Andre Breton
Andre Breton
André Bretonwas a French writer, poet, anarchist and anti-fascist. He is known best as the founder of Surrealism. His writings include the first Surrealist Manifestoof 1924, in which he defined surrealism as "pure psychic automatism"...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionNon-Fiction Author
Date of Birth19 February 1896
CountryFrance
arts chief wise
Of all the arts in which the wise excel, nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.
running art ifs
A work of art has value only if tremors of the future run through it...
imagination definitions artistic
Artistic imagination must remain free. It is by definition free from any fidelity to circumstances, especially to the intoxicating circumstances of history.
art wall desire
Nothing retains less of desire in art, in science, than this will to industry, booty, possession.
wise art nature
Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.
art ribbons bombs
The art of Frida Kahlo is a ribbon around a bomb.
dali hesitates man might vice
Dali is like a man who hesitates between talent and genius, or, as one might once have said, between vice and virtue.
contained god grotesque single
Everything that is doddering, squint-eyed, infamous, sullying, and grotesque is contained for me in this single word: God
soul limbo
I am the soul in limbo.
secret oneself
What one hides is worth neither more nor less than what one finds. And what one hides from oneself is worth neither more nor less than what one allows others to find.
paradise flow tides
How small these rescued tides appear! Earthly delights flow in torrents. Each object offers paradise.
future humanity events
In the world we live in everything militates in favor of things that have not yet happened, of things that will never happen again.
fairy-stories green adults
There are fairy stories to be written for adults. Stories that are still in a green state.
beach stars eye
What’s the good of these great fragile fits of enthusiasm, these jaded jumps of joys? We know nothing anymore, but the dead stars; we gaze at their faces; and we gasp with pleasure. Our mouths are dry as the lost beaches, and our eyes turn aimlessly and without hope. Now all that remain are these cafés where we meet to drink these cool drinks, these diluted spirits, and the tables are stickier than the pavements where our shadows of the day before have fallen.