At present, under the burden of canons and the burden of language’s deep complicity with countless atrocities, the very making of poems requires audacity. And if the audacity is well-intended, it requires a certain awkwardness as proof of its unrehearsed refusal to comply with silence.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

Guillaume Apollinaire Quotes

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer’s death.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

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

— Guillaume Apollinaire

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

All the words I have to say have turned into stars.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

My dreaming thoughts go barefoot in the evening.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

Her eyes were dancing like those of angels.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

My blue mask as a God puts on his sky.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

My Autumn eternal O my spiritual season.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

Even the automobiles have an air of antiquity here.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

How slow life seems to me, how violent the hope of love can be.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

Oh my shadow. Oh my ancient serpent.

— Guillaume Apollinaire

At present, under the burden of canons and the burden of language’s deep complicity with countless atrocities, the very making of poems requires audacity. And if the audacity is well-intended, it requires a certain awkwardness as proof of its unrehearsed refusal to comply with silence.

— Guillaume Apollinaire
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