| There is a literature that does not reach the voracious mass. It is the work of creators, issued from a real
necessity in the author, produced for himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which
laws wither away. Every page must explode, either by profound heavy seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic
frenzy, the new, the eternal, the crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles, or by the way in which it is
printed. On the one hand a tottering world in flight, betr.othed to the glockenspiel of hell, on the other
hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups. Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks
with a mania for improvement.
-Tristan Tzara, dada. |