Really, I do not know whether my paintings are surrealist or not, but I do know that they are the frankest expression of myself.

Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are a bourbon biscuit.

Mankind owns its destiny, and its destiny is the earth. We are destroying it until we have no destiny.

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

To feel the anguish of waiting for the next moment and of taking part in the complex current (of affairs) not knowing that we are headed toward ourselves, through millions of stone beings - of bird beings - of star beings - of microbe beings - of fountain beings toward ourselves.

I paint flowers so they will not die.

I don’t like the gringos at all. They are very boring and all have faces like unbaked rolls.