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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.
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
Tell
Accepting
Trying
Quite
Going
Secret
Men
Happiness
Unpardonable
Love
Simple
Scandalous
Happy
Confess
Understand
Accept
Hate
Mankind
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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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I love cats because I enjoy my home and little by little, they become its visible soul.
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The skin of all of us is responsive to gypsy songs and military marches.
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The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
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Enough of clouds, waves, aquariums, water-sprites and nocturnal scents what we need is music of the earth, everyday music..music one can live in like a house.
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We are in a period of such individualism that one no longer speaks of disciples one speaks of thieves.
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Beauty cannot be recognized with a cursory glance.
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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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Art is not a pastime but a priesthood.
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Expect neither reward nor beatitude. Return noble waves for ignoble.
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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!
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Alas! I do not believe that inspiration falls from heaven. think it rather the result of a profound indolence.
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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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