Quotes from Guillaume Apollinaire

Joy always came after pain.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.

Joy came always after pain.

De temps à autre, il est bon de faire une pause dans notre quête du bonheur et d'être simplement heureux.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

Color is the fruit of life.

One day/ One day I waited for myself/ I said to myself Guillaume it's time you came/ So I could know just who I am/ I who know others.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

Come to the edge, he said. We can't, we're afraid! they responded. Come to the edge, he said. We can't, We will fall! they responded. Come to the edge, he said. And so they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

Joy came always after pain.

Come to the edge, he said. They said, We are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came. He pushed them...and they flew.

Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.

Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowd As herds of bellowing buses drive by Love's anguish tightens your throat As if you were never to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery You are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayer You make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter crackles The sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your life It's a painting hanging in a dark museum And sometimes you go and look at it close up

When man resolved to imitate walking, he invented the wheel, which does not look like a leg. In doing this, he was practicing surrealism without knowing it.

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

All the words I have to say have turned into stars.

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Et nos amours Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne La joie venait toujours après la peine Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.