Dreams have as much influence as actions.

In a museum in London there is an exhibit called “The Value of Man”: a long coffinlike box with lots of compartments where they’ve put starch phosphorus flour bottles of water and alcohol and big pieces of gelatin. I am a man like that.

I have made a long enough descent into the void to speak with certainty. There is nothing but beauty – and beauty has only one perfect expression, Poetry. All the rest is a lie.

All thoughts emit a throw of dice.

Poets don’t finish poems, they abandon them.

You don’t make a poem with ideas, but with words.

The world exists to end up in a book.

Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul. So sublime, my friend, that I want to gaze upon matter, fully conscious that it exists, and yet launching itself madly into Dream, despite its knowledge that Dream has no existence, extolling the Soul and all the divine impressions of that kind which have collected within us from the beginning of time and proclaiming, in the face of the Void which is truth, these glorious lies!

Dreams have as much influences as actions.

Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.