Words make love with one another.

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

The simplest act of surrealism is to walk out into the street, gun in hand, and shoot at random.

Everything tends to make us believe that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imagined, past and future, the communicable and the incommunicable, high and low, cease to be perceived as contradictions.

Past and future monopolize the poet’s sensory and intellectual faculties, detached from the immediate spectacle. These two philtres become utterly clear the moment one stops being hypnotized by the cloudy precipitate constituted by the world of today.

When will the arbitrary be granted the place it deserves in the formation of works and ideas?

No rules exist, and examples are simply life-savers answering the appeals of rules making vain attempts to exist.