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Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility… It insists on living its own life.

Jean Cocteau

May the devil himself splatter you with dung.
JEAN COCTEAU

Devil Dirty Yourself
Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.
JEAN COCTEAU

Count Earth Moment
After the writer’s death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
JEAN COCTEAU

Death Journal Receive Writing
Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.
JEAN COCTEAU

Death Expression Life Love Oneself Training
I feel myself inhabited by a force or being — very little known to me. It gives the orders; I follow.
JEAN COCTEAU

Control Feeling Myself
Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.
JEAN COCTEAU

Complication Simplicity Style Way
Whatever the world condemns you for, make it your own. It is yourself.
JEAN COCTEAU

Creativity Inspirational Motivational World Yourself
Mirrors should reflect a little before throwing back images.
JEAN COCTEAU

Image Mirror Reflection
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.
JEAN COCTEAU

Alcohol Comfortable Drugs Escape Lying Man Moments Myth Seek
The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness.
JEAN COCTEAU

Call Limitation Public Wisdom
Picasso said that everything is a miracle, that it’s a miracle that we don’t dissolve in our baths.
JEAN COCTEAU

Funny Magic Miracle Ourselves Water
The ability to laugh heartily is the sign of a healthy soul.
JEAN COCTEAU

Ability Health Laughter Sign Soul
If it has to choose who is to be crucified, the crowd will always save Barabbas.
JEAN COCTEAU

Choice Death Kill Option Save Torture
The poet, by composing poems, uses a language that is neither dead nor living, that few people speak, and few people understand We are the servants of an unknown force that lives within us, manipulates us, and dictates this language to us.
JEAN COCTEAU

Creation Force Himself Language Live Manipulation People Poem Poet Understand
The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.
JEAN COCTEAU

Artist Escape Kind Prison Work
It is not I who become addicted, it is my body.
JEAN COCTEAU

Addiction Body Oneself

Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility… It insists on living its own life.

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Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility… It insists on living its own life.

Related Topics

Popular Authors

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