I love you more than my own skin.

The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to.

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

I never knew I was a surrealist till Andre Breton came to Mexico and told me I was.

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”.

There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the trolley, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.

I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim.