Everything That Is Not Me Is Incomprehensible.

There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To Match Each Error Of The Senses. Admirable Gardens Of Absurd Beliefs, Forebodings, Obsessions And Frenzies. Unknown, Ever-changing Gods Take Shape There.

The Whole Fauna Of Human Fantasies, Their Marine Vegetation, Drifts And Luxuriates In The Dimly Lit Zones Of Human Activity, As Though Plaiting Thick Tresses Of Darkness. Here, Too, Appear The Lighthouses Of The Mind, With Their Outward Resemblance To Less Pure Symbols. The Gateway To Mystery Swings Open At The Touch Of Human Weakness And We Have Entered The Realms Of Darkness. One False Step, One Slurred Syllable Together Reveal A Man's Thoughts.

Your Heart Like A Hawk-mouth In The Sun, Your Heart Like A Ship On An Atoll, Your Heart Like A Compass Needle Driven Mad By A Little Piece Of Lead, Like Washing Drying In The Wind, Like A Whining Of Horses, Like Seed Thrown To The Birds, Like An Evening Paper One Has Finished Reading! Your Heart Is A Charade That The Whole World Has Guessed.

The Vice Named Surrealism Is The Immoderate And Impassioned Use Of The Stupefacient Image Or Rather Of The Uncontrolled Provocation Of The Image For Its Own Sake And For The Element Of Unpredictable Perturbation And Of Metamorphosis Which It Introduces Into The Domain Of Representation; For Each Image On Each Occasion Forces You To Revise The Entire Universe.

Your Imagination, My Dear Fellow, Is Worth More Than You Imagine.