The art of Frida Kahlo is a ribbon around a bomb.
All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.
Everything tends to make us believe that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imagined, past and future, the communicable and the incommunicable, high and low, cease to be perceived as contradictions.
Words make love with one another.
Trust in the inexhaustible character of the murmur.
The mind which plunges into Surrealism, relives with burning excitement the best part of childhood.
No one who has lived even for a fleeting moment for something other than life in its conventional sense and has experienced the exaltation that this feeling produces can then renounce his new freedom so easily.
I believe in the pure Surrealist joy of the man who, forewarned that all others before him have failed, refused to admit defeat, sets off from watever point he chooses, along any other pat save a reasonable one, and arrives wherever he can.
What is admirable about the fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there is only the real.
The simplest Surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd.
We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man’s passing.
Objects seen in dreams should be manufactured and put on sale.
Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all.
There is By my leaning over the precipice Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion My finding the secret Of loving you Always for the first time.
It is impossible for me to envisage a picture as being other than a window, and why my first concern is then to know what it looks out on.
To reduce the imagination to a state of slavery – even though it would mean the elimination of what is commonly called happiness – is to betray all sense of absolute justice within oneself. Imagination alone offers me some intimation of what can be.
Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.
Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.
Keep reminding yourself that literature is one of the saddest roads that leads to everything.
It will in the end, be admitted that everything, in effect is an image and that the least object which has no symbolic role assigned to it is capable of standing for absolutely anything.