“A Dadaist is the man of chance with the good eye and the rabbit punch. He can fling away his individuality like a lasso, he judges each case fr itself, he is resigned to the realization that the world at one and the same time includes Mohammedans, Zwinglians, fifth formers, Anabaptists, pacifists, etc., etc. The motley character of the world is welcome to him but no source of surprise. In the evening the band plays by the lakeshore, and the whores tripping along on their high heels laugh into your face. It’s a fucked-up foolish world. You walk aimlessly along, fixing up a philosophy for supper. But before you have it ready, the mailman brings you the first telegram, announcing that all your pigs have died of rabies, your dinner jacket has been thrown off the Eiffel Tower, your housekeeper has come down with the epizootic. You give a startled look at the moon, which seems to you like a good investment, and the same postman brings you a telegram announcing that all your chickens have died of hoof and mouth disease, you father has fallen on a pitchfork and frozen to death, you mother has burst with sorrow on the occasion of her silver wedding ( maybe the frying pan stuck to her ears, how do I know? ). That’s life, my dear fellow. The days progress in the rhythm of your bowels and you, who have so often been in peril of choking on a fishbone, are still alive. You pull the covers up over you head and whistle the “Hohenfriedberger.” And who knows, don’t gloat too soon, perhaps the next day will see you at your desk, your pen ready for the thrust, bent over your new novel, Rubble. Who knows? That is pure Dadaism, ladies and gentlemen.”
~an excerpt from En Avant Dada: A History of Dadaism (1920) by Richard Huelsenbeck as published in The Dada Painters and Poets: An Antholgy, 2nd ed., edited by Robert Motherwell, 1981.