Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his [mankind's] ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation.

We attempted perfection; we wanted an object to be without flaw, so we cut the papers with a razor, pasted them down meticulously, but it buckled and was ruined... that is why we decided to tear prewrinkled paper, so that in the finished work of art imperfection would be an integral part, as if at birth death were built in.

Ever since my childhood, I was haunted by the search for perfection. An imperfectly cut paper literally made me ill. I would guillotine it.

Any work that is not rooted in myth and poetry or that does not partake of the depth and essence of the universe is merely a ghost.

I allow myself to be guided by the work which is in the process of being born. I have confidence in it. I do not think about it.

All things, and man as well, should be like nature, without measure.

DaDa is beautiful like the night, who cradles the young day in her arms.