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The world owes its enchantment to these curious creatures and their fancies but its multiple complicity rejects them. Thistledown spirits, tragic, heartrending in their evanescence, they must go blowing headlong to perdition.
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
Must
Spirits
Evanescence
World
Rejects
Headlong
Multiple
Perdition
Tragic
Fancies
Fancy
Complicity
Curious
Enchantment
Creatures
Owes
Spirit
Blowing
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And now I have to confess the unpardonable and the scandalous. I am a happy man. And I am going to tell you the secret of my happiness. It is quite simple. I love mankind. I love love. I hate hate. I try to understand and accept.
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The ability to laugh heartily is the sign of a healthy soul.
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Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.
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My only politics have been friendship.
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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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Since it's now fashionable to laugh at the conservative French Academy, I have remained a rebel by joining it.
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May the devil himself splatter you with dung.
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After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
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And history becomes legend and legend becomes history.
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Such is the role of poetry. It unveils, in the strict sense of the word. It lays bare, under a light which shakes off torpor, the surprising things which surround us and which our senses record mechanically.
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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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Whatever the world condemns you for, make it your own. It is yourself.
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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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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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Anything of any importance cannot help but be unrecognizable, since it bears no resemblance to anything already known.
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