Guillaume Apollinaire quotes:

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

A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.

Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.

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

Paint with whatever material you please - with pipes, postage stamps, postcards or playing cards, painted paper, or newspapers.

Joy came always after pain.

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.

Joy always came after pain.

Matisse renovates rather than innovates.

Le ChatJe souhaite dans ma maison:Une femme ayant sa raison.Un chat passant parmi les livres.Des amis en toute saisonSans lesquels je ne peux pas vivre."

Cubism is the art of depicting new wholes with formal elements borrowed not only from the reality of vision, but from that of conception.

Le ChatJe souhaite dans ma maison:Une femme ayant sa raison.Un chat passant parmi les livres.Des amis en toute saisonSans lesquels je ne peux pas vivre.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

Color is the fruit of life.

Geometry is to the plastic arts what grammar is to the art of the writer.

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

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

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

When man wanted to make a machine that would walk he created the wheel, which does not resemble a leg.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

I don't want to work. I want to smoke.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death

In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.

My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!

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

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

The new painters do not propose, any more than did their predecessors, to be geometers. But it may be said that geometry is to the plastic arts what grammar is to the art of the writer. Today, scholars no longer limit themselves to the three dimensions of Euclid. The painters have been lead quite naturally, one might say by intuition, to preoccupy themselves with the new possibilities of spatial measurement which, in the language of the modern studios, are designated by the term fourth dimension.

To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.

Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

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

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.

Without artists, the order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish.

Without artists, the sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere.

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.

We cannot carry our father's corpse with us everywhere we go.