Best 43 quotes of Guillaume Apollinaire on MyQuotes

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

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

Color is the fruit of life.

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.

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

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

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

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

I hate artists who are not of their time.

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.

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

Matisse renovates rather than innovates.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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... 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.

La Puce Puces, amis, amantes même, Qu'ils sont cruels ceux qui nous aiment! Tout notre sang coule pour eux. Les bien-aimés sont malheureux.

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

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 . . .

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 . . ." — Guillaume Apollinairet French poet

Horse [Man you will find here a new representation of the universe at its most poetic and most modern Man man man man man man Give yourself up to this art where the sublime does not exclude charm and brilliancy does not blur the nuance it is now or never the moment to be sensitive to poetry for it dominates all dreadfully Guillaume Apollinaire]

I have drunk you and my thirst survives But now I know the flavor of the cosmos

My dreaming thoughts go barefoot in the evening.

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

Now you walk in Paris alone among the crowd Herd of bellowing buses hemming you about Anguish of love parching you within As though you were never to be loved again If you lived in olden times you would get you to a cloister You are ashamed when you catch yourself at a paternoster You are your own mocker and like hellfire your laughter crackles Golden on your life's hearth fall the sparks of your laughter It is a picture in a dark museum hung And sometimes you go and contemplate it long

Oh Paris From red to green all the yellow dies away Paris Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the Antilles The window opens like an orange The beautiful fruit of light ("Windows")

Oui je veux vous aimer mais vous aimer à peine Et mon mal est délicieux

S'en est allée l'amante Au village voisin malgré la pluie Sans son amant s'en est allée l'amante Pour danser avec un autre que lui Les femmes mentent mentent

Today you are walking in Paris the women are all steeped in blood It was and I'd rather not remember it was at beauty's decline

Vase [Why weep Come back tomorrow There are also poisonous flowers and flowers always open in the evening she loves the cinema she has been in Russia Love married with disdain Pearl-studded watch a trip to Montrouge Maisons- Lafitte and everything finishes in perfumes remember Let the flower bloom and let the fruit rot and let the grain sprout while the storms rage]

You alone in Europe are not ancient oh Christianity The most modern European is you Pope Pius X And you whom the windows observe shame keeps you From entering a church and confessing this morning You read the prospectuses the catalogues the billboards that sing aloud That's the poetry this morning and for the prose there are the newspapers There are the 25 centime serials full of murder mysteries Portraits of great men and a thousand different headlines ("Zone")