The soil crushed by power saws and couch-grass rock drills would set us a good example; a drunken magpie leaps one by one over the furrows crimson from blight. The twilight plowing has come to an end and on the church square, milk-white engagement bouquets blossom between paving stones. The sad flutter of old pennants, the notary’s and farrier’s share of responsibility, evaporate in the fizzy lemonade morning. A squat farmer, his white vest flecked with spots of rust, drinks to the lovers’ health. Clothes adorable as dahlias. In the paddock, grasses await the arrival of the yellow-and-blue thresher

–André Breton, Les Champs Magnetique