Like All Revolutions, The Surrealist

There Is No Religion In Which Everyday Life Is Not Considered A Prison; There Is No Philosophy Or Ideology That Does Not Think That We Live In Alienation.

All Cats Die. Socrates Is Dead. Therefore Socrates Is A Cat.

When Silence Confronts Us, The Question To Which There Is No Answer Rings Out In The Silence. That Ultimate "why," That Great "why" Is Like A Light That Blots Out Everything, But A Blinding Light; Nothing More Can Be Made Out.

As Soon As One Knows One Is Going To Die, Childhood Is Over.... So One Can Be Grown Up At Seven. Then, I Believe Most Human Beings Forget What They Have Understood, Recover Another Sort Of Childhood That Can Last All Their Lives. It Is Not A True Childhood But A Kind Of Forgetting. Desires And Anxieties Are There, Preventing You From Having Access To The Essential Truth.

The Light Of Memory, Or Rather The Light That Memory Lends To Things, Is The Palest Light Of All. I Am Not Quite Sure Whether I Am Dreaming Or Remembering, Whether I Have Lived My Life Or Dreamed It. Just As Dreams Do, Memory Makes Me Profoundly Aware Of The Unreality, The Evanescence Of The World, A Fleeting Image In The Moving Water.