black
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One’s life, from being an exterior thing, grows inwards. Its intensity stays the same; and, d’you know, it’s most mysterious, the corners in which the joy of living can sometimes hide away.

Blaise Cendrars

A mud-stained sunlight began to splatter the sodden fields, and the hateful, nasal world of birds began to come to life.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Clouds Dream Wind
Photogenic is a stupid, nonsensical word, but it is also a great mystery.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Mystery Nonsensical Stupid
The single fact of existing is already a true happiness.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Facts True Happiness
I’m not an extraordinary worker, I’m an extraordinary daydreamer. I exceed all my fantasies-even that of writing.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Fantasy Workers Writing
One’s life, from being an exterior thing, grows inwards. Its intensity stays the same; and, d’you know, it’s most mysterious, the corners in which the joy of living can sometimes hide away.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Joy Mysterious Sometimes
My poor life This shawl Frayed on strongboxes full of gold I roll along with Dream And smoke And the only flame in the universe
BLAISE CENDRARS

Animal Jungle Men Selfishness
Life. Life is crime, theft, jealousy, hunger, lies, disgust,stupidity, sickness, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, piles of corpses. what can you do about it, my poor friend?
BLAISE CENDRARS

Earthquake Friend Sickness Volcanic
Only a soul full of despair can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and still love the world.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Despair Serenity Soul
Science is history arranged according to the superstition and taste of the moment. The vocabulary of scholars has no wit, no salt. These heavy tomes have no soul, they are filled with distress.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Soul Superstitions Vocabulary
A writer should never install himself before a panorama, however grandiose it may be.
BLAISE CENDRARS

May Panorama Should Writer
Writing is to descend like a miner to the depths of the mine with a lamp on your forehead, a light whose dubious brightness falsifies everything, whose wick is in permanent danger of explosion, whose blinking illumination in the coal dust exhausts and corrodes your eyes.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Brightness Eye Light Wick Writing
It seemed to me that I was coming out of a suffocating nightmare and that the low clouds flying before the wind were the shreds of an evil dream.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Dream Evil Seem Shread
I used the word ‘prose’ in the Trans-Siberian in the early Latin sense of prosa dictu. Poem seemed to me too pretentious, too narrow. Prose is more open, popular.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Latin Pretentious Used
what are you looking for? There is no Truth. There’s only action, action obeying a million different impulses, ephemeral action, action subjected to every possible and imaginable contingency and contradiction.
BLAISE CENDRARS

Jealousy Lying Volcano

One’s life, from being an exterior thing, grows inwards. Its intensity stays the same; and, d’you know, it’s most mysterious, the corners in which the joy of living can sometimes hide away.

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One’s life, from being an exterior thing, grows inwards. Its intensity stays the same; and, d’you know, it’s most mysterious, the corners in which the joy of living can sometimes hide away.

Related Topics

Popular Authors

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