Surrealism is based on the belief in the omnipotence of dreams, in the undirected play of thought.

What is admirable about the fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there is only the real.

My wish is that you may be loved to the point of madness.

I insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like doors; I will not go looking for keys.

It is impossible for me to envisage a picture as being other than a window, and why my first concern is then to know what it looks out on.

A game: say something. Close your eyes and say something. Anything, a number, a name. Like this (she closes her eyes): Two, two what? Two women. What do they look like? Wearing black. Where are they? In a park. . . . And then, what are they doing? Try it, it's so easy, why don't you want to play? You know, that's how I talk to myself when I'm alone, I tell myself all kinds of stories. And not only silly stories: actually, I live this way altogether.

I maintain that anyone who still refuses to see, for instance, a horse galloping on a tomato, must be an idiot. A tomato is also a child's balloon - Surrealism, again, having suppressed the word "like."