Luis Bunuel Quotes

I don't know why people expect art to make sense. They accept the fact that life doesn't make sense.

I love my early movies, but naturalism is an artist's early style. Now I want to deal with feelings, dreams, an acceptance of irrationality.

One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know.

The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?

I look out the chair while eating my pillow. I open the wall, I walk with my ears. I have ten eyes to walk with and two fingers to look with. I put my head on the floor to sit down, I put my bottom on the ceiling. After eating the music box, I spread jam on the rug for a great dessert.

I like wee arguments, I've never been into jokes. I'm more into strange things and madness and things escalating and things not really making sense.

I never cared so much about making perfect sense. I wanted to make perfect nonsense.

The trouble with fiction," said John Rivers, "is that it makes too much sense. Reality never makes sense.

Agent Jones held Sinjin’s face in his hands. “I’m going to make balloon animals. People need balloon animals.” “How right you are, strange delusional man,” Sinjin said.

Abstraction means getting away from a visual interpretation but nearer to an emotional one.

I have complete faith in the continued absurdity of whatever’s going on.

The world stands on absurdities, and without them perhaps nothing at all would happen.

The darkening of the world makes the irrationality of art rational: radically darkened art.

Reality is, you know, the tip of an iceberg of irrationality that we've managed to drag ourselves up onto for a few panting moments before we slip back into the sea of the unreal.

Men are mad and gods are madder, she told the grass, and the grass murmured its agreement.

I don't shoot kittens with balls of wool. I don't shoot sunsets. What draws me? Ironic, surreal, unexplained, timely moments.

Perfect nonsense goes on in the world. Sometimes there is no plausibility at all

Naked girls with the heads of Marx and Malraux prone and helpless in the glare of the headlights, tried to give them a little joie de vivre but maybe it didn't take, their constant bickering and smallness, it's like a stroke of lightning, the world reminds you of its power, tracheotomies right and left, I am spinning, my pretty child, don't scratch, pick up your feet, the long nights, spent most of my time listening, this is a test of the system, this is only a test.

I'm just dandy, I got a bowl of chocolate pudding in my underpants!

Life compulsively dangled the possibility of life. Life, the dramatist on speed. Life, that couldn't stop with its foreshadows and ironies and symbols and clues, its wretched jokes and false endings and twists. Life with its hopeless addiction to plot.

Resisting madness is the maddest way of being mad.

It was quite impossible to describe. Here is what it looked like. It looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and it felt Paisley. It smelled like the total eclipse of the moon.

The Girl With Many Eyes One day in the park I had quite a surprise. I met a girl who had many eyes. She was really quite pretty (and also quite shocking!) and I noticed she had a mouth, so we ended up talking. We talked about flowers, and her poetry classes, and the problems she'd have if she ever wore glasses. It's great to know a girl who has so many eyes, but you really get wet when she breaks down and cries.

It has always seemed to me that my existence consisted purely and exclusively of nothing but the most outrageous nonsense.