Frida Kahlo

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?

I was born a bitch. I was born a painter.

Nothing is absolute. Everything changes, everything moves, everything revolves, everything flies and goes away.

Everything can have beauty, even the worst horror.

…what would I do without the absurd and the ephemeral?

Why do I call him my Diego? He never was or will be mine. He belongs to himself.

I am not sick. I am broken. But, I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.

Diego: Nothing compares to your hands. Nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days, you are the mirror of the night, the violent flash of lighting. The dampness of the earth. The hollow of your armpits is my shelter. My fingertips touch your blood. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours.

It was not violent but rather silent, slow, and it harmed everybody. And me most of all.

Death dances around my bed at night.

I am beginning to grow accustomed to suffering.

Life insists on being my friend and my enemy.

The fact that I painted myself twice, I think, is nothing but the representation of my loneliness…

I paint whatever passes through my head without any other consideration.

You are all the combinations of numbers of life.

Heart leaking something so string they can smell it from the street.

I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth.

I wish I were dead! I don't know why I have to go living like this.

There is nothing to do but put up with it. I have a cat's luck.