Jean Cocteau

Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.

Emotion resulting from a work of art is only of value when it is not obtained by sentimental blackmail.

There are truths which one can only say after having won the right to say them.

I am a lie who always speaks the truth.

Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.

An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.

We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don’t like?

An original artist is unable to copy. So he has only to copy in order to be original.

All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it.

If a hermit lives in a state of ecstasy, his lack of comfort becomes the height of comfort. He must relinquish it.

Silence moves faster when it’s going backward.

The instinct of nearly all societies is to lock up anybody who is truly free. First, society begins by trying to beat you up. If this fails, they try to poison you. If this fails too, the finish by loading honors on your head.

The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up.

The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.

Art is not a pastime but a priesthood.

In Paris, everybody wants to be an actor; nobody is content to be a spectator.

Poetry is indispensable – if I only knew what for.

The ear disapproves but tolerates certain musical pieces; transfer them into the domain of our nose, and we will be forced to flee.

The Louvre is a morgue; you go there to identify your friends.

The actual tragedies of life bear no relation to one’s preconceived ideas. In the event, one is always bewildered by their simplicity, their grandeur of design, and by that element of the bizarre which seems inherent in them.

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.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.

The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.

There is always a period when a man with a beard shaves it off. This period does not last. He returns headlong to his beard.

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.

Film will only became an art when its materials are as inexpensive as pencil and paper.

If it has to choose who is to be crucified, the crowd will always save Barabbas.

I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.

Whatever the public blames you for, cultivate it; it is yourself.

What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you.

The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness.

True realism consists in revealing the surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.

The greatest masterpiece in literature is only a dictionary out of order.

One must be a living man and a posthumous artist.

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.

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

I have lost my seven best friends, which is to say God has had mercy on me seven times without realizing it. He lent a friendship, took it from me, sent me another.

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.

Art is a marriage of the conscious and the unconscious.

Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.

You’ve never seen death? Look in the mirror every day and you will see it like bees working in a glass hive.

I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike?

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.

After the writer’s death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.

Life is a horizontal fall.

When a work appears to be ahead of its time, it is only the time that is behind the work.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what’s known as infinity.

Poets don’t draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.

There are too many souls of wood not to love those wooden characters who do indeed have a soul.

A film is a petrified fountain of thought.

I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.

Commissions suit me. They set limits. Jean Marais dared me to write play in which he would not speak in the first act, would weep for joy in the second and in the last would fall backward down a flight of stairs.

Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.

Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie.

Asking an artist to talk about his work is like asking a plant to discuss horticulture.

It is not I who become addicted, it is my body.