You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words. Stephane Mallarme More Quotes by Stephane Mallarme More Quotes From Stephane Mallarme The world exists to end up in a book. Stephane Mallarme endsbookworld Every soul is a melody which needs renewing. Stephane Mallarme soulteacherneeds To define is to kill. To suggest is to create. Stephane Mallarme educationinspirational It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things. Stephane Mallarme creatingjobsreality Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces. Stephane Mallarme effectsproducepaint Dreams have as much influences as actions. Stephane Mallarme influencedreamaction Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them. Stephane Mallarme abandonpoet A throw of the dice will never abolish chance. Stephane Mallarme abolishdicechance Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery. Stephane Mallarme sacredmysterywish 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! Stephane Mallarme souldreamlying I have made a long enough descent into the void to speak with certainty. There is nothing but beauty--and beauty has only one perfect expression, Poetry. All the rest is a lie. Stephane Mallarme expressionlonglying The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book. Stephane Mallarme beautifulorderbook The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme. Stephane Mallarme splitsnumbersideas The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words. Stephane Mallarme poeticpurehands All thoughts emit a throw of dice Stephane Mallarme dice In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation. Stephane Mallarme lonelyreadingmind Paintings are painted with paint, not with ideas. Stephane Mallarme paintingpaintideas 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. Stephane Mallarme precious-stonesflowerlying Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book. Stephane Mallarme readinginspirationalbook 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. Stephane Mallarme soulnamesnight
