A Man Passes with a Loaf of Bread on His Shoulders
(For Spanish translation click here)

A man passes with a loaf of bread on his shoulders

Am I going, thereafter, to write about my double?

Another sits, scratches himself, removes a louse from his armpit, kills it

With what value talk about psychoanalysis?

Another has entered my chest with a club in his hand

Shall I then talk about Socrates with the doctor?

A cripple walks by giving his arm to a child

After that, I’m supposed to read André Breton?

Another shivers with cold, coughs, spits up blood

Will it be a way to refer to the profound I?

Another searches in mud for bones and for husks

How then can I write about the infinite?

A bricklayer falls from the roof, dies before breakfast

After that how can I innovate the troupe, the metaphor?

A merchant steals a gram from a customer

How then can I talk about the fourth dimension?

A banker falsifies his balance

With which face weep in the theater?

An outcast sleeps with one foot on his shoulder

Shall I, later on, speak of Picasso?

Someone is sobbing at the side of a grave

How can I get into The Academy?

Someone cleans his rifle in the kitchen

With what courage can one speak of the next world?

Someone walks by counting on his fingers

How can I speak of the not-I without crying out?

5 November 1937