Best 52 quotes of Edmond Rostand on MyQuotes

A bird who can gobble is qualified to teach crowing.

After all, what is a kiss? A vow made at closer range, a more precise promise, a confession that contains its own proof, a seal placed on a pact that has already been signed; it's a secret told to the mouth rather than to the ear.

A great nose may be an index Of a great soul

A kiss! When all is said, what is a kiss? An oath of allegiance taken in closer proximity, a promise more precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red dot upon the letter i in loving; a secret which elects the mouth for ear; an instant of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy communion with a flavor of flowers; a fashion of inhaling each other's hearts, and of tasting, on the brink of the lips, each other's soul!

A kiss, when all is said, what is it? An oath that's given closer than before; A promise more precise; the sealing of Confessions that till then were barely breathed; A rosy dot placed on the i in loving.

A kiss, when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the 'I' in loving; Tis a secret told to the mouth instead of to the ear.

A kiss, when all is told, what is it? An oath taken a little closer, a promise more exact. A wish that longs to be confirmed, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love'. A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear, a moment of infinity humming like a bee, a communion tasting of flowers, a way of breathing in a little of the heart and tasting a little of the soul with the edge of the lips!

A large nose is in fact the sign of an affable man, good, courteous, witty, liberal, courageous, such as I am.

All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses; yet in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me... One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is... my white plume.

A man does not fight to win; it is better to fight in vain.

And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love.' A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever.

A pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely.

How obvious it is now--the gift you gave him. All those letters, they were you... All those beautiful powerful words, they were you!.. The voice from the shadows, that was you... You always loved me!" Roxanne

I am what I am because early in life I decided that I would please at least myself in all things.

I have a different idea of elegance. I don't dress like a fop, it's true, but my moral grooming is impeccable. I never appear in public with a soiled conscience, a tarnished honor, threadbare scruples, or an insult that I haven't washed away. I'm always immaculately clean, adorned with independence and frankness. I may not cut a stylish figure, but I hold my soul erect. I wear my deeds as ribbons, my wit is sharper then the finest mustache, and when I walk among men I make truths ring like spurs.

I-I am going to be a storm-a flame- I need to fight whole armies alone; I have ten hearts; I have a hundred arms; I feel too strong to war with mortals- BRING ME GIANTS!

I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!

It is at night that faith in light is admirable.

My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.

My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.

My wit is more polished than your mustache. The truth which I speak strikes more sparks from men's hearts than your spurs do from the cobblestones.

My wit is sharper then the finest mustache, and when I walk among men I make truths ring like spurs.

No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast But I remain the same, up to the last!

Proclaim your pride and bitterness loudly to the world, but to me speak softly, and tell me simply that she doesn't love you.

Roxane: His face is like yours, burning with spirit and imagination. He is proud and noble and young and fearless and beautiful- Cyrano:(losing all his colour.) Beautiful! Roxane: Yes. What's wrong? Cyrano: With me? Nothing. It's only... only... (Displaying his bandaged hand, with a little smile.) This fatal wound.

ROXANE: Live, for I love you! CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last! ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I! CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path.

She is a mortal danger without meaning to be one; she's exquisite without giving ita thought; shes a trap set by nature, a rose in which love lies in ambush! Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She creates grace without movement and makes all divinity fit into her slightest gesture. And neither Venus in her shell, nor Diana striding in the great, blossoming forest, can compare to her when she goes through the streets of paris in her sedan chair.

Speak to me...be eloquent, be brilliant for me. Improvise! Rhapsodize!... I ask for cream and you give me milk and water... Please gather your dreams together into words. - Roxanne, Cyrano de Bergerac

Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . . The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak Our selves unseen, unseeing!

Take it, and turn to facts my fantasies.

The dream, alone, is of interest. What is life without a dream?

To joke in the face of danger is the supreme politeness, a delicate refusal to cast oneself as a tragic hero.

To offend is my pleasure; I love to be hated.

Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear homevoices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smokewreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets Cyrano Act 5.

You must believe me when I believe, and not when I doubt.

Your name hangs in my heart like a bell's tongue.

Your neck. I want to kiss it.

...But...to sing, to dream, to smile, to walk, to be alone, be free, with a voice that stirs and an eye that still can see! To cock your hat to one side, when you please at a yes, a no, to fight, or- make poetry! To work without a thought of fame or fortune, on that journey, that you dream of, to the moon! Never to write a line that's not your own...

(Cyrano, à Roxane, se faisant passer pour Christian sous le couvert de la nuit) : Moi je ne suis qu'une ombre et vous qu'une clarté!

Cyrano: I can see him there---he grins--- He is looking at my nose---that skeleton ---What's that you say? Hopeless?---Why, very well!--- But a man does not fight merely to win! No---no---better to know one fights in vain!... You there---Who are you? A hundred against one--- I know them now, my ancient enemies--- Falsehood!...There! There! Prejudice---Compromise---Cowardice--- What's that? No! Surrender? No! Never---never!... Ah, you too, Vanity! I knew you would overthrow me in the end--- No! I fight on! I fight on! I fight on! Yes, all my laurels you have riven away And all my roses; yet in spite of you, There is one crown I bear away with me, And to-night, when I enter before God, My salute shall sweep all the stars away From the blue threshold! One thing without stain, Unspotted from the world, in spite of doom Mine own!--- And that is... Roxane: ---That is... Cyrano: My white plume....

Cyrano: The leaves--- Roxane: What color---Perfect Venetian red! Look at them fall. Cyrano: Yes---they know how to die. A little way From the branch to the earth, a little fear Of mingling with the common dust---and yet They go down gracefully---a fall that seems Like flying!

De guiche. "Portez-les-lui." Cyrano, tenté et un peu charmé. "Vraiment…" De guiche. "Il est des plus experts. Il vous corrigera seulement quelques vers…" Cyrano, dont le visage s’est immédiatement rembruni. "Impossible, Monsieur ; mon sang se coagule En pensant qu’on y peut changer une virgule." De guiche. "Mais quand un vers lui plaît, en revanche, mon cher, Il le paye très cher." Cyrano. "Il le paye moins cher Que moi, lorsque j’ai fait un vers, et que je l’aime, Je me le paye, en me le chantant à moi-même !" De guiche. "Vous êtes fier." Cyrano. "Vraiment, vous l’avez remarqué ?

[...] Eso es muy corto, joven; yo os abono que podíais variar bastante el tono. Por ejemplo: Agresivo: «Si en mi cara tuviese tal nariz, me la amputara.» Amistoso: «¿Se baña en vuestro vaso al beber, o un embudo usáis al caso?» Descriptivo: «¿Es un cabo? ¿Una escollera? Mas ¿qué digo? ¡Si es una cordillera!» Curioso: «¿De qué os sirve ese accesorio? ¿De alacena, de caja o de escritorio?» Burlón: «¿Tanto a los pájaros amáis, que en el rostro una alcándara les dais?» Brutal: «¿Podéis fumar sin que el vecino —¡Fuego en la chimenea!— grite?» Fino: «Para colgar las capas y sombreros esa percha muy útil ha de seros.» Solícito: «Compradle una sombrilla: el sol ardiente su color mancilla.» Previsor: «Tal nariz es un exceso: buscad a la cabeza contrapeso.» Dramático: «Evitad riñas y enojos: si os llegara a sangrar, diera un Mar Rojo.» Enfático: «¡Oh nariz!… ¡Qué vendaval te podría resfriar? Sólo el mistral.» Pedantesco: «Aristófanes no cita más que a un ser sólo que con vos compita en ostentar nariz de tanto vuelo: El Hipocampelephantocamelo.» Respetuoso: «Señor, bésoos la mano: digna es vuestra nariz de un soberano.» Ingenuo: «¿De qué hazaña o qué portento en memoria, se alzó este monumento?» Lisonjero: «Nariz como la vuestra es para un perfumista linda muestra.» Lírico: «¿Es una concha? ¿Sois tritón?» Rústico: «¿Eso es nariz o es un melón?» Militar: «Si a un castillo se acomete, aprontad la nariz: ¡terrible ariete!» Práctico: «¿La ponéis en lotería? ¡El premio gordo esa nariz sería!» Y finalmente, a Píramo imitando: «¡Malhadada nariz, que, perturbando del rostro de tu dueño la armonía, te sonroja tu propia villanía!» Algo por el estilo me dijerais si más letras e ingenio vos tuvierais; mas veo que de ingenio, por la traza, tenéis el que tendrá una calabaza y ocho letras tan sólo, a lo que infiero: las que forman el nombre: Majadero. Sobre que, si a la faz de este concurso me hubieseis dirigido tal discurso e, ingenioso, estas flores dedicado, ni una tan sólo hubierais terminado, pues con más gracia yo me las repito y que otro me las diga no permito.

Et que faudrait-il faire ? Chercher un protecteur puissant, prendre un patron, Et comme un lierre obscur qui circonvient un tronc Et s'en fait un tuteur en lui léchant l'écorce, Grimper par ruse au lieu de s'élever par force ? Non, merci ! Dédier, comme tous ils le font, Des vers aux financiers ? se changer en bouffon Dans l'espoir vil de voir, aux lèvres d'un ministre, Naître un sourire, enfin, qui ne soit pas sinistre ? Non, merci ! Déjeuner, chaque jour, d'un crapaud ? Avoir un ventre usé par la marche ? une peau Qui plus vite, à l'endroit des genoux, devient sale ? Exécuter des tours de souplesse dorsale ?... Non, merci ! D'une main flatter la chèvre au cou Cependant que, de l'autre, on arrose le chou, Et donneur de séné par désir de rhubarbe, Avoir son encensoir, toujours, dans quelque barbe ? Non, merci ! Se pousser de giron en giron, Devenir un petit grand homme dans un rond, Et naviguer, avec des madrigaux pour rames, Et dans ses voiles des soupirs de vieilles dames ? Non, merci ! Chez le bon éditeur de Sercy Faire éditer ses vers en payant ? Non, merci ! S'aller faire nommer pape par les conciles Que dans des cabarets tiennent des imbéciles ? Non, merci ! Travailler à se construire un nom Sur un sonnet, au lieu d'en faire d'autres ? Non, Merci ! Ne découvrir du talent qu'aux mazettes ? Être terrorisé par de vagues gazettes, Et se dire sans cesse : "Oh ! pourvu que je sois Dans les petits papiers du Mercure François" ?... Non, merci ! Calculer, avoir peur, être blême, Préférer faire une visite qu'un poème, Rédiger des placets, se faire présenter ? Non, merci ! non, merci ! non, merci ! Mais... chanter, Rêver, rire, passer, être seul, être libre, Avoir l'œil qui regarde bien, la voix qui vibre, Mettre, quand il vous plaît, son feutre de travers, Pour un oui, pour un non, se battre, - ou faire un vers ! Travailler sans souci de gloire ou de fortune, À tel voyage, auquel on pense, dans la lune ! N'écrire jamais rien qui de soi ne sortît, Et modeste d'ailleurs, se dire : mon petit, Sois satisfait des fleurs, des fruits, même des feuilles, Si c'est dans ton jardin à toi que tu les cueilles ! Puis, s'il advient d'un peu triompher, par hasard, Ne pas être obligé d'en rien rendre à César, Vis-à-vis de soi-même en garder le mérite, Bref, dédaignant d'être le lierre parasite, Lors même qu'on n'est pas le chêne ou le tilleul, Ne pas monter bien haut, peut-être, mais tout seul !

I carry my adornments on my soul. I do not dress up like a popinjay; But inwardly, I keep my daintiness. I do not bear with me, by any chance, An insult not yet washed away- a conscience Yellow with unpurged bile- an honor frayed To rags, a set of scruples badly worn. I go caparisoned in gems unseen, Trailing white plumes of freedom, garlanded With my good name- no figure of a man, But a soul clothed in shining armor, hung With deeds for decorations, twirling- thus- A bristling wit, and swinging at my side Courage, and on the stones of this old town Making the sharp truth ring, like golden spurs!

I know that in the end you'll overwhelm me, but I'll still fight you as long as there's a breath in my body... Yes, you've robbed me of everything: the laurels of glory, the roses of love! But there's one thing you can't take away from me. When I go to meet God this evening, and doff my hat before the lofty gates, my salute will sweep the blue threshold of heaven, because I'll still have one thing intact, without a stain, something that I'll take with me in spite of you: My white plume.

I was wondering aimlessly; too many road were open...too many resolves, too complex, allowed of being taken. I took...by far the simplest of them all.

Son los cadetes de la Gascuña que a Carbón tienen por capitán; son quimeristas, son embusteros; y a la vez nobles, firmes y enteros, blasón viviente por doquier van, son los cadetes de la Gascuña, que a Carbón tienen por capitán. Ojos de buitre, pies de cigüeña, dientes de lobo, fiero ademán; cuando arremeten a la canalla, no ciñen casco ni fina malla: rotos chambergos luciendo van… Ojos de buitre, pies de cigüeña, dientes de lobo, fiero ademán. Punza-barrigas y Rompe-hocicos son dulces motes que ellos se dan. Ebrios de gloria, sueñan conquistas, corren garitos, dan entrevistas; donde hayan riñas, allí estarán… Punza-barrigas y Rompe-hocicos son dulces motes que ellos se dan. Son los cadetes de la Gascuña que a Carbón tienen por capitán. Tras las coquetas corren ansiosos, hacen cornudos a los celosos; su gloria al viento los parches dan. ¡Son los cadetes de la Gascuña que a Carbón tienen por capitán!

Tu comprends... ce billet, - c'était très émouvant: Je me suis fait pleurer moi-même en l'écrivant.

Tu marcheras, j'irai dans l'ombre à ton côté : je serai ton esprit, tu seras ma beauté.