Jean Cocteau (1889–1963,) fully Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau, was a French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist, and critic. His plays are noted for their striking blend of poetry, irony, and fantasy.
Born in Maisons-Laffitte, near Paris, Cocteau achieved success early with La Lampe d’Aladin (1909, ‘Aladdin’s Lamp,’) and exploited it. He ran the gamut of experience, first enjoying a spectacular conversion to Roman Catholicism through the Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain.
This was followed by a scornful repudiation of Cocteau’s mentor, the use of opium, and a search for salvation through solitude. Nevertheless, he had astonishing success with whatever he touched and figured as a sponsor of Picasso, Igor Stravinsky, Giorgio de Chirico, and the group of young French composers known as Les Six. Cocteau’s work was marked by the vivacity and pyrotechnic brilliance as an actor, director, scenario writer, novelist, critic, and artist. He was elected to the Académie Française in 1955.
Significant works are his novels Le Grand Écart (1923; Miscreant, 1925,) Thomas l’imposteur (1923; Thomas the Imposter, 1925,) Les Enfants terribles (1929; Children of the Game, 1929,) and plays Les mariés de la tour Eiffel (1921; The Eiffel Tower Wedding Party, 1963,) Orphée (1926; Orpheus, 1933) and L’Aigle à deux têtes (1946; The Eagle has Two Heads, 1948.) His films include Le Sang d’un poète (1930, The Blood of a Poet,) La Belle et la Bête (1945, Beauty and the Beast,) Orphee (adapted from his play, 1949) and Le Testament d’Orphée (1960.)
More: Wikipedia • READ: Works by Jean Cocteau
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.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Poetry, Poets
If it has to choose who is to be crucified, the crowd will always save Barabbas.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: People
Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Death, Dying
What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Criticism, Critics
The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.
—Jean Cocteau
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.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Adversity
Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Past and Present
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.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Honor, Society, Yin, Try
You have comfort.
—Jean Cocteau
One must be a living man and a posthumous artist.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Art, Artists
Art is a marriage of the conscious and the unconscious.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Art
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.
—Jean Cocteau
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.
—Jean Cocteau
Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.
—Jean Cocteau
Topics: Carpe-diem
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
Topics: Style
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