opposite pavement, and the blind, quick-witted fellow would have fallen forward, but anticipating the blow, he clamped his arms around the car and held on.He maintained his insulted dignity stiffly, as motionless as the gas lamp next to him.When it was my turn to cross the street, I went and looked into his face.No doubt he understood that I was the one who pushed him just now, for he immediately changed his attitude, no longer indignant, but as humble and docile as his physical condition required him to be.So I understood that if I asked this blind man for money, even if he was stingy, he would give it to me. That's it, I found out what to do to cross the Atlantic.Since I myself am neither legless nor blind, nor a disenfranchised wretch, there is no way I can beat the pavement rudely with a bamboo pole and beg strangers to let me sail the ocean that separates me from America.No, I'm not in a mean situation.On the contrary, I radiate brilliant light.It is understandable that people would not come to help a tiger, even if it was hungry.I just took the bamboo pole from the blind man and beat it around me.I'm not paralyzed, I just need to move. With the little money I had left, I reserved two seats on the Champlain, the commuter liner to New York.It set sail in three days.We had to get enough money to cover our cabin and keep us in New York for at least a fortnight.In three days, I ran all over Paris armed with the symbolic bamboo pole of the blind man, which in my hand became a wand of wrath, and I knocked aimlessly, and the myth of Danae reappeared.After shaking the scepter of the goddess of fate for three days, she finally decided to have fun, so the golden rain made me exactly foresee the departure.After this, I felt so tired, like I had sex six times in a row.I was worried about missing the ship, so the search came three hours before the transatlantic liner set sail.I stared at my watch and our porter, I was always afraid that he would betray us.Gala took my hand and calmed me down.I know I'll only feel at ease when I'm on board.When I found the boat, some reporters and photographers gathered around and asked me to come down to the locomotive to take some photos.I am very worried.The boat set sail while I was posing and had to offer a nonsensical explanation to the reporter: "The locomotive just doesn't suit me. Either I'm too tall or my bus is too small." Once aboard the Champlain, my fear of missing my trip to America didn't quite go away, and as soon as we were on the high seas, I felt a real fear of the ocean space.I had been watching the coast of the mainland, and I thought the groaning and crackling of the boat more suspicious.I found the ship to be too large, and too inconvenient to steer, to escape a catastrophe.I was the most conscientious among the passengers during each alarm drill, and put on the lifebelt an hour earlier than others.To make matters worse, I forced Gala to pay as much attention to it as I did, which annoyed her and made her cry with laughter.Every time she came back to the cabin, she would see me laying down and reading with the life buoy belt tied on my body.I would be the victim of a shipwreck, and I shuddered at the thought of it, and I looked accusingly at the officials, and it seemed to me a little strange that they should take it so lightly.I often drink xiangbanjiu to embolden myself and get rid of seasickness. Fortunately, I am not seasick. Calles Crosby was also traveling on the Champlain.She regretted not being able to carry out our project of a fifteen-meter loaf at Ermenonville, and she spoke to the captain about it, asking him to send us a baguette as long as possible.Arrangements were made for us to contact the ship's baker, who promised to make us a 2.50-foot loaf reinforced with a wooden stick inside.The next day, in my cabin, I received this gorgeously cellophane-wrapped loaf, which I thought would surprise the journalists who came for the interview.All the people on board are talking in amazement about these uneducated uninterested reporters who chew gum and ask you a barrage of questions.Everyone claims to have found a way to hide from them, but this is hypocrisy, because everyone is desperate to be interviewed by reporters.On the contrary, I kept repeating: "I love advertising, and if I'm lucky enough to let journalists know that I'm sick and ask me all kinds of questions, I'll give them my bread, just like St. Francis did with the birds." This seemed so uninteresting that my interlocutors could not help telling it to me with a frown and a pursed mouth.But I still stubbornly ask everyone: "Why do you believe my bread will have the greatest effect on journalists?" I removed the cellophane wrapping the bread and wrapped my bread in newspaper to make it more pleasant to open it in front of photographers and reporters... We arrived in New York and while filling out the forms required for landing, someone Inform me and the reporters to wait for me in my cabin.I had the kind of bewildering thing that happened to Diogenes, who came out naked from a wine barrel, holding a lighted candle in broad daylight, and no one asked him what he was looking for.As for me, none of the reporters asked me a single question about my bread, which I now tucked in my arm, now stood up like a stick.Instead, they seem to know the details of my personality, my work and my private life. "You just painted a portrait of your wife with two cooked ribs dangling from her shoulders," one of them said. "Is that true?" "That's true, but those ribs weren't cooked, they were raw." "Why "Because Gala was born too." "Then why put ribs with your wife?" "I love ribs, and I love my wife, and there's no reason why I shouldn't draw ribs and my wife together." These journalists do outperform their European counterparts.They have a dispassionate but intense interest in "the absurd," and are intimately familiar with their professions, fully aware of what gives them "story."Their keen sense of the sensational leads them at once to the heart of every issue in order to extract from it what will be food for thought for millions of hungry readers.In Europe, journalists go to interviews with already written articles.He's just there to confirm what he thinks or what his paper thinks, leaving it to the reader to tell whether he's telling the truth or not.Europe has a "historical sense" but no journalistic sense. The day we arrived in America, the reporters returned from an early morning hunt with a pair of ribs and a satisfying kill they had thrown triumphantly into the sky.That night, everyone ate raw ribs; I know people are still eating my bones far away from New York...   I stepped onto the deck of the Champlain, and I saw New York, gray-green and dirty white, like a giant Gothic Roquefort.Since I love Roquefort, I cheer: "New York is saluting me!" Next, it was my turn to pay homage to its truly cosmic grandeur.New York, you're an Egypt!But you are like an upside-down Egypt, for the Pharaohs erected the pyramids of slavery that died, and you erected the pyramids of democracy that conquered it! At around six o'clock the next morning, on the eighth floor of the St. Moritz Hotel, I awoke after a long dream involving lust and lions, my eyes fully open, but still amazed. Heard the roar of the lion that chased me in sleep.These roars seemed to me to be mingled with those of the mallard and other indistinguishable calls of animals.Other than that, there was almost complete silence.I had expected a city of terrible noise, and here I found a silence so impenetrable even to the roar of a lion.The floor bearer who brought me breakfast was a Canadian who spoke excellent French.He proved to me that I did hear the lion's roar.Because we are located above the Central Park Zoo.In fact, I saw the cages from the window and even saw the seals playing in the pool. My day-to-day experience just systematically refuted the stereotype that New York is a "mechanical modern city," which European avant-garde aesthetes wished to impose on us as a pure example of anti-art.No, New York is not a modern city, or at least it isn't such a city anymore.New York doesn't like modernism. Starting with a house on Park Lane (whose façade began to strongly display the spirit of anti-modernism), I started a series of afternoon cocktail parties.The building was new, and a team of workers with smoky paint painted the too-white walls in a color effect that would make them look old, giving them that special Parisian tone; Artists, Le Corbusiers, and others have scratched their heads at discovering flashy new material in order to imitate the so-called glamor of New York.They did not blacken the material.No sooner had I entered the elevator than I noticed this startling fact: there was no electricity for lighting, only a single thick candle for all lighting.Deep in the stairwell hangs a rather masterful painting of El.It is a replica of G to Co, trimmed all around with Spanish red velvet.I think the velvet is genuine, probably from the sixteenth century.And that's not everything.This suite did not disappoint me, here you can see Gothic things, Spanish Renaissance things, a Dali work, two pipe organs... I spent the entire afternoon visiting a succession of other suites and hotel rooms.We go from one cocktail party to another.Sometimes, several.The two cocktail parties were held in the same building, which created some moving confusion, which was exacerbated by my lack of English.One can get the general impression that New York is a city without electricity, lit only by candles.Where electric lighting is used, the light of the lamps is suppressed here and there by Louis XVI lamp shades, parchment manuscripts or Beethoven scores. In the evening, I visited a crazy movie temple.It is adorned with the most diverse bronze artworks, from (Samothrace's Victory) to statuettes of Karpo, from paintings that tell small stories to oil paintings with amazing gilded castellation pieces. A A spring of water springs from a horde of the most vulgar whites. And some pipe organs, some pipe organs, some pipe organs here and there... Before going to bed, I drank a last whiskey in a bar in St. Moritz, accompanied by a very polite Quaker in a top hat.He was surreptitiously drinking in a seedy Harlem nightclub when I bumped into him.He didn't want to leave me anymore, speaking French, let me guess a secret he wanted to confide in me.Gala sensed this too, for she told him innocently: "I'm sure you live in a state of mind close to that of the Surrealists." The man lightened up and told us that he was a Quaker of some entirely original sect of spiritism.None of his friends knew about the secret, but since I'm a surrealist, he was going to break it to me because he knew I would.Thanks to a recent invention, members of this faction have spoken to the dead.This conversation can only take place within four months of death, during which time the spirit of the deceased remains at the place of death.Galla asked for more precise information.This is what the psychic Quaker was waiting for in order to further illustrate: "I fixed a small brass horn to the wall with the help of a rubber suction cup. That's how I talked to my father every night at bedtime for two months after his death." I made him understand that the time to talk to the dead was drawing near, and that it was time for us to part... On my second night in New York, I revisited every detail of my first encounter with America before going to bed.No, a thousand times no, the poetry of New York does not exist in the kind of things they tried to make us understand, especially not in the strict rectilinear architecture of Rockefeller Center.No, the poetry of New York is old and fierce, like the poetry of the world, like the poetry that never changes... For many mornings, I walked alone in the streets of New York with bread under my arm.I once went into the grocery store on Fifty-seventh Street and asked for poached eggs, and in the face of everyone's astonishment, I cut a small piece of my big loaf and ate it with the poached eggs.Several people quickly surrounded me, asking me all kinds of different questions, but I could not understand these questions.I shrugged and smiled sheepishly in answer to them. My bread is getting smaller and smaller.It's time to get rid of it c Where can I get rid of it?One morning, as I walked up to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, it was split in two, and the clock struck twelve, which was the hour of fantasy, and I decided to go to the Celtic House for lunch.As I was about to cross the street, I slipped and fell, and two loaves of bread fell on the far side of the road.A policeman ran to help me up.I turned around to see where the loaf was.They are gone!No trace remained, and their disappearance remained a mystery to me.Neither the police nor pedestrians took them away.I felt with great disquiet that this involved a wildly subjective phenomenon, that the bread was somewhere under my nose, and that I had failed to see it for reasons of emotion which I would have to ascertain hereafter. This accident was the starting point of a discovery which I promised to reveal at the Sorbonne in Paris under the evocative title "The Invisible Bread."In this report I present and explain the phenomenon of sudden loss of something, a negative hallucination which is difficult to detect because of its amnestic nature.The fact that man does not see what he attends to is not a common phenomenon of inattention, but a phenomenon of hallucination.The ability to induce it at will would obviously render corporeal reality invisible and give the magic of the paranoid one of its most effective weapons.All discoveries thus have an involuntary point of departure.Columbus discovered America while searching for the opposite site, alchemists invented alloys while studying the golden five, and I just found out that I couldn't see it when I sought to prove the obsession of bread.It is this same invisible problem that I cannot solve in a satisfactory way in my portrait of the "invisible man."What people cannot do, bread can do! My exhibition at Miriam Levi was a huge success.Most of the paintings found buyers, and the press, though belligerent, also recognized my gift of painterly imagination.I had to return to Europe on the Normandy, which left port at two o'clock in the morning.The day before my departure, Calles Crosby and some of her American friends organized a "dream-like" dance at the Red Rooster in the afternoon in honor of me.The celebration became famous in the United States, and it led to a series of similar celebrations in different cities outside the country.The ball, with the theme "A Surreal Dream," gave vent to the wild whims that had sprouted in the minds of some Americans.I myself am hardly surprised in this field, but so was the wildness and madness displayed that night at the Ball L at the Red Rooster. ~ Some society women appear with birdcages over their heads, leaving the rest of their bodies completely naked.Other women play off horrific disfigurements and scars, brazenly stripping them of their beauty by sticking safety pins into their skin.A pale, lanky, rather amusing woman wears a "living" mouth in the center of her satin dress.Some eyes grew like horrible tumors on the cheeks, on the back, under the armpits. ~ a man, wearing blood-stained pajamas, head.A bedside table rests firmly on top of it.When he opened the door of the nightstand, a flock of hummingbirds flew out.In the center of the stairs, a bathtub filled with water is placed in an unstable and balanced manner, and the water may overflow at any time, worrying the guests.During the party, a gigantic skinned bull was brought into the living room, its dismembered belly held up by crutches, stuffed with a dozen gramophones.Gala appears dressed as a "beautiful dead body".On her head was a doll that was a faithful imitation of a baby, with ants devouring its stomach and a phosphorescent lobster clutching its brain. The next day we left for Europe naively, and I say naively, because as soon as we got to Paris, I learned that there was a lot of talk about the "Dreamy" ball.In fact, the kidnappers of Lindbergh's children and the reporter of Parisian were being arraigned at the time. Mr. Delucy de Salz, after his daily boring reports, felt that the painter Salvador da The news that Mrs. Leigh went to the ball with the bloody image of the Lin Bai baby on her head smoothly was the best way.He described an unheard-of event in New York that no one else had witnessed but himself.In return, the news spread throughout Paris, causing a genuine consternation.I can no longer make my own decisions.From now on, surrealism will become more and more mixed, and soon it will be only me.In addition, the group disintegrated, and there was a whole rebellion following the slogans of Louis Aragon, the neurotic little Robespierre, blindly evolving towards communism.The day I proposed building a thought machine consisting of a rocking chair filled with cups of hot milk, the crisis struck.Aragorn said angrily: "End of Dali's whims! Hot milk should be given to the children of the unemployed." Breton, aware of the danger of this confusion manifested by the communist faction, decided to expel Aragon and his supporters, including Bunuel, Yunik, Sadour and others.Rene Crewell was the only sincere communist.He did not intend to follow Aragorn in his journey of intellectual mediocrity.Yet he also kept his distance from our group.Not long afterward, unable to resolve the dramatic contradictions of those conundrums of postwar ideology, he committed suicide.克列维尔是自杀的第三位超现实主义者，从而证实了这一运动在它开始时提出的讯问："自杀是种解决的办法吗广我回答不是，我非理性活动的延续决定着这个不是。另一些人沉浸在咖啡馆露天座的长篇大论中，慢慢地自杀了。就个人而言，我对政治从不感兴趣。我发现它是轶事的、可悲的，甚至是危险的。相反，我研究宗教史，特别是研究我日渐感到是"完美建筑"的天主教。巴黎、利加特港、纽约、巴黎、利加特港，我在不断的旅行中远离了团体。我在巴黎的那些次出现，使我有机会无数次出入社交界。非常富有的人总给我留下深刻的印象，同样利加特港的穷人也给我留下了深刻的印象。只有不富不穷的人没引起我什么反应。那时，在超现实主义者周围聚集着一些小资产阶级、一伙难于适应洗澡的气味相投的家伙，我像躲避瘟疫一样躲避他们。每月我去看布列东三次，每月我跟毕加索和文目雅见一次，但从不同他们的弟子会面。可我每天早晚都能看到上流社会的人士。大部分上流社会的人士都没显示出聪明才智。然而他们的妻子都佩戴着跟我的心一样坚硬的首饰，身上洒着大量的香水，欣赏着我所讨厌的音乐。我一直是名天真而又狡黠的卡塔卢尼亚的农夫，一位国王栖息在这个农夫的身体里。我是自命不凡的，无法摆脱明信片上撩人的形象，它表现一位挂满了一大堆首饰、戴一顶华丽帽子的裸体女人，正拜倒在我肮脏的脚下＠。这就是我内心里深深向往的事啊！ 我又犯了一次优雅病，它跟马德里那次很相似。我觉得优雅是一个精致时代的有形象征，是宗教童子军的军号声。实际上，没什么能比时装更富悲剧性、更虚妄的了。正如1914年的战争由莎耐尔小姐象征一样，文尔莎·夏帕列里的服装店宣告了未来的战争，这场战争将清除红色或白色的社会主义革命。 我又一次是那么正确！几年后，以夏帕列里时装和达利作为掩护，穿着厚颜无耻地模仿的衬衫，沾着沙粒的头发上缀满刚在法国扯下的树叶，德国军队进入了比亚里兹。夏帕列里店铺的灵魂是贝蒂娜·贝格利，她很像螳螂，她也明白这一点。她也是巴黎最好幻想的女人，她是前驻莫斯科和安卡拉大使加斯东·贝格利的配偶，加斯东·贝格利是位绝无仅有的人，他继承了北欧人的蓝眼睛和一种司汤达式的智慧。贝蒂娜与莎耐尔小姐和鲁西·塞尔特（穆第瓦尼公主的亲生女）一起，尽管有死亡有分离，一直是我最好的朋友…·· 伦敦带给我一种拉斐尔前派精神的光彩，我无疑是唯一能辨别和品味这种情况的人。彼得·沃森最爱好建筑和家具。他买广了最让人想到罗赛蒂作品的每一件毕加索的作品，而毕加索本人并不知道这件事。极为富有的爱德华·詹姆斯理所当然地买了一些达利的作品。贝纳斯爵士像潜水员那样用幽默的盔甲保护自己，他毫无表情地出席波利尼亚克公主在她那由霍塞一玛利亚·塞尔特装饰的大客厅里举办的高质量音乐会。在塞尔特第一位妻子米西姬·塞尔特的家里，烧煮着巴黎最有营养的闲话。在玛丽一露易莎·布斯凯特的家中，每星期四晚上，在一间宁静的灰色沙龙里，人们品尝着另一些闲话、文学的和社交界的闲话，我有时在这儿见到沃拉尔，甚至还有保尔·波瓦列特。在春天，波利尼亚克伯爵夫人家里，天气非常美妙，人们在花园中听到客厅里在演奏一首弦乐四重奏曲。客周"里，蜡烛照亮着那些雷诺阿的作品和一幅具有不吉利的食粪性的芳丹一拉图尔的无比的色粉笔画。各种小蛋糕、糖果、甜食陪伴着一切。在诺埃尔子爵夫人家里，情况则与此相反，这儿是文学和绘画的对位、黑格尔的传统、巴伐利亚的路易二世、尼斯塔夫·多雷、罗伯斯庇尔、萨特和达利。我们在这儿如鱼得水，但比在别处更在重。 还有雷金纳德·费洛斯夫人家的舞会和晚宴。人们在这儿没看到她穿柯克多为她设计的连衣裙、没听到格特鲁德·斯坦因讲话，真感到双重的沮丧。 福西涅一路辛日亲王和亲王夫人具有最无可争辩的"态度"，这种态度几乎跟那西班牙风度、那"外貌们样强烈。在亲王夫人身上，这种态度是奥布里比尔兹利异国情调的优雅形象有点儿变质的残渣。她总穿着一种我不了解的会残暴压迫时装的过时服装。正如她的过时仿佛属于新闻一样。她是具有最确切的巴黎式优雅感的女人。 波获伯爵和伯爵夫人保管着整个这一世界戏剧的钥匙。进入他们家中，就是进入剧院。看到挂在管风琴银光闪闪管子上的一幅毕加索灰色时期（原文如此--一译者）的作品，就足以了解到这一点了。艾蒂安·德·波蒙像戏剧的主角那样讲话，穿着极为昂贵的鹿皮鞋。每一舞蹈编排的策划、加基列夫的策划和其他俄国芭蕾舞的策划，都诞生在他那树上挂着一些假花的花园里。人们能不受损害他在他们家见到玛丽·罗兰册、德·拉·罗克上校、列奥尼德·马西纳、谢尔盖·里法尔（他疲惫死了，就像是尸体一样）、格布尔特拉的土邦主、西班牙大使和超现实主义者。巴黎的"上流社会"变成了各类人大混杂的场所，它预示着1940年的战败。受到大众欢迎的、失败主义的、粘糊糊的费尔南代尔②的牙床，以一种迷人的方式同身穿最精美的勒隆长裙的娜塔丽·帕莱公主高贵的、幽灵般的苍白形成了鲜明的对照。亨利·伯恩斯坦在这种卡萨诺瓦式的风流夜总会的昏暗光线下，面对着～盘意大利面条，以富于预言性的闲话，讲出一种犬儒主义的和感伤的结局。贝贝·贝拉尔的胡子，继我特有的胡须之后，是巴黎最聪明的画家的胡子。他到处游荡，胡子上沾染着鸦片，身上有种混合了勒南味的罗马本期的颓废气息。在这个仍装点着对路易十五各种回忆的巴黎（以阿尔图罗·洛佩斯家族的一对阿兹台克人和巴西人的夫妇为代表），一切都为拉斯普廷作风、贝贝一花花公子派头、加拉一达利方式做好了准备。除了他那些稀有的卓越绘画之外，贝拉尔身上有三种我觉得是美妙动人的情况：他的肮脏、他的目光和他的聪明。鲍利斯·柯沙诺怀着愤怒和坚定的态度，刮掉了他的哥萨克式胡须。他"照亮了"俄国的芭蕾舞，他道过歉，迅速地吃着，在餐后点心端来前就匆匆走掉了，无疑他将到别的地方吃餐后点心。他满脸通红时，面孔就变成鲜红色，同他雪白的礼服衬衫形成强烈的对比，他好像是一面法国国旗。霍塞一玛利亚·塞尔特具有十分鲜明的耶稣会式的西班牙人的智慧。他让人在距利加特港三小时路程的地方建造了一幢住宅。勒一马一容格无疑是欧洲最贫穷也最奢华的地方。我和加拉，我们去那里呆了几周。夏末，巴黎的整个团体都跑到那里，我们在那儿度过了一些日子，它们不过是对这无法模仿的辉煌战后岁月的一种怀旧式回忆。 这种受到萨尔达那舞蹈音乐和布拉瓦海岸的各种海上景观摇晃的狂喜生活，不幸被发生在帕拉莫斯到费格拉斯的公路上的一场车祸打断了。阿历克斯·穆第瓦尼王子和茶桑男爵夫人因此而丧生。阿历克斯的妹妹鲁西，受到悲伤的折磨，四年后也去世了。要衡量我多么喜爱她，只需说她跟收藏在海牙博物馆中的那幅维米尔的少女肖像如同两颗珍珠一般相似就足够了。 愿人们不要急于太肤浅地判断战后的这个绝望而又浪漫的欧洲的主角们。在重审那些动不动就自杀的诗人和上流社会的妇女之前，要先过掉一个世纪。我们中间很少有人会在大灾难后活下来，而我们热爱的这个大陆将沉没在既无纪念也无光荣的当代历史的废墟中。