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May the devil himself splatter you with dung.
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
Splatter
Dung
Devil
May
More quotes by Jean Cocteau
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 greatest masterpiece in literature is only a dictionary out of order.
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The spirit of creation is the spirit of contradiction. It is the breakthrough of appearances toward an unknown reality.
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What is style? For many people, a very complicated way of saying very simple things. According to us, a very simple way of saying very complicated things.
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Mirrors should reflect a little before throwing back images.
Jean Cocteau
Watch yourself all your life in a mirror and you'll see Death at work like bees in a glass hive.
Jean Cocteau
Film will only became an art when its materials are as inexpensive as pencil and paper.
Jean Cocteau
To be audacious with tact, you have to know to what point you can go too far.
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Keep braiding one's wavelengths back into oneself. That way they gain all the more external power and surround us with a huge affective and protective zone. Don't talk about this. Never talk about our secret methods. If we talk about them, they stop working.
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A film is a petrified fountain of thought.
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I feel myself inhabited by a force or being -- very little known to me. It gives the orders I follow.
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Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.
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Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.
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Art produces ugly things which frequently become more beautiful with time. Fashion, on the other hand, produces beautiful things which always become ugly with time.
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The art of genius is knowing how far out is too far.
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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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The only work of art which succeeds is that which fails.
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The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
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Without opium, plans, marriages and journeys appear to me just as foolish as if someone falling out of a window were to hope to make friends with the occupants of the room before which he passes.
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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
