"In August, René Crevel, twenty-two years old and handsome as a god, had been vacationing with his family on a Norman beach when a young girl fell at his feet and begged him to press geraniums between her breasts. ..."That evening Crevel, the girl, her mother, and an old woman named Madame Dante had sat around a table and held a séance. ...
From this moment
forbidden
ever to see her
think of her
again"Within minutes Crevel had fallen into a deep sleep, during which (as the women told him afterwards) he had uttered remarkable statements. ...
torpid, alone
all evening
resist the scented
flytraps"But the experiments proceeded no further, as Crevel, still in uniform, had had to return to barracks the next morning."
your reward may be
at the next
café table
trespass once
across that border– Mark Polizzotti, Revolution of the Mind: The Life of André Breton (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1995): 178.
& you’re lost
Sunday
Life among the Surrealists
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