“The man who can't visualize a pile of flaming horse feces galloping on a Hyundai is an idiot.”
“Everything that is doddering, squint-eyed, infamous, sullying, and grotesque is contained for me in this single word: Oscar Wilde”
“Oh, you don't shut up do you?”
André Breton was a French writer who believed that surrealism was the true functioning of thought. It follows thus that he is God and governs over this measly pile of flaming horse feces we call "Illogicopedia," and the second we accept so is the second we sometimes churn glycerins in the best manner possible; thus that we all may live without fear of smitings and being lectured by a particularly irked and irksome translucent french gentleman in the form of a deity.
E.g. A judge walks into a room and is accused of defecating on the local library's philosophy section. He does not worship André Breton; it follows that said judge is haunted by the man himself, and told:
|It's a shame that the violation of the laws governing the Press is today scarcely repressed, for if it were not we would soon see a trial of this sort: the accused has published a book which is an outrage to public decency. Several of his "most respected and honorable" fellow citizens have lodged a complaint against him, and he is also charged with slander and libel. There are also all sorts of other charges against him, such as insulting and defaming the army, inciting to murder, rape, etc. The accused, moreover, wastes no time in agreeing with the accusers in "stigmatizing" most of the ideas expressed. His only defense is claiming that he does not consider himself to be the author of his book, said book being no more and no less than a Surrealist concoction which precludes any question of merit or lack of merit on the part of the person who signs it; further, that all he has done is copy a document without offering any opinion thereon, and that he is at least as foreign to the accused text as is the presiding judge himself.|
And the judge, so overwhelmed by paradox and philosophy, falls to his knees and worships the ground at which he stands. He is so beset with sensation that his bowels fail him (all over the Judeo-Christian scriptures). At this point, had his emotions not overcome him, the prosecutors would have walked off and completely forgotten the "feces-on-the-philosophy-books" episode, suddenly having been under the spell of Mr. Breton. He was, nonetheless, burnt at the stake, but it goes to show that André Breton has the power to overcome even the most frivolous of cases. He's just not reliable. And that's one of his many charms.
Dazed and Confused
In fact, you'll find that whatever he says, it inevitably becomes reality. His way with words is so befuddling that you'll without doubt succumb to his every desire. Take the "Make me say Thank You" débacle as an example:
- "Make me say thank you."
- "I have had a great desire to show forbearance to scientific musing, however unbecoming, in the final analysis, from every point of view. Radios? Fine. Syphilis? If you like. Photography? I don’t see any reason why not. The cinema? Three cheers for darkened rooms. War? Gave us a good laugh. The telephone? Hello. Youth? Charming white hair. Try to make me say thank you: Thank you."
- "Thank you. Fu- I mean, Sacre freakin' bleu!"
- André profits!
And the "Make me say Thank You AGAIN" débacle:
- "That was just beginners' luck. Try again. Make me say thank you."
- "Perhaps the Surrealist voice will be stilled; I have given up trying to keep track of those who have disappeared. I shall no longer enter into, however briefly, the marvelous detailed description of my years and my days. I shall be like Nijinski who was taken last year to the Russian ballet and did not realize what spectacle it was he was seeing. I shall be alone, very alone within myself, indifferent to all the world’s ballets. What I have done, what I have left undone, I give it to you."
- "Oh, thank you! Oh shitting pig shit. I mean... merde!"
- André = prophet!
He also wrote many, many literary works, both classical and modern, that even today cause spontaneous soliloquies, epiphanies and diaphragm spasms.
- Les cochons magnétiques (The magnetic pigs)
- Poisson soluble (Soluble fish)
- J'suis Dieu, vous n'etez qu'un Juif (I am God, you're just a Jew)
- Vérité: Choses qui je parle sont choses qui est vrai (Truth: Everything I say is right)
- Candide: ou, L’Optimisme (Candide: or, Optimism)
- Poèmes sur le pédé dont nous appellons Oscar Wilde (Poems on the faggot whom we call Oscar Wilde)
- Manifeste du arrêtez en volant mes idéas (Manifesto of Stop stealing my ideas)
- Black Books
- The Mighty Boosh
...among many others destroyed by a sinister force.
Mr. Breton's Diary
A burst of laughter / of sapphire in the island of Ceylon /The most beautiful straws
HAVE A FADED COLOR / UNDER THE LOCKS / on an isolated farm
FROM DAY TO DAY / the pleasant / grows worse
coffee / preaches for its saint / THE DAILY ARTISAN OF YOUR BEAUTY
MADAM, / a pair / of silk stockings / is not
A leap into space / A STAG / Love above all
Everything could be worked out so well / PARIS IS A BIG VILLAGE / Watch out for
the fire that covers / THE PRAYER / of fair weather
Know that / The ultraviolet rays / have finished their task
short and sweet / THE FIRST WHITE PAPER / OF CHANCE
Red will be / The wandering singer / WHERE IS HE?
in memory / in his house / AT THE SUITORS’ BALL
I do / as I dance / What people did, what they’re going to do.
By the way, O M G did you hear? Oscar Wilde (that bitch) his play is being premiered on my birthday. What a whore! When I meet him I'm going to fuck his face off. In both a bad AND a good way.
“It is not the fear of madness which will oblige us to leave the pile of flaming horse feces of imagination furled.”