of gravitation at the same time where the importance of the 
qualities has totally disappeared, where the casuality hardly 
touches the spirit, where the objects have ceased to be sultan 
postulates accompanied by harems. 
Max Ernst holds in his hand a bouquet of flowers. One of the 
flowers is a flower, another is a woman’s leg, another a hat, an 
other a young child, another some sea weed, another a little ele 
phant. The poetry germinates and flowers, watered by the 
streams where circle the mystic cleaners who polish appearances 
and carry in a bag the noble organs destined for digestion. The 
poetry flows like a mineral source, rises like a bird’s vapour, 
solidifies like a frozen breast. It is impossible to breathe nor 
mally before a picture of Max Ernst, because we have not yet 
acquired the complete organism to live in this new medium, 
when the bouquet begins to grow out of the little pearl at the end 
of the fingers. 
Marcel Duchamp is a comet that crosses and attracts the solar 
system without our knowing whether it belongs to it or not. It 
is in the midst of space on the same road as dada, but with other 
seasons, days and nights. It will never pass over the same route 
but its light and the trail of its light has been seen. Perhaps we 
shall go on seeing it if the universe tips to the same side and we 
roll together our glands in our hands. The smile of the heart 
desires it. 
This is all that I know of the eyes of dada, excuse me for not 
being an oculist. Q. RIBEMONT-DESSAIGNES 
12 
BY MAX ERNST