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one should always talk well about oneself! The word spreads around and in the end, noone remembers where it started
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
Talk
Word
Ends
Noone
Around
Spreads
Remember
Remembers
Wells
Spread
Well
Oneself
Always
Started
More quotes by Jean Cocteau
Beauty cannot be recognized with a cursory glance.
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Perhaps I know to what extent I can go too far.
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Youth is certain what it rejects before it knows what it will accept.
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The hot hall full of painted girls and American soldiers is a saloon in some Western film. This noise drenches us, wakens us to do something else. It shows us a lost path.
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Art is science made flesh.
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Compromise yourself. Obscure your own trail.
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The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.
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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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I know that poetry is indispensable, but to what I could not say.
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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.
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The joy of youth is to disobey but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.
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Statues to great men are made of the stones thrown at them in their lifetime.
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Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.
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Whatever the world condemns you for, make it your own. It is yourself.
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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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Appreciation of art is a moral erection, otherwise mere dilettantism.
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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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And history becomes legend and legend becomes history.
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May the devil himself splatter you with dung.
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Every poem is a coat of arms. It must be deciphered. How much blood, how many tears in exchange for these axes, these muzzles, these unicorns, these torches, these towers, these martlets, these seedlings of stars and these fields of blue!
Jean Cocteau