The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.
JEAN COCTEAUThe artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.
JEAN COCTEAUMan 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 COCTEAUWealth is an inborn attitude of mind, like poverty. The pauper who has made his pile may flaunt his spoils, but cannot wear them plausibly.
JEAN COCTEAUWe shelter an angel within us. We must be the guardians of that angel.
JEAN COCTEAUI have seafoam in my veins, I understand the language of waves.
JEAN COCTEAUTact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.
JEAN COCTEAUNothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.
JEAN COCTEAUContinue reading Proust. His magnificent intelligence is particularly fond of describing stupidity. Which is ultimately exhausting.
JEAN COCTEAUThe prettiest dresses are worn to be taken off.
JEAN COCTEAULiving is a horizontal fall.
JEAN COCTEAUChildren and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie.
JEAN COCTEAUThe reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up.
JEAN COCTEAUI feel myself inhabited by a force or being — very little known to me. It gives the orders; I follow.
JEAN COCTEAUYouth can only assert itself through the conviction that its ventures surpass all others and resemble nothing.
JEAN COCTEAUI have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
JEAN COCTEAUAnything of any importance cannot help but be unrecognizable, since it bears no resemblance to anything already known.
JEAN COCTEAU