Surrealism. Penelope Rosemont

must be desperately happy now and then. A favorite line of Spinoza comes to mind, “Pleasure in itself is always good.” Because of remnants of my healthy beatnik hedonism, I was able to enjoy the spirit of the evening without analyzing it to death. So it is with pleasure. Sometimes I had to remind myself that revolution must not be grim but a liberation, an increase of pleasure. Otherwise what is the point of it?

      That night was not particularly cold, and it was especially pleasant to be so excited and walking through the calm night after the intense experience of the surrealists’ New Year’s Eve party; a relief to have the time to think about it, talk about it with each other, piece things together, go over the skits, the jokes in the French language, and to understand and laugh. We walked and walked, and Paris seemed to be there for us alone; we didn’t meet another soul and soon discovered that the Metro was closed and buses weren’t running. One reason the party went all night.

      As we walked through the dark streets, we turned a corner, and there lit up in a blaze of light stood the Eiffel Tower. We laughed and laughed; it had taken us by surprise. At around 5:30 a.m., we noticed people beginning to queue up at the entrances of the Metro, mostly working-class Algerians. Soon it was dawn and we were climbing the stairs to our room just as Paris was beginning to stretch and wake up, and I fell asleep dreaming mad dreams of surrealist skits that became more and more fantastic.

      Jean Benoît strode onto the stage in his Necrophile outfit, his tail-penis beating softly on the stage as it coiled and uncoiled, looked around the Ranelagh, and laughed a low, evil laugh; slowly he raised his arms, and his costume peeled off like a lizard’s skin. He was left wearing the little pink dress with the short skirt and puffed sleeves; he did a little dance in imitation of a child ballerina. Then, gradually, his skin turned gray, became transparent, brittle. Suddenly, he writhed in horrible pain; his face grew a bony mask; his nails lengthened; breathing heavily, he ripped away the dress, his penis-tail springing out and beginning to slither, cobra fashion. He roared, a deep echoing boom, “The Necrophile lives again!” But then, in this moment of mad triumph, he raised his arms; his costume, his very skin, peeled off, and the transformation repeated itself, again and again and again. Agony!

      Then Mimi gracefully strolled onto stage; she was ten feet tall, dressed in a skintight costume of glittering red that changed from moment to moment like flowing blood. The Necrophile took a deep breath, screaming with joy as he grew tall, to the same size. They danced together Javanese-style, with many complex postures and hand movements. Benayoun entered on roller skates, carrying a book which he opened and began reading: Maldoror. The words formed in the air, “Je te salute . . . ” then one by one the letters dropped to the floor and became cartoon characters.

      A huge, beautiful blue fox carrying long evening gloves in its teeth and wearing golden eye shadow came on stage—I recognized at once that it was Toyen. Alain was a trumpet; Nicole, a silver harp. Mimi and the Necrophile laughed, stamped their feet; the old Ranelagh theater shook.

      There was a distant rumbling, then very close, a grinding and rumbling, the giant Consumer monster from the exhibition had arrived, with its pink mattress-stuffed body; it rolled on stage, bursting in with its voice of blaring sirens and its TV eye projecting a glaring red beam; it was two feet taller than Mimi and much more powerful than the Necrophile. I worried. But they cast powerful enchantments at it in the form of poems; the most glorious words I had ever heard flowed from them, words that could create new universes.

      Suddenly the Consumer began to shrink; it shrunk until it was only a foot and a half tall, became gentle as a puppy, and frolicked around them in circles spinning like a delighted dervish. Round-faced Benayoun was now doing disappearing tricks like the Cheshire cat, always smiling; often only his smile was left. The stage was becoming more and more crowded with surrealists performing wonderful feats of magic and poetry. I realized the Necrophile and Mimi were still growing; the others too were growing, the old theater would soon burst at its seams! Any moment giant surrealists armed with the magic of their imaginations and the powerful laser of their humor would be loosed on the streets of Paris. I woke up with a start. Laughing!

      During our first weeks in Paris, we were visited in our room at Le Hôtel du Grand Balcon by Jacques Brunius; it was a tiny room; we all sat on the bed, but this didn’t prevent us from having a good conversation. Brunius, who was living in London and had just married, was happy and full of enthusiasm; he didn’t have the manner of someone who was in his sixties. Although he didn’t look young, he had an engaging and vital spirit. In Paris to do a radio program on Alice in Wonderland, on which he was an expert, he had to leave the next day for London.

      We were also visited by Andrew Leake who pounded on our door demanding, “Any anarchists here?” He was in Paris with his mother who we ran into in front of The Necrophile, Jean Benoît’s piece at the exhibition. Late one night at 2 a.m., the police came by and asked us and everyone else in the hotel to see their papers (passports). I have no idea whether this was routine or not.

      The neighborhood where we lived was very old, the most ancient stones of Paris. Right around the corner from rue Dauphine on rue Buci was a wonderful Parisian market; the shopkeepers would open their doors, rolling them up like garage doors; their shops would be open to the air and heavy foot traffic of the area. All sorts of fruits and vegetables and meats were displayed, hawked, and sold.

      My efforts to shop were humorous; I was not prepared for an entire shop full of bread, bread alone, smelling like heaven. I went in and lined up with all the smartly dressed Parisian women. There were stacks of beautiful breads behind the counter everywhere, long breads standing on end, round breads facing out. I realized with a sinking feeling that my textbook French, “Un pain,” was not going to get me far with this large a variety. Listening with careful attention to the person in front of me who confidently said, “Un baguette.” I pronounced the same words and was handed a beautiful, long bread, no bag. Magic. I handed over my money and was given change. I was thrilled, both with getting the bread and not having made a spectacle of myself, and ran up the four flights of stairs to our room, where we enjoyed the bread while it was still soft and warm. This became our usual breakfast-lunch, but we later added butter, milk which came in a triangular container, and oranges from Algeria, the best-tasting in the entire world and flecked with red spots inside like glittering tiny drops of blood.

      Since no bags were given, one of my first purchases was a net bag of the sort that people there carried in their pockets, blue with tiny pearls.

      The market was closed for a few hours in the middle of every day, seemingly disappearing often just before I got there and then, surprisingly, back in full force an hour later. It seemed very mysterious to me, expecting stores open nine to six. But all of Paris still lived a very sociable life, taking a two-hour break for lunch, two hours for everyone to have coffee, eat lunch, make love, talk, walk around, and then return to work until 6:30.

      Our neighborhood also had a charcuterie, a boulangerie, and a pâtisserie. I mistook the pâtisserie for a jewelry store at first, it was so deluxe. Each fancy little cake sat on a mirror in front of a mirrored wall. Ah, and when you purchased one of those little cakes, and they weren’t cheap, they would be packed very carefully in a little box tied with string with true Parisian precision. One felt as if one had just purchased a diamond necklace. I remember my mother making these cakes occasionally at home and the hours she lavished on them.

      On rue Dauphine, on the way to Pont Neuf, there was a wonderful antique toy shop with gaily colored paper theaters and marionettes, most made of printed colored paper. Punch and Judy, harlequins, fine ladies in ball gowns, chevaliers, all quaint and old. The owner would always demonstrate these wonderful things for us with perfect skill and drama. He kept up his demonstrations and performances long after it became obvious we were not buyers and were just in for a visit. It was plain that he loved these things. Perhaps, like the reluctant bookseller, he would not have been entirely pleased to part with them. It seemed that in matters large and small, and in careful attention to detail, Parisians had long ago discovered the necessity of luxury.

      On the corner of rue Le Buci and Dauphine, right next to our hotel, was the Café Buci where I occasionally had a café au lait. Later I learned it was quite the center for drug traffic on the Left Bank. Out front one day, we ran into