David Gascoyne told me, in the late 1980s, that his friend Benjamin Péret was a devout believer in a daily ritual insult to religion. Péret interrupted one pre-WW2 conversation with the teenaged Gascoyne — aboard a Parisian bus — after spotting an unsuspecting curé seated at the front. He expectorated upon, and briefly harangued the priest, then strolled back to resume the conversation at the very point at which it had been interrupted.