Of All Those Arts In Which The

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!

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.

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

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.

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.