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Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.

Jean Cocteau

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Jean Cocteau
Age: 74 †
Born: 1889
Born: July 5
Died: 1963
Died: October 11
Actor
Composer
Designer
Film Director
Illustrator
Librettist
Novelist
Painter
Photographer
Playwright
Poet
Postage Stamp Designer
Prosaist
Clément Eugène Jean Pierre Cocteau
Zhan Kokto
Eugène Jean Maurice Cocteau
Eugene Jean Maurice Cocteau
Jean Cocteau
Since
Hurrying
Death
Began
Without
Toward
Birth
Walking
Dying
Walk
Walks

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We are in a period of such individualism that one no longer speaks of disciples one speaks of thieves.
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The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
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All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it.
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Beauty cannot be recognized with a cursory glance.
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Whatever the world condemns you for, make it your own. It is yourself.
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I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
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My little Renoirs. Matisse describes having seen Renoir make these tiny canvases. When he had finished working, he would use up the color left in his brushes on them.
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The poet Paul Éluard says that to understand my film version of Beauty and the Beast, you must love your dog more than your car.
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True realism consists in revealing the surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.
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Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.
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And history becomes legend and legend becomes history.
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Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.
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The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.
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A prig always finds a last refuge in responsibility.
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Every day in the mirror I watch death at work.
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The Louvre is a morgue you go there to identify your friends.
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Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.
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In exiling myself I am not exiling a monster, but a man whom society will not allow to live, since it considers one of the mysterious cogs in God's masterpiece to be a mistake.
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Expect neither reward nor beatitude. Return noble waves for ignoble.
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