For Me, The Single Word "god" Suggests

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

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.

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

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.

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