It must be said that I had just passed by a Poetry on the Metro-poster, more precisely the one that reproduced Free Love [dette digt, måske] by André Breton, and, whatever the disgust inspired by the personality of Andé Breton, whatever the stupidity of the titel, its pitiful antinomy, which only demonstrated, in addition to a certain softening of the brain, the instinct for publicity that characterized and ultimately summed up Surrealism, you had to admit it: this idiot had, under the circumstances, written a very beautiful poem -- Still, M. Houellebecq, p. 228 of the English edition.