Of All Those Arts In Which The

I Find It Impossible To Think Of A Picture Save As A Window, And My First Concern About A Window Is To Find Out What It Looks Out On... And There Is Nothing I Love So Much As Something Which Stretches Away From Me Out Of Sight.

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.

It Is Living And Ceasing To Live That Are Imaginary Solutions. Existence Is Elsewhere.

One Can Understand Why Surrealism Was Not Afraid To Make For Itself A Tenet Of Total Revolt, Complete Insubordination, Of Sabotage According To Rule, And Why It Still Expects Nothing Save From Violence.

Under His (marc Chagall, Ed.) Sole Impulse Metaphor Made Its Triumphal Entry Into Modern Painting.