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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
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Poet
Postage Stamp Designer
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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
The prettiest dresses are worn to be taken off.
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History is a combination of reality and lies. The reality of History becomes a lie. The unreality of the fable becomes the truth.
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Compromise yourself. Obscure your own trail.
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I am burning myself up and will always do so.
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Listen carefully to first criticisms made of your work. Note just what it is about your work that critics don't like - then cultivate it. That's the only part of your work that's individual and worth keeping.
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Mirrors should reflect a little before throwing back images.
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The poet never asks for admiration he wants to be believed.
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Beauty cannot be recognized with a cursory glance.
Jean Cocteau
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
Jean Cocteau
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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The joy of youth is to disobey but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.
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Every day in the mirror I watch death at work.
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Lack of manners is the sign of a hero.
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I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
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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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It is not inspiration it is expiration.
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Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.
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Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature.
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At all costs the true world of childhood must prevail, must be restored that world whose momentous, heroic, mysterious quality is fed on airy nothings, whose substance is so ill-fitted to withstand the brutal touch of adult inquisition.
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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.
Jean Cocteau
