The Riviera, in 1932, was a gorgeous soundproofed paradise, utterly oblivious of the darkness gathering over the rest of Europe. Here a synthetic sun shone on glittering synthetic beaches full of synthetically happy people. I said to myself, "I don't care. This will be the last fling before I leave Europe forever. In one, two, or five years there will be a war, after which the Europe I know will be no more. Excepting, of course, Paris-—Paris will never, must never, perish. Paris sees only civilizations roll over and past her; she will forever remain the art city. But Europe, the Europe of my youth, it is finished for a long time. Here, then, the last orgies before the flood!"

I dreamed, one early morning before dawn, that I had won three times straight on "7" at Monte Carlo. I told this to Boski, Sandy, and a group of Cagnois; they all accompanied me to Monte Carlo to see whether there was anything in this remarkable dream stuff of mine—-for I have always been more prone than not to pose as a prophetic dreamer, as the reader will have noticed. Well, friends, believe it or not, I walked into Monte Carlo Casino, played three times straight on "7' and won. I have several witnesses here in America, and it was no accident, because I told them all about it in advance.

Our life that summer was a round of parties, many of which we gave ourselves. One, to which the summering Berlin Opera Ballet was invited, found dawn approaching without their being able to find transportation back to Antibes, their abode. Accordingly they staged a marvelous ballet, with my phonograph loud-speaker system as orchestra, our garden overlooking the sea as stage, and the newly risen sun as the stage-lighting system. They danced until breakfast time, then went over to a shady side of the lawn and slept in rows. I shall never forget that particular performance of "Le Sacre du Printemps" or "Afternoon of a Faun"; they seemed to have been performed under ideal conditions, especially as, towards the end, some of the girls and boys abandoned their clothes altogether... The times were distinctly Hellenic...

One day somebody pulled a grand piano to the beach, and we danced. Who is there to say that the pictures of Dali are not true to the life of their times?

SOURCE: George Antheil's autobiography, Bad Boy of Music, p.265-6.

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