Stephane Mallarme Quotes

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.