People Love Mystery, And That Is Why

I Dedicate This Novel To Gala, Who Was Constantly By My Side While I Was Writing It, Who Was The Good Fairy Of My Equilibrium, Who Banished The Salamanders Of My Doubts And Strengthened The Lions Of Certainties.

Picasso Is A Painter, So Am I; Picasso Is Spanish, So Am I; Picasso Is A Communist, Neither Am I.

I Was Never Capable Of Being An Average Pupil. I Would Either Seem Refractory To Any Teaching And Give The Impression Of Being Completely Dumb Or I Would Fling Myself On My Work With A Frenzy, A Patience, And A Willingness To Learn That Astonished Everybody. But To Awaken My Zeal, It Was Necessary To Offer Me Something I Liked. Once My Appetite Had Been Whetted, I Became Ravenously Hungry.

Everyone Should Eat Hashish, But Only Once.

Whatever Happens, My Audience Mustn't Know Whether I Am Spoofing Or Being Serious; And Likewise I Mustn't Know Either. I Am In A Constant Interrogation; When Does The Deep And Philosophically Valid Dali Begin, And Where Does The Looney And Preposterous Dali End?