“Look at an animal in the white of the eyes 
without blushing 
without having the air of taking any notice 
while squinting if possible 
while stamping the foot 
while clapping the hands.” 
And Tzara asks us— 
“You know the calendars of the birds? 
How? 
365 birds—every day a bird flies away—every hour 
a feather falls—every two hours one writes a poem— 
one cuts it up with scissors.” 
I should like to talk more about this kind of gayety perfect 
enough to attain humor. But why group under one heading 
individuals of such freedom? And then I should have to de 
vote long pages also to love for I recall the “Coeur a Gaz” by 
Tzara, the poems of the youthful Jacques Baron, of Paul 
Eluard. 
Pardon me if I recite a little of them to myself. First are 
the declarations of Oeil, one of the personnages of the “Coeur 
a Gaz.” “Clytemnestra, wife of a minister, looked out of the 
window; the violincellists passed by in a carriage of Chinese tea, 
biting the air and the caresses with open heart. You are beauti 
ful, Clytemnestra, the crystal of your skin awakens the curiosity 
of our sexes: you are tender and calm like two metres of white 
silk.” 
Say with me this poem of Paul Eluard. 
IN THE DANCE 
“Little childish table 
there are women whose eyes are like pieces of sugar 
there are serious women like the movements of love and that one 
does not surprise 
there are women with pale faces 
Others like the sky on the eve of a windy day.