Quotes from Max Jacob

The poet's expression of joy conceals his despair at not having found the reality of joy.

Man is a venerating animal. He venerates as easily as he purges himself. When they take away from him the gods of his fathers he looks for others abroad.

Friendship is inexplicable, it should not be explained if one doesn't want to kill it.

What is called a sincere work is one that is endowed with enough strength to give reality to an illusion.

Friendship is inexplicable, it should not be explained if one doesn't want to kill it.

What is called a sincere work is one that is endowed with enough strength to give reality to an illusion.

The poet's expression of joy conceals his despair at not having found the reality of joy.

When you get to the point where you cheat for the sake of beauty, you're an artist.

Her white arms became my entire horizon ("The Rooster And The Pearl")

The raven of Edgar Allan Poe has a halo that he extinguishes from time to time ("Spanish Generosity")

Cubism is ... a picture for its own sake. Literary Cubism does the same thing in literature, using reality merely as a means and not as an end.

We don't know very well those we love But I understand them fairly well Being all these people myself I who am however but a baboon.

De ta petite oreille j'oublie les longs secrets, ton sourire d'enfantelet, l'éphémère qu'on ose pas baiser, tes paupières aveuglées par mes lèvres, sources claires du destin, froides, chaudes comme la lune en juin.

Pour mon puissant amour et mon plus fort dédain comme on verrait dans un vaste miroir sans tain s'attirer et se nuire des poules bigarrées je vois le lys profond, la rose qui succombe au poids fécond de ses entrailles, circuler le touriste, photographe égaré parmi l'herbe fleurie des tombes. Je suis mourant d'avoir compris que notre terre n'est d'aucun prix.

Je regarde à travers mes pleurs. Ici la mort a pour voisine la croissance des palmiers nains : Ton corbillard, ô ma Delphine ! n'est qu'un oiseau des boulingrins. Quand je fus fatigué de larmes, las des voyages et malheurs, un coin de violettes de Parme avança le pied du Seigneur.

La mort est un printemps qui n'est pas éphémère.