Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. – Jean Cocteau
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses. – Jean Cocteau
Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying. – Jean Cocteau
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses. – Jean Cocteau
I love my cats because I love my home, and little by little they become its visible soul. – Jean Cocteau
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. – Jean Cocteau