The Dream Killer of Paris by Fabrice Bourland Page B

completely changed how they viewed reality. During the summer holidays of 1922, René Crevel took part in a spiritualist séance organised by a certain Madame Dante. Very quickly, he fell into a deep sleep during which, according to the other participants, hesaid some remarkable words. Upon his return, Crevel shared his experience with other members of the group and Breton suggested repeating the séance in his studio. Crevel and Breton were joined by Max Morise, Simone, André’s partner at the time, and Robert Desnos, a new member of the circle. Crevel followed the same protocol as the medium: he turned off the lights, requested silence and invited the group to hold hands in a circle around the table. After a few minutes, Crevel fell into a deep sleep and, in a state of trance, began to recount a wonderful tale which rivalled the most horrifying pages of the Chants de Maldoror . A few days later it was Desnos’s turn to fall into a hypnotic trance and answer questions, incongruously and poetically, in writing. At the end of the séance he improvised a sonnet. Breton was naturally astounded at the evocative power of hypnotic sleep. After the discovery of “automatic writing” and his work on dream narratives, he was convinced he had uncovered a new vein of creativity. As far as he was concerned, access to the source of poetry itself had just been found. The séances continued at a frenzied rate. It was at that time that I heard of the Surrealists. I must have been about eighteen. But when I finally met them two years later at their headquarters in Rue de Grenelle, the famous époque des sommeils was over. Breton had decided to stop in February 1923.’
    ‘Why? Did the well dry up?’
    ‘For the simple reason that it was becoming impossible to control the séances. You know, a state of trance brings out certain aspects of character which are not necessarily fit to be seen. Some members began to argue violently and, above all, display aggressive behaviour. There were insults, frightening predictions, punches thrown, etc. It totally degenerated. I was told that, during a meeting organised at Marie de La Hire’s home near Place de Clichy, no fewer than ten people went into a trance at the same time. By common agreement,with a rope around their necks, they decided to hang themselves from the coat stands. They had to be woken up with slaps and glasses of cold water thrown in their faces. And of course, it must not be forgotten that Breton is a committed materialist deep down. Yes, he adopted some spiritualist techniques for his trance sessions but he has always categorically rejected the idea of communication between the world of the living and that of the dead.’
    We had passed the Palais de Justice and crossed the Seine via the ancient Pont-au-Change. Fourier, who was starting to become irritated with our literary chatter, considering it unsuitable for advancing a police investigation, decided to change the subject.
    ‘So, Lacroix! You seem to get on very well with the Marquis’s daughter. What is your relationship with her?’
    ‘What do you mean, Superintendent?’ replied the journalist, pretending to be offended. ‘Mademoiselle Amélie is a very nice person but I can assure you that our relations are based purely on courtesy.’
    We had just passed the Théâtre des Nations when, fifty yards further on, I caught sight of a huge figure I would have recognised anywhere.
    ‘Hey! Pull over, will you! I think I’ve just won two cases of Vouvray!’
    The journalist, not sorry that the conversation had taken a new turn, braked sharply and parked on Avenue Victoria.
    Having extricated myself from the car with great relief, my muscles aching, I called out to my faithful friend, who was walking along the pavement of Square Saint-Jacques with his hands in his pockets.
    ‘Well, at last!’ cried James, spinning round at the sound of my voice.
    Then, noticing the superintendent, his constable and thejournalist, who had