...with The End Of My Breath, Which

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.

Beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.

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."

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.

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.