poet.
"I read a number of his efforts. They were really quite good. I would quite like to have you read one of them, Monsieur Breton. There is no doubt that he is a poet. He has the soul of a poet."
"I see ..." Breton adopted an ambiguous expression, assessing Waldberg and Who May.
"As soon as I can make time ..."
But Breton had no intention of making time.
He did not believe what Waldberg had said about the young man harboring the "soul of a poet."
Nevertheless-
Four months later, it turned out that Breton would learn the truth.
The young man was indeed a poet. At least he had a formidable skill with words. Whether he had the soul of a poet or not, he had within him all the requisite technique and ability to become a poet. And not just that, but something beyond that-
On that first day, however, Breton had not detected it. There had been no time to detect it.
Once Waldberg had introduced him to Who May, Breton found an opportunity to excuse himself in order to speak with Fernand Leger.
By the time he thought about them again, there was no trace of Waldberg and the young man.
A peculiar feeling washed over him, as he keenly recalled the slanderous remarks constantly launched against the surrealists to the effect that they were just a "band of homosexuals."
3
That day-
New York was once again aglow in July sunshine.
It was the kind of day when everything appears born anew.
Drawn out by the lively weather, Breton strolled north along Fifth Avenue.
A pleasant breeze spun through his hair like a fine comb.
And in the distance the Empire State Building showed sharply against the sky, alive with light, towering over the city.
It had just turned noon.
Crowds of men and women streamed from the buildings to enjoy their lunchtime.
It was a peaceful scene.
The abundant good cheer that filled the city held Breton.
Before such a scene Breton's thoughts took an unexpected turn.
The turn grew into a fissure, and a profound abyss opened wide before his eyes.
(I am ... where?)
At this very moment the entire world was choking on the stink of blood and explosives.
The newspapers and radios madly clamored every hour of every day about the situation.
And yet, for Breton strolling up Fifth Avenue, the spate of news reports, whether gallant or painful, was absolutely without reality.
(Where ... is here?)
Breton continued walking.
He pondered. And thought.
His thoughts turn to France, trampled and stained.
There the mind was subject to defilement, and being stifled to death. And if you tried to resist, you had to be prepared for annihilation, not just of the mind but also of the body itself.
That was precisely why-they had fled. Holding on to what they had to preserve, they had come here.
But what an abyss, what a profound gap! His eyes went dark. Fear overtook him.
The reality in which he should actually be living was so distant. Too distant.
Breton walked.
Quickening his step, he weaved his way through the crowds on Fifth Avenue. In New York Breton had taken on a position as radio announcer for the Voice of America broadcast directed to Europe. Because of this job, he followed regular hours, leaving for the radio station at the same time every day.
The job entailed far more constraints and obligations than Breton had ever imagined.
Despite that, he had assumed the position voluntarily. And he took the job seriously and worked zealously. There was a reason for this.
In the first place, there was no other way for Breton to prolong surrealist activities than by securing this site of expression, the medium of radio. In any event he was aware that such gains were possible in this situation. He therefore went to great lengths to be scrupulous in all matters.
There was another reason.
To the resistance fighters in distant Europe he wished to express as much solidarity as possible, sending a message in his own voice, on the radio waves of Voice of America.
His thoughts inevitably ran deeper.
Was seeking
"I read a number of his efforts. They were really quite good. I would quite like to have you read one of them, Monsieur Breton. There is no doubt that he is a poet. He has the soul of a poet."
"I see ..." Breton adopted an ambiguous expression, assessing Waldberg and Who May.
"As soon as I can make time ..."
But Breton had no intention of making time.
He did not believe what Waldberg had said about the young man harboring the "soul of a poet."
Nevertheless-
Four months later, it turned out that Breton would learn the truth.
The young man was indeed a poet. At least he had a formidable skill with words. Whether he had the soul of a poet or not, he had within him all the requisite technique and ability to become a poet. And not just that, but something beyond that-
On that first day, however, Breton had not detected it. There had been no time to detect it.
Once Waldberg had introduced him to Who May, Breton found an opportunity to excuse himself in order to speak with Fernand Leger.
By the time he thought about them again, there was no trace of Waldberg and the young man.
A peculiar feeling washed over him, as he keenly recalled the slanderous remarks constantly launched against the surrealists to the effect that they were just a "band of homosexuals."
3
That day-
New York was once again aglow in July sunshine.
It was the kind of day when everything appears born anew.
Drawn out by the lively weather, Breton strolled north along Fifth Avenue.
A pleasant breeze spun through his hair like a fine comb.
And in the distance the Empire State Building showed sharply against the sky, alive with light, towering over the city.
It had just turned noon.
Crowds of men and women streamed from the buildings to enjoy their lunchtime.
It was a peaceful scene.
The abundant good cheer that filled the city held Breton.
Before such a scene Breton's thoughts took an unexpected turn.
The turn grew into a fissure, and a profound abyss opened wide before his eyes.
(I am ... where?)
At this very moment the entire world was choking on the stink of blood and explosives.
The newspapers and radios madly clamored every hour of every day about the situation.
And yet, for Breton strolling up Fifth Avenue, the spate of news reports, whether gallant or painful, was absolutely without reality.
(Where ... is here?)
Breton continued walking.
He pondered. And thought.
His thoughts turn to France, trampled and stained.
There the mind was subject to defilement, and being stifled to death. And if you tried to resist, you had to be prepared for annihilation, not just of the mind but also of the body itself.
That was precisely why-they had fled. Holding on to what they had to preserve, they had come here.
But what an abyss, what a profound gap! His eyes went dark. Fear overtook him.
The reality in which he should actually be living was so distant. Too distant.
Breton walked.
Quickening his step, he weaved his way through the crowds on Fifth Avenue. In New York Breton had taken on a position as radio announcer for the Voice of America broadcast directed to Europe. Because of this job, he followed regular hours, leaving for the radio station at the same time every day.
The job entailed far more constraints and obligations than Breton had ever imagined.
Despite that, he had assumed the position voluntarily. And he took the job seriously and worked zealously. There was a reason for this.
In the first place, there was no other way for Breton to prolong surrealist activities than by securing this site of expression, the medium of radio. In any event he was aware that such gains were possible in this situation. He therefore went to great lengths to be scrupulous in all matters.
There was another reason.
To the resistance fighters in distant Europe he wished to express as much solidarity as possible, sending a message in his own voice, on the radio waves of Voice of America.
His thoughts inevitably ran deeper.
Was seeking
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