The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. – Jean Cocteau
The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders. – Jean Cocteau
The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. – Jean Cocteau
The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders. – Jean Cocteau
An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture. – Jean Cocteau
The Louver is a morgue; you go there to identify your friends. – Jean Cocteau