Chapter 18 Chapter Fourteen

Florence--Munich to Monte-Carlo--Bonwitt-Tell--The War in Europe--The Battle of Miss Shanel and Mr. Calvert--Return to Spain--Lisbon--Invention of the Machine for Photographing Thoughts-- Cosmology--Crows The Perpetual Triumph of the Plant Leaf--The Renaissance Paul Éluard proposed a heraldic inscription: "Live by the error and the fragrance." After the error of Greta Garbo and the snot, I know the fragrance of "precognition".The more I erred about the immediate and the ordinary, the more I saw what was. We have just rented a villa near Florence.Surrounded by cypress trees, I regained a relative calm.My good friend Miss Shanel was traveling in Sicily at that time.One night, I suddenly felt that she had typhus, and I wrote her immediately: "I am very worried that you have measles typhus." Telegram, tell me Shanelle is very ill in Venice.I ran to see her.She had typhoid fever and was running a high fever.The memory of Diaghilev's death terrifies us all.

There was a large Capri shell on the bedside table.Since then, for no apparent reason, I have always associated Capri with the idea of ​​a fever, repeating: "In Capri, the landscape is always in high fever. Its caves should cure Capri's ailments." I order this shell to be removed from the patient's room.Then someone came to measure the temperature, and the temperature suddenly returned to normal.Since then, I have been haunted by the question of whether there was a Capri shell on Diaghilev's table the day he died. I believe in witchcraft, and am sure that every new attempt at celestial evolution or transcendence needs to be grounded in witchcraft, and requires a recovery of that mental state that has guided the minds of Paracels or Raymond Holl.The paranoiac critique explains the images that my feelings cannot escape, the accidents that scatter my schedule, the often "objective retentiveness" that accompanies my various meaningless actions The explanations of those phenomena, all this is but an attempt to provide an objective rigor to symbols, divinations, omens. If I am wrong to foretell something that is about to happen, then in return, Gala A true psychic, a psychic in the scientific sense of the word. She never gets it wrong and draws cards with astonishing accuracy. That's how she predicted The exact story of my father's life, foretelling Crevel's suicide, foretelling Germany's declaration of war. Galla believed in my wood chip, which was during one of our original walks, one day on the rocky reef in the Cruise Sea Found it. Since then, we have never given up on this Dali amulet. Once, I left it in Covent Garden, London, but found it the next day. Another time, it was wrapped in New York The sheets at the St. Moritz Hotel were sent to be starched, and the entire sheet had to be rummaged to retrieve it. This piece of wood has taken on a strange form of neurosis in me. Whenever I want to change it, I Just can't help but do it. Even now I have to get up from the table to touch it... Lo and behold, it works! In an instant, my worries are relieved.

Before this wood chip, I was plagued by all kinds of oddities that didn't seem real.The ritual of sleep, in particular, has reached the point of insanity.Drawers are to be closed, things are to be balanced on the easy chairs, doors are to be left ajar.The slightest violation of this imaginary rule forced me to get up again and arrange everything.Now as long as I can touch this amulet when I think about it, it will make all these strange ringworms disappear,...·· The September equinox will bring us a crisis in Munich.Although Galla's cards proved to us that it was not yet war, we cautiously left Italy and came to La Posa in Roquebruna, near Monte Carlo, to live in Hoco Sanai I stayed with her for four months, with the great poet Pierre Hevidy.Howard was the all-around poet of the Cubist generation.He was "gross", anti-intellectual, the complete opposite of me.This is an excellent opportunity for us to argue and reinforce our respective points of view.We call the "research problem" our warring pleasure, like two roosters.During this time, I wrote the outline for my The Mystery of Life, prepared my exhibition in New York, and painted The Hitler Mystery, a painting so difficult to interpret that I still can't grasp its meaning .No doubt it was constituted by displacements of the dreams that haunted me after Munich.I feel its value is prophetic.The painting clearly announces the kind of medieval period that Europe will experience.Chamberlain's umbrella appears on the canvas as a sinister weaver...

When I arrived in New York, the merchandise on Fifth Avenue didn't surprise me too much.Everyone tried to be Dali.Bonwit-Tell asked me to rearrange two more windows.I accepted it because I thought it would help to prove in public what is real Dali and what is fake Dali.But I put forward a condition that I have the right to do whatever I want, and the person in charge of the store accepted this condition, and they asked me to contact Mr. Li, the display director, who was very kind to me.I hate modern day mannequins, these horrible female bodies are too hard, too lacking in food factor, and have ridiculously upturned noses.I need flesh, artificial and obsolete.We went to the top floor of an old shop to unearth wax mannequins from the 1900's.Their deadly long hair makes them quite scary, and over the years, dust and cobwebs have covered them.

I said to Lee: "Especially don't touch the dust. It is because of them that these mannequins are more beautiful. I want to dedicate them to the public on Fifth Avenue, just like people give a bottle of wine carefully taken from the cellar. Comes out like an old Alma Hank." The mannequins were shipped out with the utmost care the way we found them.If I had displayed them in a setting lined with soft satin and mirrors, the contrast would have been even more bizarre.The theme of the two displays is very simple: day and night.During the day, a mannequin enters a "furry tub" filled with water covered in curly lamb fur.A very beautiful wax arm holds a mirror, symbolizing the myth of Narcissus.Some true daffodils grow directly from rugs and furniture.For the night I made a bed with a canopy made of a black buffalo's head and a dove with blood in its beak.The bed is made of buffalo buffalo, and the bed sheet is burnt irregular black satin.In those quilt holes, artificial burning charcoal can be seen; on the other hand, these charcoal have also become pillows on which the mannequins rest their heads.The ghost of sleep hangs by the bedside with glittering jewels, just the kind of stuff that the wax girl Sleepy Spring could have dreamed of.

In the middle of the street, this expression must inevitably attract the attention of passers-by, thus presenting them with a truly surreal Dalí spectacle. We had just seen a performance of Lohengrin at the Metropolitan Opera, and when we got out of the opera, Gala and I went to the Bonwitt-Tell store and people finished creating my two displays.On set, I invented something new, and we ended up staying up until 6:00 a.m., hanging jewelry on the mannequins, nailing flowers and cloth almost everywhere. The next day, we had a big lunch, and by the time we were able to go to Fifth Avenue to judge the effect, it was 5:00 pm.How outraged and surprised I was to see how everything had changed without being politely notified in advance!My dusty mannequins have been replaced by the usual shop mannequins.Only the satin-lined walls remained, that is to say, exactly what I had jokingly proposed to expand.From my pale face, Gala understood my anger, and she begged me to remain calm.

"Go talk to them, say to her, "But be sensible.Let them remove all this crap and we won't have to talk about it. " She guessed that every advice would be superfluous, adding fuel to the fire, and she left me.I went to Bonwit-Tell's manager's office, and they made me wait in the corridor for a quarter of an hour.I was finally received by a man who told me it was an honor to meet such an amazing artist as me.Then it was my turn to answer him through a translator, and I said very politely that my work had been falsified without being notified in advance.I therefore wish either to remove my signature from the display, or to restore my decorations as I wish.This sweetening of my ideas is damaging to my reputation.The manager replied to me that he had the right to keep what they liked in my opinion, and that in no case could the window curtains be lowered in broad daylight.I stand by my point of view.These changes can be fixed in less than ten minutes.The rudeness of my interlocutor made me determined to present an ultimatum, and I demanded that my name be withdrawn immediately, and that I would act.The guy is still trying to explain to me why the windows had to be changed because they were keeping too many pedestrians and affecting the traffic.It was all clear now, and he didn't want to change anything.I did not insist any longer, and having saluted my two interlocutors, I calmly approached the window where the bathtub filled with water was kept.I walked into the display and stood motionless for a while, watching the people walking on the sidewalk through the glass windows.My presence must have seemed rather peculiar, for immediately a large crowd began to gather.This is what I was looking forward to.I grabbed the bathtub with both hands and lifted it slightly to turn it over.It was heavier than I believed, and I thought I'd have to ask Samson for some strength.The bathtub slid down, close to the glass window.When I finally managed to flip it over, it hit the glass, sending shards of glass flying.Crowds yelled to run away while water spilled into the street.Looking at the situation soberly, I thought it best to go out through the breach rather than through the shop door.I jumped onto the pavement.Less than a second after I jumped out, a large piece of glass fell off from the height and fell with a crash, and I was almost executed.Always very calm, I put on a big farmer, for fear of catching a cold in the cold weather, and then I walked slowly to the hotel where I was staying.I had just walked about ten meters, and a very polite plainclothes policeman gently put his hand on my shoulder, apologizing for detaining me.

Gala and some friends rushed to the police precinct where I had just been brought in, and my lawyer offered me a choice between two solutions: I would be released on bail immediately and charges would be filed against me at a later date, or I would accept staying in The sub-bureau lasted for one or two hours, and then the trial took place.Even though I find the prison mix horrific, I've opted for the second solution.Most of the prisoners were drunks, bums, and they vomited everywhere.I tried to hide in a hidden corner of Ah Fang, away from all these people's bugs and lice and the sewage they splashed.My grief must have been so evident that it brought me near by a rather effeminate little gentleman, covered with rings and gold bracelets.

"You're Spanish," he said to me, "you can see that right away. I'm Puerto Rican. Why do you come here? "I broke a glass display window." "It's nothing but a fine. Is it a glass window in a bar? In what district?" "No bar/j2$ A big store on Fifth Avenue." "Fifth Avenue!" said the little man admiringly. "Tell me all about it later. Stay with me now, and no one will touch you as long as you are with me. Thing Apparently, among these fighters and these drunks, the little man seemed to enjoy an unexpected respect.Although the judge who tried me appeared to be more serious on the surface, it could not completely conceal his happy expression.He judged my conduct to be a gross excess, and since I had broken a glass window, I must pay for it.Having said this, he acknowledges the artist's right to defend his work outright.The next day, the press acted on my behalf, showing me a moving understanding and approval.I have received hundreds of letters from American artists affirming to me that my actions clearly demonstrate the need to defend American art.I just inadvertently stumbled upon a new scar in this country.

A joint stock company offered me a contract to make another vitrine for one of the pavilions of the International Exposition, exactly according to my taste.They guaranteed me "absolute freedom of the artist's imagination".This gallery should be called "Dream of Venus I. This dream was a terrible nightmare, because I soon found out that this limited company has a mind of its own, and dreams of Venus according to its own taste. .They were just thinking about using my name for propaganda purposes. I wrestled with them ~Homer Young. They forced some material on me, and I happily messed with it, cutting up the Rubber tails for mermaids, tarring those parrots, flipping them all over, destroying everything with scissors. The corporation finally begged for mercy and let me do as I please. Unfortunately, rush work continues in various studios , people just do roughly what I want. Tired, I wrote a manifesto: "A Madman's Rights and Imaginary Declaration of Independence Ping." moral responsibility.

I hated the dream of Venus and left for Europe before my work was finished.On Champlain et al. I had the quiet necessary to sort out my ideas and recent experiences.Despite these accidents, I still feel that America is a land of great freedom, where conversation and argument can be held with scissors in hand, where there is flesh and life.I returned to Europe, unfortunately exhausted by a delicate hand-built.America has some solitary and sober wise men who teach us Europeans a priori instructive lessons.Far from showing the eclectic skepticism of the European selection, the selection of museums and private collections already presages a profound synthesis there.James Thrall Kingbeck, with whom I have had a connection since my first travels and which has only just grown closer, was the first to catalog those aesthetic values ​​since Picasso.He vigorously rejected abstract art and non-figurative art in order to later focus on the hyper-figurative art of neo-romanticism and paranoid surrealism.This happens naturally.This must also be "classified".Spiritually speaking, the Berard-Dalí axis is *more real than the superficial likenesses of the Surrealists' which conventionally brought together some adherents of the faction. Eugène Bellorman's Romantic Classical (or Classical Romantic) paintings appear to be much more mysterious than those of the "formal Surrealists". The x～goal is struggling, and this goal is grade and synthesis. Jingbai is also one of the first people who ruled out automatic experience for my paranoid critical method. Automatic support stubbornly repeats their old tune. Heavy After returning to Paris, I experienced a sense of sadness when I saw again the group forever rooted in the same madness. They answered my request for classification with a surreal exhibition in which , the works are in alphabetical order! Is it worth messing with everything to reconstruct the order? I have never succeeded in reciting the alphabetical order, but when I look it up in a dictionary I happen to open, I always find my Wanted things. Alphabet order is not my forte, I always ignore it. Now that surrealism is my own, consciously or not, I will also ignore surrealist alphabet order. As always, my "Crazy Tristan," my best theatrical work, could not be staged as it is.I had to change it to Venus Mount, and then to Dionysian Carnival, which was equivalent to the final version.I just conceived this ballet for the Ballet Russes in Monte Carlo.I got along very well with Leonid Macinai, who seemed to be 100% Dalí.Like Noel Hussein, Prince Cervazzize, the purest representative of European aristocracy, completed my set with the utmost care not to be found anywhere in our age of sloppy work. A careful attitude.Shachel designed the most luxurious and wonderful costumes with a lot of white leather and jewelry.Unfortunately, Shanelle and I hadn't finished our work when various international events forced the dance company to relocate to the United States, and the Dionysian Carnival was staged at the Metropolitan Opera with some temporary costumes.Either way, it was a huge success. Galla made me decide to go to the mountains, and I stayed at the Hotel Feng-Luomo in the Pyrenees region near the border to rest.The war is coming in stride.My rest mainly consists of painting for twelve hours a day.When we arrived at Jiyiluomo, we were told that the large hotel room had just been requisitioned by the inspecting General Baimolin.I had to wait patiently for him to leave before I could occupy the room I wanted as a studio.At night, he was gone, and we slept in the Supreme Commander's bed.Gala drew cards for me and predicted the day of war.Partial mobilization forced the hotels to close.We returned to Paris, and I asked the cards for news of my winter battles, trying to arrange a place far from a possible invasion that would satisfy my desire to eat well.In the end, I pointed my finger at a famous place for nostalgic French cuisine, which is Bordeaux.In the unlikely event (which I find unlikely) that the Germans emerge victorious, they will get here at last.In addition, Bordeaux means fine wine, red wine with onions and hare, duck liver with grapes, duck with orange and Alcacon oyster.Alcazar!I just discovered this suitable location a few kilometers from Bordeaux.Three days since war was declared, we haven't found it yet.I set up my studio in a colonial villa facing the Arcacon basin.The villa is rented to us by Mr. Calvert, the most talkative man in the world.When Keke Shanel came to spend some time with us, I confirmed that he was indeed the most talkative man in the world.Until then, I always thought that Shachel was the most talkative person. ~ One night, facing ~ a plate of grilled sardines and a glass of sea wine, I compared them to see who was the champion.After a long confrontation, the result of the duel was never clear.Then, when the first hour passed imperceptibly, Calvert finally gained the upper hand.His victory was especially due to his masterful breathing technique.He had the rhythm of his breath so well that he didn't have to stop; Keke was feverishly engaged in a speech where she had to stop and breathe.So Mr. Calvert quietly resumed his train of thought without pausing.He also deftly chooses some topics that overwhelm Shanelle, notably the d-question of termites.Soon she had to admit that she had no more thoughts about these insects.And Mr. Calvert took advantage of this opportunity to pour out the entire story of his African experience. During this time, the German troops advanced, opening some breaches on the front against them.Keke.Shanelle seems to be a white swan with her head slightly drooping in the torrent of history that will drown everything. The best things in the "French" race are embodied in her. Besides, she talks about This France she loved so dearly. She would never leave the country, even under the most tragic circumstances. Like myself, Keke Shanel is the embodiment of the period after the First World War, and our views are about the same It all came together. The two weeks she spent in Arcacon prompted us to revise our views, to draw them with a clearer line. The present war already requires the kind of Form. But Shanelle's originality is not mine. I have always flaunted my thoughts shamelessly; but she never shows them off, though she does not hide hers, she only adorns them. In her In the store, haute couture always has a biological stipulation, a bloodline with a sense of shame. Her body and soul are the best clothes on the earth. After Shachel, Marcel Duchamp came to visit us, worried about the bombing of Paris that never happened.Compared with me, Dichamp is the enemy of history.Beside us, he continued to indulge in his own wonderful and mysterious life.His inactivity stimulated my own work.Never during this war did I work in Arcacón with such a searing sense of intellectual responsibility.I was totally into the uphill battle of technique and material.The thing became alchemy.A brutal struggle to get the right mix of colors, oils, varnishes that will embody what my soul feels flawlessly.I spend sleepless night after night just because I poured two extra drops of oil!Only Gala witnessed my anger, my despair, my fleeting ecstasy, my bitter...wrong again.She alone knew what painting had become for me then, an excessive reason for living, an even greater reason than Agara, because she was reality, and the portrait of her that I was going to paint would be my "work" ".In order to complete this portrait of my Galalina as I call it, it was first of all a matter of hard work, sorting out all the values ​​and creating my own celestial performance.It's exhausting!Only Gala feeds me!She gathered up some Bordeaux and took me to dinner at the "Château Petite" or "The Chicken Delicious", accompanied by Leonore Fini.She puts a spiced garlic porcini on the tip of my tongue and orders: "Eat it!" "It smells good," I said out loud. Compared to the struggle that was going on in my head, the war in Europe seemed to me like a childish fight between street kids.For a brief moment, however, the fights seemed amusing, and gangs of these jovial, silent children boarded armored vehicles strewn with naive paintings and twigs, and sprinted across the country.I thought to myself that this was clearly becoming too historical for me.We packed up and set off, our day in Bordeaux being the same day as the original bombing, which was inauspicious.We came to Spain two days before the Germans took the Pont Hendayil.Galla slipped off to Lisbon in a hurry, and I was going to find her there once my papers were in order.There, she tried to overcome the bureaucratic hurdles that plagued our journey.As for me, I returned from Irun to Qualas and traveled through northern Spain.I see the fatherland in ruins, in noble poverty, but revived by faith in its destiny.The sun-myth of José Antonio's death was carved with a drill on all hearts steeped in mourning.I broke a door: "Who is it?" "it's me." "Who are you "I, Salvador Dali, your son. A At two o'clock in the morning, I broke down the door of our house.I hug my loved ones.Sister, father, aunt.They made me fish soup with tomato and persimmon in olive oil.I was scared because I felt like nothing had changed since the revolution.Eternity, strength, and indestructibility of real objects!The night I spent at home convinced me that I was experiencing a waking dream.Before going to bed, I wandered in my old room for a long time, and I found that everything I left behind is still here, old buttons, small coins with holes, safety pins, and rusty keys from ivory rabbits.A spider stays forever behind a small round frame.It is true that the younger sister had been tortured by the Military Commission of Inquiry into a fit, but she has now recovered.It is also true that a bomb has taken out the balcony of the house, but that is very simple, just don't use it now.In the dining room, it was true that the parquet floor was blackened by the unquenchable anarchist fire, but the large table that had been relocated there made it impossible to see anything.Like a cataclysmic movie, after the show is over, people then rewind it and everything goes back to the way it was.The disappearing piano slowly came back, indeed it did.Why are these revolutions necessary?I recall a friend of mine, a cynical anti-fascist and Spanish War fighter, who said to me when he was staying in Paris after the 1st of January in 1939: "What has to be done in our country is to destroy Franco and restore a constitutional monarchy! A king is needed I have known icon-painters who relearned drawing in their later years, with a ridiculous secret obsession with painting the most academic things!Dali was not their kind.Dalí did not retreat, because even in the post-war period he condemned, he wanted to "sublime" this period, to integrate it with tradition, because the rejection of tradition was already a tradition. The next day, in Cadaques, I hugged Lidine, a strong and strong woman.She survived, always so strong.Ramon de Hermosa died in the asylum, but he was a poor man.Sister Lidi said to me: "Throughout the revolution, people loved me. In those moments when people died at every turn, people saw clearly. People saw where the spirituality was." "How do you live without sons and men to help you?" "I've never had a better life," she said, feeling ridiculously naive about me, "I have all the necessities, and besides, I've kept my spirituality. You know what?" "But what is this spirituality made of? Is it really edible?" Of course, this spirit can be eaten!Militiamen disembarked from a truck and camped on the beach.They argued and abused each other endlessly.I said nothing, found a suitable corner, and calmly lit a fire, as if I was the only one who knew how to do it for them.When it was time to eat, I heard the militiamen asking each other: Who is that woman over there?I have no idea.She has been lighting the fire for a long time.Then they argued again.Should the whole village be killed and the priest and church set fire to in the afternoon?To seize power in a week?In the meantime I carefully added twigs to the fire, and they crackled a little.The militiamen, of necessity, went to the fire, and one said: Time to think about eating.I didn't answer, and turned the fire up.Let's go find something to eat!One brought some chops, another a lamb, and a third a pigeon.Thinking of me after they ate, they became docile like sheep, as if these murderers wanted to redeem what they had just done.Nothing could be better for the strong Litty.This is the ideal life.Every time they go to the old man's house to find new tableware.When the plates won, the militia smashed them to pieces or threw them in the water.Of course, this situation did not last long.One day, another group of militiamen came suddenly, and they killed the first group of militiamen.Finally it was the turn of the separatists.They ate again.Each time I have inherited quilts, spoons, shoes, stuffed cushions.No one thought about eating, but I, when the night came, I re-ignited the fire and turned it up very vigorously. After a while, they came over and looked at me, and one of them said: It's time to think about eating. ... The next day, some other soldiers drove them off again, but the meal time always came again ... God, Odeosi!This cannot be expressed in words I met again the honest fishermen of Port Lligat, all of whom retained a nightmarish memory of the red period. "No, no," they said, "this should be over. Worse than everything is the endless robbery and murder. Now it's like the old days again, and when you go back to the house, you're in your own home. " I open the door of my house.Everything is gone: furniture, books, cutlery, and other objects... Instead, the walls are covered with obscene or political words and pictures, mostly in opposition.Below is a series of inscriptions in homage to the anarchists, communists, separatists, socialist republicans, Trotskyists of the Spanish Anarchist Federation.Written in asphalt "Tessie of Santiago..." Hooray!Get up in Spain and the factory is over the iron's big and _" I was in Madrid for a week.One of the early friends I met was the sculptor Allardo, who was the youngest in our group at the Academy of Fine Arts.In the house of the poet Marquina, I saw again a picture I had painted in Cadaques at the beginning of the classical period.Among the writers, I rediscovered Eugenio Montes.I have been closest intellectually to him for the past twelve years.I regard Montes as the most rigorous and sympathetic of our contemporary philosophers.I embrace with affection Equanio Dole, the lord, Petronius of the Baroque, creator of the "strong and strong woman" of the Mediterranean, and bring him some New news on the ever "strong" Lidian of Cadaques.Dors's bushy, shaggy eyebrows made him all the more Plato-like.I got to know Dionysio Ruidyo, the most vigorous and passionate man of the young poets.When I met Raphael Sánchez Mazas, the anti-Congolanist with Catholic breathing morphology and Machiavellian eyes, I saw at a glance that he knew all the mysteries of the Italian Renaissance. , and more familiar with all the mysteries of the coming Western Renaissance. All mastered surrealism quickly and intelligently.They have reached the same level as I have in this painful birth of celestial evolution, which is founded on tradition and made of our own flesh and blood. But for this labor, I need peace and care.The war in Europe and its cacophony threatens to miscarry me.I should get out of these blind and noisy crowds of history as soon as possible, and if I go on like this I might die without giving birth, maybe just give birth to a premature baby.No, I'm not one of those people who gives birth to a baby halfway, no matter where I go!I respect etiquette!I'm already worrying about my kids' future and packing.I'm going to America to earn money for Gala, the kids and me... When I set off for Lisbon in the dog days, I found that the city was like a huge frying pan filled and cooked by countless fish from different countries and races to the frantic singing of cicadas.In Rossio, where the Inquisition had burnt many victims, there were new martyrs who were being scalded by the iron of visas and passports.The smell of burnt flesh is suffocating.The last act of the European drama was performed in Lisbon.The solitary, unassuming drama that played out in some packed hotel and dormitory room ended in the lavatories, where there was still a long queue to cut the veins and commit suicide. My stay in Portugal still feels like a dream to me.I always feel like I can meet a friend on the street.As soon as you turn around, you have a friend. "Look how much that woman looks like Schiaparelli "It's Schiaparieri." "Looks like Rene Claire!" Factory "That's Rene Clare." José-Maria Sert steps off a tram as the Duke of Windsor walks along the pavement, passing an old man sitting on a bench who looks very much like Paderewski , and this old man is exactly him.A banking magnate roams the streets with a bird in a gilded cage.This gentleman in a brown suit queuing in front of the offices of a shipping company is totally Salvador Dali...   I finally came to the United States of America aboard the Exumbion.As soon as I got here, I went immediately to the home of our dear Sunmill friend Calles Crosby at Hampton Estates.We will do everything in our power to try to revive a little of the French sun that has just set not far from Hermenonville.I spent five months writing, working, drawing, burying in my heart this idyllic Virginia that reminded me of a Touraine I had never seen in my life.Gala read me Balzac, and some nights the ghost of Edgar Poe came to meet me from Richmond in a stunningly beautiful convertible smeared with ink.One dark night, he gave me a black telephone with some black noses of black dogs, and inside it was wrapped with some black wires, I found a black dead mouse, a black sock.Everything was soaked in ink.It was snowing and I put Edgar Poe's phone on the snow and the effect was amazing: black on white!What a wonderful thing the eyes are!我的眼睛，我终于把它当成了一架真正的柔软照相机，它不是从外部世界获得底片的，而是从我最持久的思想和那普遍的思想获得底片的。由此我推断出人能拍摄思想，从而确立了我发明的理论基础，当我完成聚焦时，我就会把它提供给美国科学界来考虑。我的相机实际上能获得如下的奇迹：客观地显现不论任何个体的想象和思想的虚象。我要在学者们的陪伴下，把全部余生用在完善我的相机上。五月八日凌晨六点到六点半之间，在纽约圣刘吉斯旅馆我的房间中，这个念头首次出现在我的脑海里。我刚一醒来，就在草稿纸上记下了我自己都不敢相信的我惊人发现的大纲。从此，一些漫长而又成熟的思考使我确信我的相机远非无法实现的，相反，它展示出具体实现的所有可能性…… 这本书写完了。通常，作者在生活过之后、在他们生存接近边产则千撰写他们的回忆录。与人家相反，找觉得百九军一户找的回忆录，然后再体验它们是更为聪明的作法。体验！为了这，应当懂得清理生活的一半，以便富于经验地追寻那另一半。我杀死了我的过去，像蛇蜕下旧皮那样摆脱掉它，在这种情况下，我的旧皮就是战后我的不定型的、革命的生活。这最后的几行体现着我最近的激变，这些激变将使我把仍粘在身上的往日的最后一些碎皮抛过遗忘中去。 新的皮和新的土地！如果可能就去自由的土地，最好是美国的土地，因为它是年轻的处女地，没有悲剧的阴影。我的旧皮，人们将在各处找到它的一点，它扩散在新世界的那些路线上，在亚利桑那荒原上，在远东的平原上，在加利福尼亚海滩或匹茨堡工业城，在盐湖畔或落基山脉的峰顶，在旧金山的"大洪水之前"的桥栏杆上（沿着桥栏杆，一万名美国最美丽的裸体处女，在我经过的路上排队欢迎我，她们就像以天使肌肤制成的两排管风琴管子），在海洋贝壳形的性器官上…… 我的变化就是传统，因为传统恰恰就是更换和再造另一层皮。它不涉及美容外科学或毁形，而是涉及复活。我什么都不放弃。我继续着。既然我用结尾作为开始，我就用从头开始来继续下去。我终于会变老吗？我总是用死亡来开头。死亡和复活，革命和再生，这就是我的传统中的达利式神话。我和加拉的牧歌，险些在死亡中展开。我写这几页文字时，经过共同生活的七年，我决心把这本书当成一部小说或一个童话故事来结束，我决心在天主教教堂的神甫面前正式与加拉结为夫妻。到达巴黎时，我也想同胡安·米罗一起谋杀绘画。今天却是绘画谋杀了我，因为我只想拯救它，我觉得世上的任何一种技术都不能使它复生。 由此证实了达利并不在乎达利，证实了我永远是同样的人，证实了我不合常理的传统是我个性的真正力量之所在。我继续着…·欧洲也继续着····从我守望的那一天起，我就看到了一切，我就理解了一切。我甚至猜出了未来。两次世界大战期间的欧洲被它的旧皮搞垮了；被它的放弃、它的懒散、它的各种精神上的计欢、它的啤物主义的怀疑论、它的畸形的专业化、它的丧失信仰搞垮了。它擦干泪水后，将更为清醒地醒来。那些革命将被洪水淹没，而天主教的真实力量（在法国是哲学的，在西班牙是战斗的）将获得胜利并把欧洲统一起来。梵蒂冈仍然是这个古老大陆不可分割性的象征。 在我们的文明开始之际，那些要奠定西方美学永恒基础的人在大量存在的不定型叶子中选择了老鸦企属植物叶于，这时他们就在无意之中体现了与东方和远东的莲花相对抗的希腊罗马美学的天体演化论的常数。在柯林斯式柱头上变得坚固起来的老鸦企属植物叶饰，经由罗马、帕拉第奥、路易十四、巴罗克、法国大革命、帝国和现代风格，始终保持着一种不朽的美德。人们可能会认为它在最近死掉了，但是它已经在萨尔瓦多·达利的头脑中展现出它新的涡纹饰。是的，我预示了生命，预示了一种未来的风格·…·该用整合代替瓦解了，该用超现实主义构成一种与我们博物馆中的艺术同样坚实、同样完整、同样经典的艺术了。让那完了的东西完结吧！我拜访流亡在英国的弗洛伊德的那一天，是在他死亡的前夜，他对我说： "在古典的绘画中，我寻找潜意识；而在超现实主义的作品中，我却寻找那有意识的东西！" 换句话说，这是给作为教条和派系的超现实主义判了死刑，因为把它归入了"精神状态"中；正如在列奥纳多那儿，风格的戏剧牵涉到一种生活和艺术的悲剧感情。弗洛伊德当时也特别关心"摩西和宗教的现象"。我记得他非常热情地多次提到"升华"这个词。"摩西是升华的肉体"。我们时代那些特殊的学科专门研究生活的三种常数：性本能、死亡感、时空的苦闷。一旦分析了这些价值，重要的就是使它们升华：把性本能变为美学，把死亡感变为爱，把时空的苦闷变为宗教的形而上学。结束否定吧！应当肯定。结束痊愈的愿望吧，应当升华。风格将取代自动性，技巧将取代虚无主义，信仰将取代怀疑论，严格将取代放任，个人主义和等级制将取代集体主义和一致，传统将取代实验。 在反动和革命之后，导文艺复兴。