Explanation:
An answer to a Deidara about understanding art
Jean-Louis Duroc: — Do you know Giacometti, the sculptor?
Anne Gauthier: — Oh, yes. He was handsome.
Jean-Louis Duroc: — Well, he said something extraordinary: "If caught in a fire and I had to choose between a Rembrandt and a cat... I'd save the cat."
Anne Gauthier: — "And then I'd let the cat go."
Jean-Louis Duroc: — Did he say that too?
Anne Gauthier: — That's what's so wonderful.
Jean-Louis Duroc: — Yes, it is. Between art and life, he said he'd choose life.
The noblest art is that of making others happy.
You can't, 'cause, like, you look around, every... Every street, every boulevard is its own special art form. And when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe, that Paris exists, these lights... I mean, come on, there's nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space... You can see these lights, the cafes, people drinking, and singing... I mean, for all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasd lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.
S’il n’était rien de bleu que le ciel et la mer,
De blond que les épis, de rose que les roses,
S’il n’était de beauté qu’aux insensibles choses,
Le plaisir d’admirer ne serait point amer.
Mais avec l’océan, la campagne et l’éther,
Des formes d’un attrait douloureux sont écloses
Le charme des regards, des sourires, des poses,
Mord trop avant dans l’âme, ô femme! il est trop cher
Nous t’aimons, et de là les douleurs infinies:
Car Dieu, qui fit la grâce avec des harmonies,
Fit l’amour d’un soupir qui n’est pas mutuel.
Mais je veux, revêtant l’art sacré pour armure,
Voir des lèvres, des yeux, l’or d’une chevelure,
Comme l’épi, la rose, et la mer, et le ciel.