![]() ![]() ![]() It’s a zig-zagging tale of cultural cross-pollination, a network of mutual inspiration, and often, antagonism. But, as Rasula explains in this stimulating, profound exploration of that most elusive of avant-gardes, Dada’s story is not linear. So begins Jed Rasula’s Destruction Was My Beatrice: Dada and the Unmaking of the Twentieth Century, at Cabaret Voltaire, the site of Dada’s birth, on 5 February 1916. The year is 1916, and the place is Cabaret Voltaire.’ In the old bohemian district, a block from the river that feeds into the lake from the north, the door opens at number one Spiegelgasse (Mirror Street: what a name), emitting a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. The street has a dusting of fresh snow on accumulated layers that crunch underfoot cheeks and noses of pedestrians glow in the mountain cold. ![]()
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