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The true masters of the art of living are already happy.

Jean Anouilh

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Jean Anouilh
Age: 77 †
Born: 1910
Born: June 23
Died: 1987
Died: October 3
Author
Director
Dramatist
Film Director
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Bordèu
Jean Marie Lucien Pierre Anouilh
Already
Happy
Living
Art
True
Gratitude
Masters

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Life is very nice, but it lacks form. It's the aim of art to give it some.
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God! Is there anything uglier than a frightened man!
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An ugly sight, a man who is afraid.
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Life is a child playing round your feet, a tool you hold firmly in your grip, a bench you sit down upon in the evening, in your garden.
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Talent is like a faucet, while it is open, one must write.
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Poor little men, poor little cocks! As soon as they're old enough, they swell their plumage to be conquerors. If they only knew that it's enough to be just a little bit wounded and sad in order to obtain everything without fighting for it.
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Our entire life, with our fine moral code and our precious freedom, consists ultimately in accepting ourselves as we are.
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One can be a patriot, you know, without making one's wife join the breadline.
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Nobody has a more sacred obligation to obey the law than those who make the law.
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However tight I shut my eyes, there will always be a stray dog somewhere in the world who'll stop me being happy.
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Oh, love is real enough you will find it someday, but it has one archenemy - and that is life.
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What fun it would be to be poor, as long as one was excessively poor! Anything in excess is most exhilarating
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Some men like to make a little garden out of life and walk down a path
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Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
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Life isn't what you think it is. It's like water, and the young let it trickle away between their fingers without even noticing. Cup your hands, keep it safe. Life eventually becomes something else, something hard, something simple, something you can hold in your hand and nibble on contentedly as you sit in the sun.
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Have you noticed that life, with murders and catastrophes and fabulous inheritances, happens almost exclusively in newspapers?
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Believe me all evil comes from the old. They grow fat on ideas and young men die of them.
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All children are sweet at five. But at twelve they begin to get silly.
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Everything ends this way in France — everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs — everything is a pretext for a good dinner.
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When you are forty, half of you belongs to the past... And when you are seventy, nearly all of you.
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