“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 ApollinairetFrench poet”
Guillaume Apollinaire“Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not blur the nuanceit is now or never the momentto be sensitive to poetry for it dominatesall dreadfullyGuillaume Apollinaire]”
Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War“A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“All the words I have to say have turned into stars.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“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.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“De temps à autre, il est bon de faire une pause dans notre quête du bonheur et d'être simplement heureux.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“Joy came always after pain.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.”
Guillaume Apollinaire“Oh ParisFrom red to green all the yellow dies awayParis Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the AntillesThe window opens like an orangeThe beautiful fruit of light("Windows")”
Guillaume Apollinaire, Zone“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 ApollinairetFrench poet”
Guillaume Apollinaire, Poesie“Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowdAs herds of bellowing buses drive byLove's anguish tightens your throatAs if you were never to be loved againIf you lived in the old days you would enter a monasteryYou are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayerYou make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter cracklesThe sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your lifeIt's a painting hanging in a dark museumAnd sometimes you go and look at it close up”
Guillaume Apollinaire, Zone