Quotes About Surrealism

It has always seemed to me that my existence consisted purely and exclusively of nothing but the most outrageous nonsense.

Sometimes you just have to keep some distance between yourself and reality, even if it means becoming a little less human.

We may have just slipped through some kind of white-trash worm-hole in the time-space continuum.

Sometimes I feel like I have walked into the middle of a movie. It is a strange movie with no plot and no beginning. The movie is in black and white, and grainy. Sometimes the camera moves in so close that you can't tell what is going on and you just listen to the sounds and guess.

The Dutch customs once thought my pictures were photos. Where on earth did they think I could have photographed my subjects? In Hell, perhaps?

In an age in which the classic words of the Surrealists - "As beatiful as the unexpected meeting, on a dissecting table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella" - can become reality and perfectly achievable with an atom bomb, so too has there been a surge of interest in biomechanoids.

Oh ! si au lieu d'être un enfer, l'univers n'avait été qu'un céleste anus immense, regardez le geste que je fais du côté de mon bas-ventre : oui, j'aurais enfoncé ma verge, à travers son sphyncter sanglant, fracassant, par mes mouvements impétueux, les propres parois de son bassin !

Don't Let That Horse . . ." from A Coney Island of the Mind. Don't let that horse eat that violin cried Chagall's mother But he kept right on painting And became famous And kept on painting The Horse With Violin In Mouth And when he finally finished it he jumped up upon the horse and rode away waving the violin And then with a low bow gave it to the first naked nude he ran across And there were no strings attached

I have seen the Virgin in an appletree at Chartres And Saint Joan burn at the Bella Union. I have seen giraffes in junglejims their necks like love wound around the iron circumstances of the world. I have seen the Venus Aphrodite armless in her drafty corridor. I have heard a siren sing at One Fifth Avenue. I have seen the White Goddess dancing in the Rue des Beaux Arts on the Fourteenth of July and the Beautiful Dame Without Mercy picking her nose in Chumley's.

Yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eye Crabalocker fishwife pornographic priestess Boy you been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down I am the eggman, they are the eggmen I am the walrus, goo goo goo joob

Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukulele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts. Senor Dali has the jump on me from the beginning. He remembers and describes in detail what it was like in the womb. My own earliest memory is of accompanying my father to a polling booth in Columbus, Ohio, where he voted for William McKinley.

The circus allows one to be logical and unreal at the same time. In the circus, all is possible: there can be a man with two heads or a character with a green face.

Some people say my work is often depressing and pessimistic, with the emphasis on death, blood, overcrowding, strange beings and so on, but I don't really think it is.

I've done the Rolling Stones eating each other.

My mother is a fish.

her gaze had tracked the brass plaque automatically—"La mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires, même.

The bullets are gun-eggs," Collingswood said to Baron, looking at Vardy. Farmers squeezing their holy metal beasts to percussive climax, fertilisation by cordite expulsion, violent ovipositors. Seeking warm places full of nutrients, protecting baby guns deep in the bone cages, until they hatched.

Surrealism comes for us all, Thibaut thinks.

In the fecund shock-waves of the explosion, it was not only the Surrealists' own dreams that had manifested. Born with them were symbols from Symbolism and Decadence, imaginings of the surrealists' ancestors and beloveds, ghosts from their proto-canon.

He never got a really proper look at them, but the situation told him it must be a swarming flock of vaginas that flew all around his head, biting him toothlessly on his ears and his cheeks and his neck.

The art of Frida Kahlo is a ribbon around a bomb' (Andre Breton qtd. p. 55)

Logic, order, truth, reason, we consign them all to the oblivion of death," said one Surrealist manifesto. We must "cultivate the hatred of intelligence," said the leader of the Futurists, Filippo Marinetti, an artist hailed by Mussolini as the John the Baptist of Fascism.17

I went on dancing in my grotesque disguise, but not before I told him: "I am lonely and miserable but I am wearing my last skin. Since you are almost face to face with the Gods do not abandon me." In human language, this is called love.

Ring for your maid, and when she comes in we'll pounce upon her and tear off her face. I'll wear her face tonight instead of mine.