He was a consistent man. His art was finely crafted, but gave new definitions for the surreal and the impossible. His writing has the same character. He often spoke in a private vocabulary that, perhaps, only he understood. Even in English translation, his sentences have a rolling sound, and some roll on for half a page or more.

In spite of himself, Dali sometimes let an intelligible thought come through. He had the highest regard for Vermeer and Raphael, and the lowest for Picasso. That last is uncertain, though. He may have seen Picasso as the hero who opened the way for a new rise of modern art by first dragging it to the lowest depths.

This is not Dali's only writing, and not his longest or most focussed. Oddly, Gala (his wife and muse) is mentioned only in some of the calligraphic scrawls that adorn the page. Other of his writings are more revealing and more explicitly autobiographic. Still, this brief book is an interesting look at one of more fascinating minds of the twentieth century.

Best of all, this is Dali. It's not by someone else, about Dali. It is Dali.