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Stephane Mallarme Biography

Stephane Mallarme

Stéphane Mallarmé (/mɑːlɑːrˈmeɪ/; French: [stefan malaʁme] ( listen); 18 March 1842 – 9 September 1898), whose real name was Étienne Mallarmé, was a French poet and critic. He was a major French symbolist poet, and his work anticipated and inspired several revolutionary artistic schools of the early 20th century, such as Cubism, Futurism, Dadaism, and Surrealism.

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Stephane Mallarme Quotes

It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.

Artist, Front, Fronts, Paper

In a museum in London there is an exhibit called "The Value of Man": a long coffinlike box with lots of compartments where they've put starch phosphorus flour bottles of water and alcohol and big pieces of gelatin. I am a man like that.

Bottles, Long, Men, Museum, Museums

Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul. So sublime, my friend, that I want to gaze upon matter, fully conscious that it exists, and yet launching itself madly into Dream, despite its knowledge that Dream has no existence, extolling the Soul and all the divine impressions of that kind which have collected within us from the beginning of time and proclaiming, in the face of the Void which is truth, these glorious lies!

Dream, Invented, Lying, Soul, Void, Yes

Poetry is the language of a state of crisis.

Language, Poetry, State, States

There is only beauty
and it has only one perfect expression
poetry. All the rest is a lie
except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind, friendship. For me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because its sensual delight falls back deliciously in my soul.

Deliciously, Fall, Love Is, Lying, Soul, Takes

The world exists to end up in a book.

Book, Ends, Exists, World

A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.

Abolish, Chance, Dice

As for me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because this self-lust has a delightful dying fall in my soul.

Dying, Fall, Love Is, Poetry, Self, Soul

Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.

Abandon, Finish, Poems, Poet, Poets

The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book.

Beautiful, Book, Order, World

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

Hands, Implies, Poetic, Pure, Speaker

O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.

Await, Cold, Flower, Lips, Lying, Precious Stones

Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.

Book, Everything, Exists, Inspirational, Reading

The reproach that superficial people formulate against Manet, that whereas once he painted ugliness, now he paints vulgarity, falls harmlessly to the ground, when we recognize the fact that he paints the truth.

Facts, Fall, Formulate, Ground, People, Reproach

Paintings are painted with paint, not with ideas.

Ideas, Paint, Painted, Painting, Paintings

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.

Bright, Hearth, Names, Night, Soul

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

Clean, Creating, Jobs, Reality, Silences, Things

Dreams have as much influences as actions.

Action, Actions, Dream, Dreams, Influence, Influences

To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.

Create, Define, Education, Inspirational, Kill, Suggest

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

Grouping, Idea, Ideas, Motifs, Numbers, Splits