Supposedly, some small corner of the mind tosses its dice continuously, trying every combination of fact against every other. Next some filter removes the nonsense - most of it - and lets through a few drops of insight. In some few minds, a droplet or two more forms steady trickle of meaningful creativity.
In Dalí, the floodgates had opened. Every experience, even seeing a hotel bellboy, spilling some coffee, or flatulence, had mystic and mythic meaning for him. Read just a few of his words, and you know that you can't just read his words. Ideas swirled around him in chaotic orbits, like his beloved flies. His writing makes me think of a show of fireworks, which an author tries to describe by tracing a few dozen especially brilliant sparks.
Three things stand out as invariant across Dalí's life, as he tells it. The second is Gala, his wife, muse, agent, and tour-guide to planet earth. The third is enthusiasm for everything, a degree of involvement with his world that permeates his vision and hearing, but also his senses of smell, touch, and all things of the body. That level of everyday intensity would stun most people in just minutes, and probably kill some.
The first point in Dalí's world is, of course, Dalí. I can not describe Dalí on Dalí, you must experience that first-hand.
//wiredweird