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

Love is when you meet someone who tells you something new about yourself.

Surrealism will usher you into death, which is a secret society. It will glove your hand, burying therein the profound M with which the word Memory begins.

Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I 'haunt.'

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

The simplest Surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd.

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