How I Loathe The Servitude People Try

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.

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

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 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.

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.