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I Find It Impossible To Think Of A Picture Save As A Window, And My First Concern About A Window Is To Find Out What It Looks Out On... And There Is Nothing I Love So Much As Something Which Stretches Away From Me Out Of Sight.

-Andre Breton

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I Find It Impossible

Andre Breton

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I Find It Impossible To Think Of A Picture Save As A Window, And My First Concern About A Window Is To Find Out What It Looks Out On... And There Is Nothing I Love So Much As Something Which Stretches Away From Me Out Of Sight.

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Let Us Not Mince Words: The Marvelous Is Always Beautiful, Anything Marvelous Is Beautiful, In Fact Only The Marvelous Is Beautiful.

Love Is When You Meet Someone Who Tells You Something New About Yourself.

It Is More Or Less A Given That Nothing Is Less Favorable To Clairvoyance Than The Bright Sun: Physical Light And Mental Light Coexist On Very Poor Terms.

A Game: Say Something. Close Your Eyes And Say Something. Anything, A Number, A Name. Like This (she Closes Her Eyes): Two, Two What? Two Women. What Do They Look Like? Wearing Black. Where Are They? In A Park. . . . And Then, What Are They Doing? Try It, It's So Easy, Why Don't You Want To Play? You Know, That's How I Talk To Myself When I'm Alone, I Tell Myself All Kinds Of Stories. And Not Only Silly Stories: Actually, I Live This Way Altogether.

It Was In The Black Mirror Of Anarchism That Surrealism First Recognised Itself.

Beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.

I Myself Shall Continue Living In My Glass House Where You Can Always See Who Comes To Call, Where Everything Hanging From The The Ceiling And On The Walls Stays Where It Is As If By Magic, Where I Sleep Nights In A Glass Bed, Under Glass Sheets, Where Who I Am Will Sooner Or Later Appear Etched By A Diamond.

What’s The Good Of These Great Fragile Fits Of Enthusiasm, These Jaded Jumps Of Joys? We Know Nothing Anymore, But The Dead Stars; We Gaze At Their Faces; And We Gasp With Pleasure. Our Mouths Are Dry As The Lost Beaches, And Our Eyes Turn Aimlessly And Without Hope. Now All That Remain Are These Cafés Where We Meet To Drink These Cool Drinks, These Diluted Spirits, And The Tables Are Stickier Than The Pavements Where Our Shadows Of The Day Before Have Fallen.

The Invention Of Photography Has Dealt A Mortal Blow To The Old Modes Of Expression, In Painting As Well As In Poetry, Where Automatic Writing, Which Appeared At The End Of The Nineteenth Century, Is A True Photography Of Thought. Since A Blind Instrument Now Assured Artists Of Achieving The Aim They Had Set Themselves Up To That Time, They Now Aspired, Not Without Recklessness, To Break With The Imitation Of Appearances.

Nothing That Surrounds Us Is Object, All Is Subject.

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.

The Simplest Surrealist Act Consists Of Dashing Down The Street, Pistol In Hand, And Firing Blindly, As Fast As You Can Pull The Trigger, Into The Crowd. Anyone Who, At Least Once In His Life, Has Not Dreamed Of Thus Putting An End To The Petty System Of Debasement And Cretinization In Effect Has A Well-defined Place In That Crowd With His Belly At Barrel-level.

If Surrealism Ever Comes To Adopt A Particular Line Of Moral Conduct, It Has Only To Accept The Discipline That Picasso Has Accepted And Will Continue To Accept.

Surrealism Will Usher You Into Death, Which Is A Secret Society. It Will Glove Your Hand, Burying Therein The Profound M With Which The Word Memory Begins. Do Not Forget To Make Proper Arrangements For Your Last Will And Testament: Speaking Personally, I Ask That I Be Taken To The Cemetery In A Moving Van. May My Friends Destroy Every Last Copy Of The Printing Of The Speech Concerning The Modicum Of Reality.

I Have Always Been Amazed At The Way An Ordinary Observer Lends So Much More Credence And Attaches So Much More Importance To Waking Events Than To Those Occurring In Dreams... Man...is Above All The Plaything Of His Memory.

The Important Thing Is That Man Is Lost In Time, In The Moment That Immediately Precedes Him - Which Only Attests, By Reflection, To The Fact That He Is Lost In The Moment That Follows

To See, To Hear, Means Nothing. To Recognize (or Not To Recognize) Means Everything.

Surrealism Is Based On The Belief In The Omnipotence Of Dreams, In The Undirected Play Of Thought.

The Mind Which Plunges Into Surrealism, Relives With Burning Excitement The Best Part Of Childhood.

Surrealism Will Usher You Into Death, Which Is A Secret Society. It Will Glove Your Hand, Burying Therein The Profound M With Which The Word Memory Begins.

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.

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.

I Am The Soul In Limbo.

At The Word Witch, We Imagine The Horrible Old Crones From Macbeth. But The Cruel Trials Witches Suffered Teach Us The Opposite. Many Perished Precisely Because They Were Young And Beautiful.

The Purest Surrealist Act Is Walking Into A Crowd With A Loaded Gun And Firing Into It Randomly

My Wish Is That You May Be Loved To The Point Of Madness.

The Pure Playfulness Of Certain Wholly Whimsical Portions Of (charles) Cros’s Work Should Not Obscure The Fact That At The Center Of Some Of His Most Beautiful Poems A Revolver Is Leveled Straight At Us.

In The World We Live In Everything Militates In Favor Of Things That Have Not Yet Happened, Of Things That Will Never Happen Again.

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.

Finding Yourself

It Is Living And Ceasing To Live That Are Imaginary Solutions. Existence Is Elsewhere.

What One Hides Is Worth Neither More Nor Less Than What One Finds. And What One Hides From Oneself Is Worth Neither More Nor Less Than What One Allows Others To Find.

There Is No Use Being Alive If One Must Work. The Event From Which Each Of Us Is Entitled To Expect The Revelation Of His Own Life’s Meaning - That Event Which I May Not Yet Have Found, But On Whose Path I Seek Myself - Is Not Earned By Work.

No Rules Exist, And Examples Are Simply Life-savers Answering The Appeals Of Rules Making Vain Attempts To Exist.

For Me, The Single Word "god" Suggests Everything That Is Slippery, Shady, Squalid, Foul, And Grotesque.

To See, To Hear, Means Nothing. To Recognize (or Not To Recognize) Means Everything. Between What I Do Recognize And What I Do Not Recognize There Stands Myself. And What I Do Not Recognize I Shall Continue Not To Recognize.

Past And Future Monopolize The Poet’s Sensory And Intellectual Faculties, Detached From The Immediate Spectacle. These Two Philtres Become Utterly Clear The Moment One Stops Being Hypnotized By The Cloudy Precipitate Constituted By The World Of Today.

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.

I Insist On Knowing The Names, On Being Interested Only In Books Left Ajar, Like Doors; I Will Not Go Looking For Keys.

The Mere Word Freedom Is The Only One That Still Excites Me. I Deem It Capable Of Indefinitely Sustaining The Old Human Fanaticism. It Doubtless Satisfies My Only Legitimate Aspiration. Among All The Many Misfortunes To Which We Are Heir, It Is Only Fair To Admit That We Are Allowed The Greatest Degree Of Freedom Of Thought. It Is Up To Us Not To Misuse It. 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.

I Believe In The Future Resolution Of These Two States, Dream And Reality, Which Are Seemingly So Contradictory, Into A Kind Of Absolute Reality, A Surreality, If One May So Speak.

Of All Those Arts In Which The Wise Excel, Nature's Chief Masterpiece Is Writing Well.

Dada Is A State Of Mind.

The Approval Of The Public Is To Be Avoided Like The Plague. It Is Absolutely Essential To Keep The Public From Entering If One Wishes To Avoid Confusion. I Must Add That The Public Must Be Kept Panting In Expectation At The Gate By A System Of Challenges And Provocations.

The Simplest Act Of Surrealism Is To Walk Out Into The Street, Gun In Hand, And Shoot At Random.

One Can Understand Why Surrealism Was Not Afraid To Make For Itself A Tenet Of Total Revolt, Complete Insubordination, Of Sabotage According To Rule, And Why It Still Expects Nothing Save From Violence.

Insubordination

May Night Continue To Fall Upon The Orchestra

Beauty Is Like A Train That Ceaselessly Roars Out Of The Gare De Lyon And Which I Know Will Never Leave, Which Has Not Left. It Consists Of Jolts And Shocks, Many Of Which Do Not Have Much Importance, But Which We Know Are Destined To Produce One Shock, Which Does...the Human Heart, Beautiful As A Seismograph...beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.

Leave Everything. Leave Dada. Leave Your Wife. Leave Your Mistress. Leave Your Hopes And Fears. Leave Your Children In The Woods. Leave The Substance For The Shadow. Leave Your Easy Life, Leave What You Are Given For The Future. Set Off On The Roads.

The Eye Is Not Open When It Is Limited To The Passive Role Of A Mirror... If It Has Only The Capacity To Reflect.

Surrealism, N. Pure Psychic Automatism, By Which It Is Intended To Express, Whether Verbally Or In Writing, Or In Any Other Way, The Real Process Of Thought. Thought's Dictation, Free From Any Control By The Reason, Independent Of Any Aesthetic Or Moral Preoccupation.

The Clouds Were Disappearing Rapidly, Leaving The Stars To Die. The Night Dried Up.

How I Loathe The Servitude People Try To Hold Up To Me As Being So Valuable. I Pity The Man Who Is Condemned To It, Who Cannot Generally Escape It, But It Is Not The Burden Of His Labor That Disposes Me In His Favor, It Is - It Can Only Be - The Vigor Of His Protest Against It.

The Art Of Frida Kahlo Is A Ribbon Around A Bomb.

Life’s Greatest Gift Is The Freedom It Leaves You To Step Out Of It Whenever You Choose.

Surrealism Is Based On The Belief In The Superior Reality Of Certain Forms Of Previously Neglected Associations, In The Omnipotence Of Dreams, In The Disinterested Play Of Thought. It Tends To Ruin Once And For All Other Psychic Mechanisms And To Substitute Itself For Them In Solving All The Principle Problems Of Life.

I Find It Impossible To Think Of A Picture Save As A Window, And My First Concern About A Window Is To Find Out What It Looks Out On... And There Is Nothing I Love So Much As Something Which Stretches Away From Me Out Of Sight.

At The Outset, It Is Only Liking, Not Understanding, That Matters. Gaps In Understanding ... Are Not Only Important, They Are Perhaps Even Welcome, Like Clearings In The Woods, The Better To Allow The Heart's Rays To Stream Out Without Obstacle. The Unlit Shadows Should Remain Obscure, Which Is The Very Condition Of Enchantment.

Objects Seen In Dreams Should Be Manufactured And Put On Sale.

Trust In The Inexhaustible Character Of The Murmur.

I Could Spend My Whole Life Prying Loose The Secrets Of The Insane. These People Are Honest To A Fault, And Their Naivety Has No Peer But My Own.

Under His (marc Chagall, Ed.) Sole Impulse Metaphor Made Its Triumphal Entry Into Modern Painting.

Words Make Love With One Another.

There Is Nothing With Which It Is So Dangerous To Take Liberties As Liberty Itself.

Surrealism Does Not Allow Those Who Devote Themselves To It To Forsake It Whenever They Like. There Is Every Reason To Believe That It Acts On The Mind Very Much As Drugs Do; Like Drugs, It Creates A Certain State Of Need And Can Push Man To Frightful Revolts.

It Is Hard Not To See Into The Future, Faced With Today's Blind Architecture - A Thousand Times More Stupid And More Revolting Than That Of Other Ages. How Bored We Shall Be Inside!

A Work Of Art Has Value Only If Tremors Of The Future Run Through It.

How Small These Rescued Tides Appear! Earthly Delights Flow In Torrents. Each Object Offers Paradise.

Words Have Finished Flirting. Now They Are Making Love.

Humor (is) The Process That Allows One To Brush Reality Aside When It Gets Too Distressing.

I Maintain That Anyone Who Still Refuses To See, For Instance, A Horse Galloping On A Tomato, Must Be An Idiot. A Tomato Is Also A Child's Balloon - Surrealism, Again, Having Suppressed The Word "like."

When Will The Arbitrary Be Granted The Place It Deserves In The Formation Of Works And Ideas?

Artistic Imagination Must Remain Free. It Is By Definition Free From Any Fidelity To Circumstances, Especially To The Intoxicating Circumstances Of History.

The Mind, Placed Before Any Kind Of Difficulty, Can Find An Ideal Outlet In The Absurd. Accommodation To The Absurd Readmits Adults To The Mysterious Realm Inhabited By Children.

All My Life, My Heart Has Yearned For A Thing I Cannot Name.

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.

If I Place Love Above Everything, It Is Because For Me It Is The Most Desperate, The Most Despairing State Of Affairs Imaginable.

To Speak Of God, To Think Of God, Is In Every Respect To Show What One Is Made Of. I Have Always Wagered Against God And I Regard The Little That I Have Won In This World As Simply The Outcome Of This Bet. However Paltry May Have Been The Stake (my Life) I Am Conscious Of Having Won To The Full. Everything That Is Doddering, Squint-eyed, Vile, Polluted And Grotesque Is Summoned Up For Me In That One Word: God!

There Are Fairy Stories To Be Written For Adults. Stories That Are Still In A Green State.

It Is The Whole Modern Concept Of Love Which Should Be Re-examined, Such As Is Commonly But Transparently Expressed In Phrases Like 'love At First Sight' And 'honeymoon'. All This Shoddy Terminology Is On Top Of That Tainted With The Most Reactionary Irony.

The Lamentable Expression: 'but It Was Only A Dream", The Increasing Use Of Which - Among Others In The Domain Of The Cinema - Has Contributed Not A Little To Encourage Such Hypocrisy, Has For A Long While Ceased To Merit Discussion.

The Imaginary Is What Tends To Become Real.

Psychic Automatism In Its Pure State, By Which One Proposes To Express - Verbally, By Means Of The Written Word, Or In Any Other Manner - The Actual Functioning Of Thought. Dictated By The Thought, In The Absence Of Any Control Exercised By Reason, Exempt From Any Aesthetic Or Moral Concern.

Every Time You Date Someone With An Issue That You Have To Work To Ignore, You're Settling.

...with The End Of My Breath, Which Is The Beginning Of Yours.

We All Love Conflagrations. When The Sky Changes Color, It Is A Dead Man's Passing.

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.

Over And Above The Various Prejudices I Acknowledge, The Affinities I Feel, The Attractions I Succumb To, The Events Which Occur To Me And To Me Alone- Over And Above A Sum Of Movements I Am Conscious Of Making, Of Emotions I Alone Experience- I Strive, In Relation To Other Men, To Discover The Nature, If Not The Necessity, Of My Difference From Them. Is It Not Precisely To The Degree I Become Conscious Of This Difference That I Shall Recognize What I Alone Have Been Put On This Earth To Do, What Unique Message I Alone May Bear, So That I Alone Can Answer For Its Fate?

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.

Keep Reminding Yourself That Literature Is One Of The Saddest Roads That Leads To Everything.

Reminding Yourself

What Is Admirable About The Fantastic Is That There Is No Longer Anything Fantastic: There Is Only The Real.

Nothing Retains Less Of Desire In Art, In Science, Than This Will To Industry, Booty, Possession.

I Love You On The Surface Of Seas Red Like The Egg When It Is Green

Who Am I? If This Once I Were To Rely On A Proverb, Then Perhaps Everything Would Amount To Knowing Whom I 'haunt.'

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