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.

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

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.

What one hides is worth neither more nor less than what one finds. And what one hides from oneself is worth neither more nor less than what one allows others to find.

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

It will in the end, be admitted that everything, in effect is an image and that the least object which has no symbolic role assigned to it is capable of standing for absolutely anything.

The purest surrealist act is walking into a crowd with a loaded gun and firing into it randomly