Less time than it takes to say, less tears than it takes to die; I’ve taken account of
everything,
there you have it. I’ve made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my
fingers and some
others; I’ve distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I’ve
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer known what to think
of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don’t
keep a
reasonable account of them; I’m alone, I look out of the window; there is no
passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don’t know this man? It’s Mr. Same. May I
introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too,
but I don’t
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns
have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A,
return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I’ll change at X. Provided I don’t miss the connection
with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are
under God’s
perpendicular.
- Andre Breton (1896-1966)
