„Obaveštavajte me sigurno o svom radu, zasad su vaše slike isuviše zbrkane i nedostaje im pečat ličnosti. Radite! Radite! Treba sačekati razvoj vaših nesumnjivih kvaliteta. Nadam se da ću jednog dana moć da se vama pozabavim“ –pismo Pjera Leba, Pariz,1926

...trebalo je da ostarim, a da bih ostario, trebalo je da radim, da se borim, da skupim sve svoje intelektualne i fizičke sange kako bih izišao kao pobednik iz ovog krstaškog rata u koji sam pošao da bih osvojio svoju dušu.

Where is the real? All appearance are deceitful, the visible surface is deceptive. I look at my hand.. .It is nerves, muscles, bones. Let us go deeper: it is molecules and acids. Further still: it is an impalpable waltz of electrons and neutrons. Further still: an immaterial nebula. Who can prove that my hand exists?

One morning with Ripolin [French paint] I painted a new-born that I then left to dry on the tennis-court. After two days I found it bristling with ants that made it move to the anesthetized, silent rhythm of sea-urchins. However I at once realized that this newborn child was none other than the pink breast of my girlfriend, being frenetically eaten by the shining, metallic thickness of the phonograph. But it wasn't her breast either: it was little pieces of my cigarette paper nervously grouped around the magnetic topaz of my fiancees ring.

The more I looked at his face [of Saint Sebastian] the more curious it seemed. That said, I seemed to have always known it and the aseptic morning light revealed its smallest details which such clarity, such purity, that I was impossible moved.. .In the upper part of the heliometer was St. Sebastian's magnifying glass.. .I put my eye to the magnifying glass, product of a slow distillation, at once numerical and intuitive. Each drop of water a number. Each drop of blood a geometry.

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