Max Jacob (French: [maks ʒakɔb]; 12 July 1876 – 5 March 1944) was a French poet, painter, writer, and critic.
Art is a game. Too bad for him who makes a duty of it.
Friendship is inexplicable, it should not be explained if one doesn't want to kill it.
Man is a venerating animal. He venerates as easily as he purges himself. When they take away from him the gods of his fathers, he looks for others abroad.
What is called a sincere work is one that is endowed with enough strength to give reality to an illusion.
Cubism is. . . a picture for its own sake. Literary Cubism does the same thing in literature, using reality merely as a means and not as an end.
The poet's expression of joy conceals his despair at not having found the reality of joy.
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