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. – Jean Cocteau
The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. – Jean Cocteau
Emotion resulting from a work of art is only of value when it is not obtained by sentimental blackmail. – Jean Cocteau
The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up. – Jean Cocteau
My grandmother was a kind of Scarsdale, New York, society woman, best known in her day as the author of the 1959 book Growing Your Own Way: An Informal Guide for Teen-Agers – this despite being a person whose parenting style made Joan Crawfords wire hangers look like pool noodles. – Sloane Crosley