In the end, we get older, we kill everyone who loves us through the worries we give them, through the troubled tenderness we inspire in them, and the fears we ceaselessly cause.

In the fields with which we are concerned, knowledge comes only in flashes. The text is the thunder rolling long afterward.

Books and harlots have their quarrels in public.

Painting, by its nature, cannot provide an object of simultaneous collective reception... as film is able to do today... And while efforts have been made to present paintings to the masses in galleries and salons, this mode of reception gives the masses no means of organizing and regulating their response. Thus, the same public which reacts progressively to a slapstick comedy inevitably displays a backward attitude toward Surrealism.

Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.

To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.