Leonora Carrington

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Reason is a form
of death—a fading away
like rhododendrons

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The right eye is for
painting; the left eye is to
admire the painting

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Dawn was my muse till
she dissolved in the silent
light of forever

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I haven’t got time
for people—I must shovel
coal and chop huge stones

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The task of God is
to plunge your head into a
crematorium

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The novelist peers
into a microscope of
transfixed air—and breathes

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It is the duty
of the artist to simply
derange everything

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