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Stéphane Mallarmé quotes - page 2
I wait, but do not know for what or why Or perhaps you are uttering the last bruised sighs, Ignorant of the mystery and of your cries, Of a childhood feeling its frozen gems Being broken off at last amidst its dreams.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Dreams have as much influences as actions.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Poetry is the language of a state of crisis.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Paintings are painted with paint, not with ideas.
Stéphane Mallarmé
If only I'd chosen an easy work!
Stéphane Mallarmé
Degas was discussing poetry with Mallarmé; "It isn't ideas I'm short of... I've got too many", said Degas. "But Degas," replied Mallarmé, "you can't make a poem with ideas. ... You make it with words.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Its gaze profound Up where the frozen Absolute has chosen That nothing shall measure Its vastness, O glacier But according to a ritual Illumined by the principle That chose my consecration It extends a salutation.
Stéphane Mallarmé
A kiss would kill me, woman, If beauty were not death...
Stéphane Mallarmé
I am alone in my monotonous country, While all those around me live in the idolatry Of a mirror reflecting in its depths serene Herodiade, whose gaze is diamond keen ...
Stéphane Mallarmé
The visible serene artificial breath Of inspiration, which regains the sky.
Stéphane Mallarmé
I am inventing a language that must necessarily burst forth from a very new poetics, that could be defined in a couple of words: Paint, not the thing, but the effect it produces.
Stéphane Mallarmé
I feel in my sinews The spreading of shadows Converging together With a shiver.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Walk no longer in an unknown age...
Stéphane Mallarmé
When the sad sun sinks, It shall pierce through the body of wax till it shrinks!
Stéphane Mallarmé
Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.
Stéphane Mallarmé
The world exists to end up in a book.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.
Stéphane Mallarmé
Degas was discussing poetry with Mallarmé; "It isn't ideas I'm short of... I've got too many" [Ce ne sont pas les idées qui me manquent... J'en ai trop], said Degas. "But Degas," replied Mallarmé, "you can't make a poem with ideas. ... You make it with words." [Mais, Degas, ce n'est point avec des idées que l'on fait des vers. . . . C'est avec des mots.].
Stéphane Mallarmé
A kiss would kill me, woman, If beauty were not death... By what attraction Am I drawn, what morn forgotten by the prophets That pours on the dying distance its sad rites?
Stéphane Mallarmé
I feel in my sinews The spreading of shadows Converging together With a shiver And in solitary vigil After flights triumphal My head rise From this scythe Through a clean rupture That serves to dissever The ancient disharmony With the body As drunk from fasting It persists in following With a haggard bound Its gaze profound Up where the frozen Absolute has chosen That nothing shall measure Its vastness, O glacier But according to a ritual Illumined by the principle That chose my consecration It extends a salutation.
Stéphane Mallarmé
No water murmurs but what my flute pours On the chord sprinkled thicket; and the sole wind Prompt to exhale from my two pipes, before It scatters the sound in a waterless shower, Is, on the horizon's unwrinkled space, The visible serene artificial breath Of inspiration, which regains the sky.
Stéphane Mallarmé
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