There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.

Error is certainty's constant companion. Error is the corollary of evidence. And anything said about truth may equally well be said about error: the delusion will be no greater.

As if one could do what one wanted with one's own body!

As [John Heartfield] was playing with the fire of appearance, reality took fire around him... The scraps of photographs that he formerly manoeuvred for the pleasure of stupification, under his fingers began to signify.

O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.

It sometimes happens that pleasure blows anywhere it damn well chooses.

For each man there awaits... a particular image capable of annihilating the entire universe.