Breton's hand. An American art student, an aspiring sculptor, dubbed the drink VVV, or Triple V. VVV was the name of a journal of surrealism that Breton, Duchamp, Ernst, and others had launched the previous year in New York with David Hare as editor-in-chief.
The three Vs or triple V were a declaration: "V as a vow to return to a habitable and thinkable world, Victory over the forces of regression and death currently unleashed on the earth, but again V beyond the first Victory .... Victory over all that tends to perpetuate the enslavement of man by man, and beyond that double V, that double Victory, V again over all that is opposed to the emancipation of the mind."
Clearly, however, in the instance of the art student naming the drink, V was not for victory but for vodka.
Breton swallowed the dreadful drink in a single gulp, and before he was aware of it, he found himself muttering curses, directed at Americans in general.
That was the moment.
The door to the apartment opened.
It was some late arrivals, Patrick Waldberg accompanied by a young man.
Waldberg looked around the room and then strode over to Breton.
"He begged me to introduce him to you."
Throwing his arm around the young man's shoulders affectionately, Waldberg thrust the young man at Breton.
"A poet. Unknown. Which makes him a prince among young poets. Don't you agree, Monsieur Breton?"
Waldberg's tone was somehow defiant.
Yet he himself was probably just this side of thirty.
Breton frowned inwardly.
Waldberg had been born in California. As a boy, he had moved to Paris, whence his command of French. He had formed close ties with a number of poets, painters, and other artists. He had a talent for "close ties"-indeed.
He had also been among those who had fled the war and come to New York. Breton had met him two years previously. He had approved of his commitment to surrealism. Waldberg was full of talent.
That was something even Breton had to admit. Yet, for the moment, that was as much as he would admit.
Waldberg would make a fine critic at least. Or so Breton thought. He might only amount to a fine critic.
"Youth in itself implies poetic genius. By its very nature. Surely everyone is a poet, and there's absolutely no reason for anyone to hesitate to call himself one."
Breton was fully aware that his response might sound sarcastic.
But he did not, in fact, have any doubts that youth bore genius.
Two months previously Breton had traveled to Yale University to deliver a lecture titled "The Condition of Surrealism between the Wars."
In that talk he had loudly proclaimed-
"Surrealism was born of an unlimited belief in the genius of youth."
Nevertheless-
From the time he had arrived in New York, he had had his fill of "works" sent to him or sprung on him by self-professed poets and artists. Almost all of them were without any merit, immature, inferior, self-indulgent, nothing more than products of disorderly minds.
And so Breton found it difficult to respond civilly to the young man whom Waldberg had presented to him as a "poet."
Still, there was something about the young man that sparked curiosity.
Maybe it was because he was so clearly not of European descent. And above all it was his eyes.
A pair of dark eyes, seemingly large enough to absorb the world itself, cut Breton to the quick. Breton could not restrain the racing of his heart.
There was no resisting the force of inspiration in that gaze.
"Indeed-"
Waldberg merely nodded toward Breton, oblivious to his response.
"Indeed, there is an aura of genius about this young man, Monsieur Breton."
With a supercilious smile, Waldberg excused himself and walked off to get a drink.
Breton found himself alone with the young man, face to face.
"So, your poems, are they in French?"
Breton asked, rather perfunctorily.
The young man's eyes appeared even rounder and larger.
"They are. I was born in France, you see.11
He replied in perfectly fluent French.
"Ah ... so you're not
The three Vs or triple V were a declaration: "V as a vow to return to a habitable and thinkable world, Victory over the forces of regression and death currently unleashed on the earth, but again V beyond the first Victory .... Victory over all that tends to perpetuate the enslavement of man by man, and beyond that double V, that double Victory, V again over all that is opposed to the emancipation of the mind."
Clearly, however, in the instance of the art student naming the drink, V was not for victory but for vodka.
Breton swallowed the dreadful drink in a single gulp, and before he was aware of it, he found himself muttering curses, directed at Americans in general.
That was the moment.
The door to the apartment opened.
It was some late arrivals, Patrick Waldberg accompanied by a young man.
Waldberg looked around the room and then strode over to Breton.
"He begged me to introduce him to you."
Throwing his arm around the young man's shoulders affectionately, Waldberg thrust the young man at Breton.
"A poet. Unknown. Which makes him a prince among young poets. Don't you agree, Monsieur Breton?"
Waldberg's tone was somehow defiant.
Yet he himself was probably just this side of thirty.
Breton frowned inwardly.
Waldberg had been born in California. As a boy, he had moved to Paris, whence his command of French. He had formed close ties with a number of poets, painters, and other artists. He had a talent for "close ties"-indeed.
He had also been among those who had fled the war and come to New York. Breton had met him two years previously. He had approved of his commitment to surrealism. Waldberg was full of talent.
That was something even Breton had to admit. Yet, for the moment, that was as much as he would admit.
Waldberg would make a fine critic at least. Or so Breton thought. He might only amount to a fine critic.
"Youth in itself implies poetic genius. By its very nature. Surely everyone is a poet, and there's absolutely no reason for anyone to hesitate to call himself one."
Breton was fully aware that his response might sound sarcastic.
But he did not, in fact, have any doubts that youth bore genius.
Two months previously Breton had traveled to Yale University to deliver a lecture titled "The Condition of Surrealism between the Wars."
In that talk he had loudly proclaimed-
"Surrealism was born of an unlimited belief in the genius of youth."
Nevertheless-
From the time he had arrived in New York, he had had his fill of "works" sent to him or sprung on him by self-professed poets and artists. Almost all of them were without any merit, immature, inferior, self-indulgent, nothing more than products of disorderly minds.
And so Breton found it difficult to respond civilly to the young man whom Waldberg had presented to him as a "poet."
Still, there was something about the young man that sparked curiosity.
Maybe it was because he was so clearly not of European descent. And above all it was his eyes.
A pair of dark eyes, seemingly large enough to absorb the world itself, cut Breton to the quick. Breton could not restrain the racing of his heart.
There was no resisting the force of inspiration in that gaze.
"Indeed-"
Waldberg merely nodded toward Breton, oblivious to his response.
"Indeed, there is an aura of genius about this young man, Monsieur Breton."
With a supercilious smile, Waldberg excused himself and walked off to get a drink.
Breton found himself alone with the young man, face to face.
"So, your poems, are they in French?"
Breton asked, rather perfunctorily.
The young man's eyes appeared even rounder and larger.
"They are. I was born in France, you see.11
He replied in perfectly fluent French.
"Ah ... so you're not
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