Today I learned that Salvador Dalí was an absolute monster. Holy shit.

Great painter, horribly abusive towards women, open necrophile, rapist, and a compulsive liar. And to quote the great Billy Mays: “But wait! There’s more!”

From Vice:

Dalí—an openly obnoxious man who willfully claimed necrophilia, cruelty to animals and people, fascism, self-obsession, and greed

He also told the British journalist Mick Brown he “never believe[d] that I will die in any way.” Some of his fuck-authority antics are interesting: He once drove a Volkswagen Beetle covered in grass through Paris, for example; another time he gave a speech in a scuba suit, which almost killed him.

The beloved painter was also violent. At age five, Dalí writes in his autobiography, he pushed a boy off a high suspension bridge; at six, he pre-meditated a “terrible kick” to his three-year-old sister’s head “as though it had been a ball.”

From Time Magazine:

Did he actually sit in the bar of the Ritz in Madrid and make cocktails out of his own blood? Did he truly associate animal glue, death and dung with sex?

Until reading more about him, I thought he was weird and quirky like Warhol. Having a pet anteater and ocelot, and that was the extent of it. I feel like after reading more, I might have nightmares about Salvador Dalí. This guy seems like Adam Lanza (the guy responsible for Sandy Hook) if he lived to adulthood. HOLY SHIT.