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Victor Hugo was a madman who thought he was Victor Hugo

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
Hugo
Madman
Victor
Madmen
Thought

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One of the characteristics of the dream is that nothing surprises us in it. With no regret, we agree to live in it with strangers, completely cut off from our habits and friends.
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Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
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Art is not a pastime but a priesthood.
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Every day in the mirror I watch death at work.
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After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
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The audience bursts into laughter. With the tragic gag I don't expect the audience to laugh (if they do, I have failed) but I expect a black silence from them that is almost as violent: as laughter.
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one should always talk well about oneself! The word spreads around and in the end, noone remembers where it started
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He has the manner of a giant with the look of a child, a lazy activeness, a mad wisdom, a solitude encompassing the world.
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Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.
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The public is never pleased with what we do, wanting always a copy of what we have done.
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Mirrors should think longer before they reflect.
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I am burning myself up and will always do so.
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Poetry is a religion without hope, but its martyrs guarantee the eternal truth of its dogma.
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Appreciation of art is a moral erection, otherwise mere dilettantism.
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The cinema is death at work.
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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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The skin of all of us is responsive to gypsy songs and military marches.
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The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
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Fight any instinct to be humorless, for humorlessness is the worst of all absurdities.
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