Death Sentences (10 page)

Choking on his own anger, Breton glared at Who May.

"Oh ... I don't really know. I just happened on it. It's a sort of way of doing things. I just tried making poems in this way. And then it all became clear to me. That other world, precisely as written here, suddenly became clear to me, and I understood. But, but ... for me, it isn't yet ..."

Shaking his head violently, Breton stopped Who May from continuing his account.

"So you don't even understand yourself? So you can't even evaluate your own work? Well, it makes no difference to me. Do whatever the hell you please. Dobaded, humph!"

Breton realized that he was becoming hysterical. He desperately tried to calm himself, but without success.

He couldn't keep himself from taking out his frustration on Who May.

"How can you, who writes this sort of thing, adopt such a superior tone? How?! It's unbelievable. A genius? Humph! Sure, there are lots of people who might hail you as a genius. But not me, not yet anyway. I still have to think it over. That much should be clear to you."

Breton took another glance at his watch.

He would certainly be late. Even though that no longer mattered to him, he didn't want to spend another second here. That had become a necessity.

Breton quickly fished a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote his address on it. He pushed it into Who May's hand.

"This is where you'll find me. Feel free to stop by anytime. If you don't feel like it, I won't insist on it, but-I would like you to promise me something. I would like you to show me, as soon as possible, anything else you've done-poems, prose, drawings, even books of trivial popular songs. Anything, no matter how trifling, don't hesitate to send it to me. Then I can think things over. Who you are ... what you are doing ... I need time to think through these matters. Okay? It will take a while. I will speak with you again after a while. Is that okay?"

As Breton made sure Who May understood him, Who May nodded, wearing an expression that could only be taken as aversion for Breton.

"I promise. But ..."

Ignoring him, Breton got up from the bench.

Turning on his heels, he walked as fast as he could toward the park exit.

5

That evening Breton read "Another World" again twice.

Unable to contain himself, he reached for the telephone.

He wanted to speak to someone. If he could have pulled it off, he would have gone out and grabbed some unknown passerby. That was exactly what he wanted to do.

Instead, he chose David Hare.

Hare, a sculptor, lived in Roxbury, Connecticut. He had made a name for himself as the editor of VVV, the journal publishing the work of surrealist artists like Breton exiled in New York.

He was one who shared their vision.

He was busy at work.

Yet, sensing the gravity of Breton's situation, he leapt into his car and drove directly to New York in the middle of night.

Breton greeted him with eyes glazed over like those of a feverish invalid.

Hare arrived with a bottle of expensive red wine in hand.

Breton ushered him into the living room, bearing a cork screw and two glasses. Sitting across from one another at the table, the two raised their glasses. Breton had yet to utter a word about the matter.

After refilling their glasses, Breton slid Who May's thirteen pages of densely written manuscript toward Hare.

"I would like you to read this first. I would like you to tell me frankly what you think of it."

"'Another World' ... is it?"

Smiling as he spoke the title, he began to look over the words.

Breton silently watched as his eyes moved rhythmically back and forth across the page. As soon as Hare reached the end of the page, he turned to the next. And then to the next. And the next.

Breton began to feel some qualms.

Hare continued to read. His pace remained smooth and even.

Within ten minutes Hare had reached the last page:

The lines ran out. Hare raised his head. The traces of confusion that flitted across his face did not escape Breton's notice.

"Indeed," Hare said curtly. "Fascinating. The style is fresh. Yes ... not a bad attempt at all, I think."

(Attempt?)

Breton let out an involuntary groan.

To cover his slip, he took a gulp of wine.

Hare too reached for his glass. He took a mouthful, and then another.

"I sense genuine talent. There's no mistaking it. So? Do you intend to publish this work in our magazine?"

(Of course not!) (Why?!)

Breton was seething with anger.

How could Hare remain so calm-?

"I don't know ..." Breton muttered in a deep voice. He then turned the question back at Hare. "What would you do?"

But Hare's opinion was already clear to him.

Hare was cool and collected despite everything. Or he appeared to be. In any event, his behavior was not of someone who had been profoundly moved.

The fact that he said "our magazine" betrayed his doubts about the work, mildly but clearly.

In other words, the implication was that insofar as he was but one of the participants in VVV he would certainly respect Breton's opinion, but he personally would not cast his vote that way.

That much was clear.

Anyhow-(Why?)

Why hadn't Who May's spell been transmitted to him? (Dobaded!) Was it because French was not his native language? Still, he would not have any trouble understanding it. The work that he had done with artists in exile like Breton provided ample proof. Perhaps there were completely different grounds for experiencing its value, in different dimensions?

"Let me just say ... for me. - ."

Hare took another sip of wine, and gazing out into space, he proceeded slowly.

"I would wait another fifteen years and bring it out in a science fiction magazine."

"What! Fifteen years?"

To his dismay, Breton hadn't the slightest idea what Hare was trying to say.

"Science fiction?"

"Today, it isn't feasible. Readers haven't matured enough yet. There are some, but this is too avant-garde. This fantasy world called `another world' is quite attractive. It is truly beautiful. It is full of an otherworldly sense of wonder. Unfortunately, however, it doesn't have a principal hero or heroine. Moreover, the vocabulary is too specialized. The absence of a hero is a fatal flaw in this genre. At least the editors who currently work in this genre in America think so ... but in another fifteen years or so ..."

"You are ..." Breton replied, struggling to control himself. "You're dodging the question."

"Dodging? Not at all!"

Hare shrugged his shoulders as if surprised.

"I was doing my best to tell you honestly my impressions."

Breton groaned.

This time he made no attempt to hide it.

He had had some heated arguments with Hare in the past. He wasn't one to pick a fight with at this point. If he said he had spoken "honestly," then those were indeed his impressions.

Still, there was something that Breton didn't understand.

When it came to science fiction, the only works that came to mind were those of the Jules Verne variety. And he was fairly certain that American science fiction was considered vulgar and lowbrow. In fact, he himself couldn't think of even a single title.

"Science fiction ... well, you're right, you could look at it that way. But-"

Backing up a step, Breton repeated his question.

"I would really like to hear your opinion as a surrealist. What do you think?"

Hare tilted his head slightly. "I see. But ..." He looked rather at a loss.

Still, he looked directly at Breton and, as if coming to a conclusion, spoke again.

"As I understand it, I don't see any connection between this `Another World' and surrealism."

"Why is that?"

Breton posed the question with unintentional sharpness.

"You yourself once pointed out, did you not, that `the imagination aims to become reality'?"

"Indeed-I did."

The phrase had appeared in something Breton had written some ten years earlier.

Hare proceeded from there.

"In this `Another World,' however, there is absolutely no sense of striving for `reality.' It is escape. I have only the impression of a concerted effort to leave reality behind, or to obliterate it completely. Doesn't this run counter to the role that the power of the imagination is supposed to play in surrealism?"

Breton's silence prompted Hare to continue.

"His unique manner of expression certainly has its appeal. I even feel a certain sense of violence in the evocative power of his images. No one could deny his ... Who May's ... talent. But nevertheless-"

Hare nodded his head softly. It looked to Breton as if he was trying to convince himself.

"In particular, in `Another World,' with his evocative use of images, rather than troubling or destroying our everyday perception of things, he seems primarily intent on their power to stupefy and immobilize. What do you think about this?"

Breton drained another glass.

"The vision of 'Another World' is truly overflowing with, well, strange and wondrous beauty. That much I admit. Above all, it dazzles. It verges on a sense of vertigo. But I can't help thinking that this vertigo is a sort of gimmick."

With a sigh, Hare neatly put the thirteen pages of manuscript on the table, casually placing them somewhat closer to Breton.

Then all at once he began again.

"These pages undoubtedly succeed in portraying a world entirely unknown to us. But, quite frankly, I am not convinced that it is all that worthwhile an accomplishment. I mean, I just don't have the impression that the vision presented here is particularly well grounded as a whole in psychic imagery or in the activity of the unconscious. So-what is this `Another World'? I felt it to be nothing more than a fake, a sham, through and through. It is a world produced by relying merely on a sense of language or, if you will, on the magic of words. Or, to put it an other way, how can a world produced with fake words amount to anything but a fake world? And if that is the case-"

Hare shook his head from side to side, slowly but with an aura of resolution.

"While this `Another World' may work as science fiction or as fantasy, it is far from the spirit of surrealism. I don't see how we can look at it otherwise. This is my opinion, as a surrealist."

Hare had said his peace.

Empty glass still in hand, Breton was at a loss to reply.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

(Dogma!) Breton cursed him inwardly.

Feeling himself in the grip of Hare's dogmatic pronouncements twisted something deep within Breton.

Dogma has the power to foreclose discussion and dissent. And the dogma brandished by Hare was that drafted by none other than the high authority, Andre Breton himself.

It was truly a farce. Breton frowned.

But now he was more astonished than angry.

Hare was calm. He had analyzed the work in all tranquility, offering his critique.

But then he had been speaking with Andre Breton.

Once again Breton felt the need to assure himself that he was in fact Andre Breton.

His astonishment then became greater still.

Hare had ended up lecturing Andre Breton himself about the nature of surrealism.

What could be more astonishing than that?

Breton finally came up with his own conclusions. There weren't many people who would go to such lengths to argue against Breton that a certain work ran counter to the spirit of surrealism. If they were intent on breaking with him, that was another matter. But what kind of person would argue down Breton without any such thing in mind? Hare didn't seem to be that sort of person.

Nevertheless, Hare had tossed precisely that kind of speech at Breton, quite coolly.

(Coolly ...)

But had he really been so cool? Or had it been an act?

Had he been seized by some deep-down sense of anxiety or instinctive terror that had spurred him to such desperate denial? Was that why he could not help but cling to dogma?

(That's it.)

At last Breton found a reply.