Words Make Love With One Another.

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.

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

Words Have Finished Flirting. Now They Are Making Love.

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.