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.

Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

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.

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

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.

Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.