Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

to bring Jeanne to dinner at his house. Magritte and his wife wereguests, too. The meal began morosely. For some inexplicable reason,Breton kept his nose in his plate, wore a permanent frown, and spokeonly in monosyllables. We were all edgy wondering what the troublewas when he suddenly pointed his finger at a small cross that MadameMagritte was wearing around her neck, announced that this crosswas an outrageous provocation and that surely she might have wornsomething else when she came to his house. Magritte took up thecudgels on his wife's behalf, and the dispute went on energeticallyfor quite some time. The Magrittes made a sterling effort and didnot leave before the end of the evening, but for some time afterwardthe two men didn't speak to each other.Breton also tended to attach inordinate importance to details thatno one else ever noticed. When he returned from visiting Trotskyin Mexico City, I asked him what the great man was like."He's got a dog he absolutely adores," Breton replied. "One daythe dog was standing next to Trotsky and staring at him, and Trotskysaid to me, 'He's got a human look, wouldn't you say?' Can youimagine how someone like Trotsky could possibly say such a stupidthing?" Breton demanded. "A dog doesn't have a human look! Adog has a dog's look!"Breton was genuinely angry when he told me that story. I rememberanother occasion when he suddenly rushed out of his apartmentand deliberately knocked over a Bible salesman's stand on thesidewalk. And, like many surrealists, he detested music, particularlythe opera. Eager to change his mind, I persuaded him to come oneevening with Renk Char and Eluard and me to the Opera-Comique.They were doing Louise by Charpentier, and the minute the curtainwent up, we were all very disconcerted. Neither the set nor the actorsresembled in the least what we loved about traditional opera. At onepoint, when a woman came onstage with a soup tureen and beganto chant an aria to its contents, we were all beside ourselves. Bretonfinally got to his feet and walked out, enraged at the waste of time.(I must confess that we all followed suit.)I often saw Breton in New York during the war, and then later