We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man's passing.

No one who has lived even for a fleeting moment for something other than life in its conventional sense and has experienced the exaltation that this feeling produces can then renounce his new freedom so easily.

There is By my leaning over the precipice Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion My finding the secret Of loving you Always for the first time

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

The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.

The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Cros’s work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us.

To see, to hear, means nothing. To recognize (or not to recognize) means everything.