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What Is Line? It Is Life. A Line Must Live At Each Point Along Its Course In Such A Way That The Artist's Presence Makes Itself Felt Above That Of The Model... With The Writer, Line Takes Precedence Over Form And Content. It Runs Through The Words He Assembles. It Strikes A Continuous Note Unperceived By Ear Or Eye. It Is, In A Way, The Soul's Style, And If The Line Ceases To Have A Life Of Its Own, If It Only Describes An Arabesque, The Soul Is Missing And The Writing Dies.

-Jean Cocteau

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What Is Line? It

Jean Cocteau

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What Is Line? It Is Life. A Line Must Live At Each Point Along Its Course In Such A Way That The Artist's Presence Makes Itself Felt Above That Of The Model... With The Writer, Line Takes Precedence Over Form And Content. It Runs Through The Words He Assembles. It Strikes A Continuous Note Unperceived By Ear Or Eye. It Is, In A Way, The Soul's Style, And If The Line Ceases To Have A Life Of Its Own, If It Only Describes An Arabesque, The Soul Is Missing And The Writing Dies.

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True Realism Consists In Revealing The Surprising Things Which Habit Keeps Covered And Prevents Us From Seeing.

One Should Always Talk Well About Oneself! The Word Spreads Around And In The End, Noone Remembers Where It Started

Childhood Knows What It Wants - To Leave Childhood Behind.

I Have Seafoam In My Veins, I Understand The Language Of Waves.

The Worst Tragedy For A Poet Is To Be Admired Through Being Misunderstood.

See Your Disappointments As Good Fortune. One Plan's Deflation Is Another's Inflation.

How Our Old Friend [michelangelo] Of The Sistine Would Have Loved To Photograph His Workers, Perched On The Fragile Planks. Dali Was Right To Say Leonardo Only Worked From Photographs.

One Sits Down First; One Thinks Afterwards.

The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison From Which The Works Of Art Escape.

Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is Noticed.

Understand That Some Of Your Enemies Are Amongst Your Best Friends.

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What Is Line? It Is Life. A Line Must Live At Each Point Along Its Course In Such A Way That The Artist's Presence Makes Itself Felt Above That Of The Model... With The Writer, Line Takes Precedence Over Form And Content. It Runs Through The Words He Assembles. It Strikes A Continuous Note Unperceived By Ear Or Eye. It Is, In A Way, The Soul's Style, And If The Line Ceases To Have A Life Of Its Own, If It Only Describes An Arabesque, The Soul Is Missing And The Writing Dies.

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.

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.

I'm Not Willing Just To Be Tolerated. That Wounds My Love Of Love And Of Liberty.

There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.

Since These Mysteries Exceed My Grasp, I Shall Pretend To Have Organized Them.

Poetry Is An Ethic. By Ethic I Mean A Secret Code Of Behavior, A Discipline Constructed And Conducted According To The Capabilities Of A Man Who Rejects The Falsifications Of The Categorical Imperative.

Respect Movements, Flee Schools.

The Art Of Genius Is Knowing How Far Out Is Too Far.

Art Is A Marriage Of The Conscious And The Unconscious.

French People Are Italian People In A Bad Mood.

What Is History After All? History Is Facts Which Become Lies In The End.

Cultivate Everything The Critics Hated In Your First Work - That's What Makes You Unique.

An Artist Cannot Speak About His Art Any More Than A Plant Can Discuss Horticulture.

Nothing Is More Intriguing Than A Still Photograph In The Middle Of A Motion Picture... Just As An Accident Is A Cry Changed Into Silence And Not A Silence After A Cry, Photography Is Speed Rendered Motionless.

A Prig Always Finds A Last Refuge In Responsibility.

The Preservation Of Friendship Is Seen As Opportunism. You Are Required To Be In One Camp Or The Other. You Are Enjoined To Cut Your Heartstrings If They Extend Across The Barricade.

The Runner Stopped Dead, Lost His Balance, Froze In One Of Those Violent Attitudes In Which The Photographers Petrify Living Reality.

I Have Not Looked At A Newspaper In Twenty Years; If One Is Brought Into The Room, I Flee. This Is Not Because I Am Indifferent But Because One Cannot Follow Every Road.

A True Poet Does Not Bother To Be Poetical. Nor Does A Nursery Gardener Scent His Roses.

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.

After The Writer's Death, Reading His Journal Is Like Receiving A Long Letter.

Lying Is The Only Art Form That The Public Sanctions And Instinctively Prefers To Reality.

Alas! I Do Not Believe That Inspiration Falls From Heaven. Think It Rather The Result Of A Profound Indolence.

Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope. The Poet Exhausts Himself In Its Service, Knowing That, In The Long Run, A Masterpiece Is Nothing But The Performance Of A Trained Dog On Very Shaky Ground.

Silence Moves Faster When It's Going Backward.

A Child's Reaction To This Type Of Calamity Is Twofold And Extreme. Not Knowing How Deeply, Powerfully, Life Drops Anchor Into Its Vast Sources Of Recuperation, He Is Bound To Envisage, At Once, The Very Worst; Yet At The Same Time, Because Of His Inability To Imagine Death, The Worst Remains Totally Unreal To Him. Gerard Went On Repeating: "paul's Dying; Paul's Going To Die"' But He Did Not Believe It. Paul's Death Would Be Part Of The Dream, A Dream Of Snow, Of Journeying Forever.

The Ear Disapproves But Tolerates Certain Musical Pieces; Transfer Them Into The Domain Of Our Nose, And We Will Be Forced To Flee.

Here I Am Trying To Live, Or Rather, I Am Trying To Teach The Death Within Me How To Live.

There Are Truths Which One Can Only Say After Having Won The Right To Say Them.

Art Is Science In The Flesh.

Do As The Beautiful Woman: See To Your Figure And Your Petticoats. Though, Of Course, I Am Not Speaking Literally.

Beautiful Women

Film Will Only Became An Art When Its Materials Are As Inexpensive As Pencil And Paper.

Art Is Science Made Flesh.

A True Photographer Is As Rare As A True Poet Or A True Painter.

It Is Difficult To Live Without Opium After Having Known It Because It Is Difficult, After Knowing Opium, To Take Earth Seriously. And Unless One Is A Saint, It Is Difficult To Live Without Taking Earth Seriously.

To Be Audacious With Tact, You Have To Know To What Point You Can Go Too Far.

Since It's Now Fashionable To Laugh At The Conservative French Academy, I Have Remained A Rebel By Joining It.

I Am Burning Myself Up And Will Always Do So.

The Poet Paul Éluard Says That To Understand My Film Version Of Beauty And The Beast, You Must Love Your Dog More Than Your Car.

One Must Be A Living Man And A Posthumous Artist.

Be A Constant Outrage To Modesty There Is Nothing To Fear: Modesty Is Exercised Only Among The Blind.

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.

A Little Too Much Is Just Enough For Me.

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.

Stupidity Is Always Astounding, No Matter How Often One Encounters It.

Mirrors Would Do Well To Reflect A Little More Before Sending Back Images.

People Seek Escape In Myth By Any Means At Their Disposal, Including Drugs, Alcohol, Meditation, And Lies.

The Artist Must Know How Far To Go Too Far.

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication: That Is Why So Many Bad Artists Are Unable To Give It Up.

Congratulations

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.

May The Devil Himself Splatter You With Dung.

Vivre Est Une Chute Horizontale. Life Is A Horizontal Fall.

The Spirit Of Creation Is The Spirit Of Contradiction. It Is The Breakthrough Of Appearances Toward An Unknown Reality.

If A Poet Has A Dream, It Is Not Of Becoming Famous, But Of Being Believed.

Never Do What A Specialist Can Do Better. Discover Your Own Specialty. Do Not Despair If Your Specialty Appears To Be More Delicate, A Lesser Thing. Make Up In Finesse What You Lose In Force.

We Shelter An Angel Within Us. We Must Be The Guardians Of That Angel.

The Audience Bursts Into Laughter. With The Tragic Gag I Don't Expect The Audience To Laugh (if They Do, I Have Failed) But I Expect A Black Silence From Them That Is Almost As Violent: As Laughter.

The Cinema Is Death At Work.

Look Out! Be On Your Guard, Because Alone Of All The Arts, Music Moves All Around You.

And History Becomes Legend And Legend Becomes History.

Celebrity: I Picture Myself As A Marble Bust With Legs To Run Everywhere.

Every Day In The Mirror I Watch Death At Work.

The Poet Is A Liar Who Always Speaks The Truth.

Good Music Resembles Something. It Resembles The Composer.

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.

When I Write, I Disturb. When I Show A Film, I Disturb. When I Exhibit My Painting, I Disturb, And I Disturb If I Don't. I Have A Knack For Disturbing.

Do Not Fear Being Ridiculous In Relation To The Ridiculous.

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.

The Joy Of Youth Is To Disobey; But The Trouble Is That There Are No Longer Any Orders.

Expect Neither Reward Nor Beatitude. Return Noble Waves For Ignoble.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

I Succeeded In Bewitching A Fair Number And In Being Intoxicated With My Mistakes.

A Film Is A Petrified Fountain Of Thought.

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.

Not Only Should You Not Accept A Prize. You Should Not Try To Deserve One Either.

If It Has To Choose Who Is To Be Crucified, The Crowd Will Always Save Barabbas.

Crucifixion Of Christ

I Have Never Felt Any Connection With My Family. There Isi Must Say Simplysomething In Me That Is Not In My Family. That Was Not Visible In My Father Or Mother. I Do Not Know Its Origin.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

You Are Always Concentrated On The Inner Thing. The Moment One Becomes Aware Of The Crowd, Performs For The Crowd, It Is Spectacle.

There's No Such Thing As Love; Only Proof Of Love.

The Job Of The Poet (a Job Which Can't Be Learned) Consists Of Placing Those Objects Of The Visible World Which Have Become Invisible Due To The Glue Of Habit, In An Unusual Position Which Strikes The Soul And Gives Them A Tragic Force.

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.

Emotion Resulting From A Work Of Art Is Only Of Value When It Is Not Obtained By Sentimental Blackmail.

Anything Of Any Importance Cannot Help But Be Unrecognizable, Since It Bears No Resemblance To Anything Already Known.

Beauty Cannot Be Recognized With A Cursory Glance.

Victor Hugo Was A Madman Who Thought He Was Victor Hugo

Without Resistance You Can Do Nothing

I Am Happy To Exhibit, But Not To Put Myself On Exhibition.

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.

When A Work Appears To Be Ahead Of Its Time, It Is Only The Time That Is Behind The Work.

Funny Basketball

All Good Music Resembles Something. Good Music Stirs By Its Mysterious Resemblance To The Objects And Feelings Which Motivated It.

Tact In Audacity Is Knowing How Far You Can Go Without Going Too Far.

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

Catastrophe, Riots, Factories Blowing Up, Armies In Flight, Flood - The Ear Can Detect A Whole Apocalypse In The Starry Night Of The Human Body.

One Must Not Mistake Majority For Truth.

If An Addict Who Has Been Completely Cured Starts Smoking Again He No Longer Experiences The Discomfort Of His First Addiction. There Exists, Therefore, Outside Alkaloids And Habit, A Sense For Opium, An Intangible Habit Which Lives On, Despite The Recasting Of The Organism. The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

You Have Comfort. You Don't Have Luxury. And Don't Tell Me That Money Plays A Part. The Luxury I Advocate Has Nothing To Do With Money. It Cannot Be Bought. It Is The Reward Of Those Who Have No Fear Or Discomfort.

I Feel Myself Inhabited By A Force Or Being -- Very Little Known To Me. It Gives The Orders; I Follow.

We Must Believe In Luck. For How Else Can We Explain The Success Of Those We Don't Like?

Since The Day Of My Birth, My Death Began Its Walk. It Is Walking Toward Me, Without Hurrying.

The Only Work Of Art Which Succeeds Is That Which Fails.

Mirrors Should Think Longer Before They Reflect.

In Paris, Everybody Wants To Be An Actor; Nobody Is Content To Be A Spectator.

The Ultimate Politeness In Art Consists Of Speaking Only To Those Who Are Able To Uncover And Measure Its Relationships. Anything Else Is Symbolic, And Symbolism Is Merely Transcendental Imagery.

Whatever The Public Blames You For, Cultivate It; It Is Yourself.

Poetry Is A Religion With No Hope.

Art Is Not A Pastime But A Priesthood.

Nothing Ever Gets Anywhere. The Earth Keeps Turning Round And Gets Nowhere. The Moment Is The Only Thing That Counts.

Past Present Future

Mirrors Should Reflect A Little Before Throwing Back Images.

Mystery Has Its Own Mysteries, And There Are Gods Above Gods. We Have Ours, They Have Theirs. That Is What's Known As Infinity.

Living Is A Horizontal Fall.

What Uniform Can I Wear To Hide My Heavy Heart? It Is Too Heavy. It Will Always Show.

A Picture Is Not A Window...an Abstract Refers To No Reality But Its Own.

In Two Weeks, Despite These Notes, I Shall No Longer Believe In What I Am Experiencing Now. One Must Leave Behind A Trace Of This Journey Which Memory Forgets. One Must, When This Is Impossible, Write Or Draw Without Responding To The Romantic Solicitations Of Pain, Without Enjoying Suffering Like Music, Tieing A Pen To One's Foot If Need Be, Helping The Doctors Who Can Learn Nothing From Laziness.

The Skin Of All Of Us Is Responsive To Gypsy Songs And Military Marches.

It Seems To Me That Invisibility Is The Required Provision Of Elegance. Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is Noticed.

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.

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.

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 Smell Of Opium Is The Least Stupid Smell In The World.

Wealth Is An Inborn Attitude Of Mind, Like Poverty. The Pauper Who Has Made His Pile May Flaunt His Spoils, But Cannot Wear Them Plausibly.

Youth Can Only Assert Itself Through The Conviction That Its Ventures Surpass All Others And Resemble Nothing.

The Ability To Laugh Heartily Is The Sign Of A Healthy Soul.

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.

Do Not Take Up Cause Against The Inaccuracies Printed About You. They Are Your Protection.

Inspiration Arrived As A Result Of Profound Indolence... I Awoke With A Start And Witnessed As From A Seat In A Theatre, Three Acts Of A Potentially Awesome Play.

It Was The East That Should Have Sent Us Missionaries.

It Is Not I Who Become Addicted, It Is My Body.

Overcoming Addiction

I Shall Never Forget What I Saw At The Museum Of Modern Art: In A Spotless Schoolroom, Fifty Little Girls Painting Away At Tables Covered With Brushes, Pots, Tubes, Bowls, Staring Into Space And Sticking Out Their Tongues Like The Clever Animals That Ring A Bell, Tongues Lolling And Eyes Vague. Teachers Supervise These Young Creators Of Abstract Art And Slap Their Wrists If What They Paint Represents Something And Dangerously Inclines Toward Realism. The Mothers - Still At The Picasso Stage - Are Not Admitted.

Picasso Said That Everything Is A Miracle, That It's A Miracle That We Don't Dissolve In Our Baths.

Continue Reading Proust. His Magnificent Intelligence Is Particularly Fond Of Describing Stupidity. Which Is Ultimately Exhausting.

What The Public Criticizes In You, Cultivate. It Is You.

Lack Of Manners Is The Sign Of A Hero.

Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope, But Its Martyrs Guarantee The Eternal Truth Of Its Dogma.

My Method Is Simple: Not To Bother About Poetry. It Must Come Of Its Own Accord. Merely Whispering Its Name Drives It Away.

The Poet Never Asks For Admiration; He Wants To Be Believed.

The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

He Who Is Affected By An Insult Is Infected By It.

Compromise Yourself. Obscure Your Own Trail.

The Composer Opens The Cage Door For Arithmetic, The Draftsman Gives Geometry Its Freedom.

I Know That Poetry Is Indispensable, But To What I Could Not Say.

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.

The Public Is Never Pleased With What We Do, Wanting Always A Copy Of What We Have Done.

My Only Politics Have Been Friendship.

The Greatest Masterpiece In Literature Is Only A Dictionary Out Of Order.

Art Produces Ugly Things Which Frequently Become Beautiful With Time.

It Is Excruciating To Be An Unbeliever With A Spirit That Is Deeply Religious.

The Extreme Limit Of Wisdom, That's What The Public Calls Madness.

We Only Serve As A Model For The Portrait Of Our Fame.

The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go There To Identify Your Friends.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

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.

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.

History Is A Combination Of Reality And Lies. The Reality Of History Becomes A Lie. The Unreality Of The Fable Becomes The Truth.

All Spiritual Journeys Are Martyrdoms

The Only Way To Kill Death Is Through Photography.

Beauty Makes One Lose One's Head. Poetry Is Born Of This Decapitation

Everyone's Pet Is The Most Outstanding. This Begets Mutual Blindness.

Children And Lunatics Cut The Gordian Knot Which The Poet Spends His Life Patiently Trying To Untie.

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.

Love Is Mainly An Affair Of Short Spasms. If These Spasms Disappoint Us, Love Dies. It Is Very Seldom That It Weathers The Experience And Becomes Friendship.

There Are Too Many Souls Of Wood Not To Love Those Wooden Characters Who Do Indeed Have A Soul.

Perhaps I Know To What Extent I Can Go Too Far.

The Course Of A River Is Almost Always Disapproved Of By The Source.

Whatever The World Condemns You For, Make It Your Own. It Is Yourself.

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.

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.

Poets Don't Draw. They Unravel Their Handwriting And Then Tie It Up Again, But Differently.

The Eyes Of The Dead Are Closed Gently; We Also Have To Open Gently The Eyes Of The Living.

The Joy Of The Young Is To Disobey

I Love Cats Because I Enjoy My Home; And Little By Little, They Become Its Visible Soul.

Fight Any Instinct To Be Humorless, For Humorlessness Is The Worst Of All Absurdities.

A Man's Truest Self Realizations Might Require Him, Above All, To Learn To Close His Eyes: To Let Himself Be Taken Unawares, To Follow His Dark Angel, To Risk His Illegal Instincts.

I Have A Piece Of Great And Sad News To Tell You: I Am Dead.

The Poet Is At The Disposal Of The Night. His Role Is Humble, He Must Clean House And Await Its Due Visitation.

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!

Style Is A Simple Way Of Saying Complicated Things.

Youth Is Certain What It Rejects Before It Knows What It Will Accept.

Find First, Seek Later.

Watch Yourself All Your Life In A Mirror And You'll See Death At Work Like Bees In A Glass Hive.

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.

I've Always Preferred Mythology To History. History Is Truth That Becomes An Illusion. Mythology Is An Illusion That Becomes Reality.

What Uniform Can I Wear To Hide My Heavy Heart? It Is Too Heavy. It Will Always Show. Jacques Felt Himself Growing Gloomy Again. He Was Well Aware That To Live On Earth A Man Must Follow Its Fashions, And Hearts Were No Longer Worn.

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.

An Original Artist Is Unable To Copy. So He Has Only To Copy In Order To Be Original.

The Prettiest Dresses Are Worn To Be Taken Off.

The Public Only Takes Up Yesterday As A Stick To Beat Today.

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