[b]Tristan Tzara
Dada is not modern at all, it is rather a return to a quasi-Buddhist religion of indifference. Dada puts an artificial sweetness onto things, a snow of butterflies coming out of a conjurer’s skull. Dada is stillness and does not understand the passions.[/b]
No, really, he wondered, what is Dada?
But let’s speak of art for a moment. Yes, art. I know a gentleman who makes excellent portraits. This gentleman is a camera.
Well, with a little help from his friends.
Any work of art that can be understood is the product of journalism. The rest, called literature, is a dossier of human imbecility for the guidance of future professors.
And, if you are lucky, you will never understand this.
Not the old, not the new, but the necessary.
Anyone here know what that is?
I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestoes, as I am also against principles.
Among other things, gibberish propounded.
Thought is made in the mouth.
Lucky for us so are words.