Dada is our intensity: it erects inconsequential bayonets and the Sumatral head of German babies; Dada is life with neither bedroom slippers nor parallels; it is against and for unity and definitely against the future.
...a severe necessity with neither discipline nor morals and that we spit on humanity. We declare that the motor car is a feeling that has cosseted us quite enough in the dilatoriness of its abstractions, as havetransatlantic liners, noises and ideas. And while we put on a show of being facile, we are actually searching for the central essence of things, and are pleased if we can hide it.
But we, DADA, don't agree with them, for art isn't serious, I assure you.