Photogenic is a stupid, nonsensical word, but it is also a great mystery. Blaise Cendrars More Quotes by Blaise Cendrars More Quotes From Blaise Cendrars Humanity lives in its fiction. Blaise Cendrars humanity fiction what are you looking for? There is no Truth. There's only action, action obeying a million different impulses, ephemeral action, action subjected to every possible and imaginable contingency and contradiction, Life. Life is crime, theft, jealousy, hunger, lies, disgust,stupidity, sickness, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, piles of corpses. what can you do about it, my poor friend? Blaise Cendrars volcanoes jealousy lying Only a soul full of despair can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and still love the world. Blaise Cendrars serenity despair soul One's life, from being an exterior thing, grows inwards. Its intensity stays the same; and, d'you know, it's most mysterious, the corners in which the joy of living can sometimes hide away. Blaise Cendrars mysterious joy sometimes The single fact of existing is already a true happiness. Blaise Cendrars true-happiness facts I'm not an extraordinary worker, I'm an extraordinary daydreamer. I exceed all my fantasies-even that of writing. Blaise Cendrars fantasy workers writing For action, whatever its immediate purpose, also implies relief at doing something, anything, and the joy of exertion. This is the optimism that is inherent in, and proper and indispensable to action, for without it nothing would ever be undertaken. It in no way suppresses the critical sense or clouds the judgment. On the contrary this optimism sharpens the wits, it creates a certain perspective and, at the last moment, lets in a ray of perpendicular light which illuminates all one's previous calculations, cuts and shuffles them and deals you the card of success, the winning number. Blaise Cendrars cutting winning numbers A mud-stained sunlight began to splatter the sodden fields, and the hateful, nasal world of birds began to come to life. It seemed to me that I was coming out of a suffocating nightmare and that the low clouds flying before the wind were the shreds of an evil dream. Blaise Cendrars dream clouds wind Life The machine The human soul A 75mm breech My portrait Blaise Cendrars portraits machines soul Writing is a noble privilege compared with the lot of most people, who live like parts of a machine, who live only to keep the gears of society pointlessly turning. Blaise Cendrars machines writing people A writer should never install himself before a panorama, however grandiose it may be. Blaise Cendrars panorama should may My poor life This shawl Frayed on strongboxes full of gold I roll along with Dream And smoke And the only flame in the universe Blaise Cendrars flames gold dream I used the word 'prose' in the Trans-Siberian in the early Latin sense of prosa dictu. Poem seemed to me too pretentious, too narrow. Prose is more open, popular. Blaise Cendrars pretentious used latin Without the help of selfishness, the human animal would never have developed. Egoism is the vine by which man hoisted himself out of the swamp and escaped from the jungle. Blaise Cendrars selfishness animal men Writing is to descend like a miner to the depths of the mine with a lamp on your forehead, a light whose dubious brightness falsifies everything, whose wick is in permanent danger of explosion, whose blinking illumination in the coal dust exhausts and corrodes your eyes. Blaise Cendrars light eye writing Science is history arranged according to the superstition and taste of the moment. The vocabulary of scholars has no wit, no salt. These heavy tomes have no soul, they are filled with distress. Blaise Cendrars superstitions vocabulary soul
