Let us not mince words: the marvelous is always beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only the marvelous is beautiful.

If I place love above everything, it is because for me it is the most desperate, the most despairing state of affairs imaginable.

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

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

Nothing retains less of desire in art, in science, than this will to industry, booty, possession.

Beauty is like a train that ceaselessly roars out of the Gare de Lyon and which I know will never leave, which has not left. It consists of jolts and shocks, many of which do not have much importance, but which we know are destined to produce one Shock, which does...The human heart, beautiful as a seismograph...Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or will not be at all.

Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.