The Breakwater

In the drowned light that bathes the savannah, the bluish statue of Josephine de Beauharnais, hidden among the tall trunks of coconut trees, places the town under a tender and feminine sign. The breasts spring from the dress of the merveilleuse very tall and it’s the parlance of the Directoire lingering to roll some African stones to make up the philter of voluptuous non-defense of Creole stammering. It’s the Palais-Royal buried under the ruins of the old Fort-Royal (pronounced Fo-yal), the noise of the world’s great battles—Marengo, Austerlitz gallantly told in three lines—not to bore the ladies—expires at these charming knees half-opened under the laughing tiles of La Pagerie.

André Breton