The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
What is history after all? History is facts which become lies in the end. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
Love is mainly an affair of short spasms. If these spasms disappoint us, love dies. It is very seldom that it weathers the experience… — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike? — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
Fight any instinct to be humorless, for humorlessness is the worst of all absurdities. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
Lying is the only art form that the public sanctions and instinctively prefers to reality. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
My method is simple: not to bother about poetry. It must come of its own accord. Merely whispering its name drives it away. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed. — Jean Cocteau Copy Share Image
