We always make our paintings as princes make babies: with shepherdesses.  We never do the portrait of the Parthenon; we never paint a Louis XV armchair.  We make paintings with a package of tobacco and an old chair.¹

No sofa had been brought into the room, nor would there have been room for one.  On the other hand, a rather stately ancestral portrait was not lacking, by the contemplation of which the humble citizen Carsten, even if not in the French formulation of noblesse oblige, used to strengthen his wavering spirit in difficult hours.²

This small number of inhabitants is due no doubt to the abundance of pederasts and ether addicts who limit themselves to peopling the cafes.³

¹ Picasso, quoted by Andre Breton, Anthologie de l’humour noir

² Theodor Storm, Curator Carsten

³ Max Jacob in a letter from Spain to Guillarme Apollinaire