The Difficulty of Being

by Jean Cocteau, Elizabeth Sprigge (Translation)

Reflections on life and art from the legendary filmmaker-novelist-poet-genius.

By the time he published The Difficulty of Being in 1947, Jean Cocteau had produced some of the most respected films and literature of the twentieth century, and had worked with the foremost artists of his time, including Proust, Gide, Picasso and Stravinsky.

This memoir tells the inside account of those achievements and of his glittering social circle. Cocteau writes about his childhood, about his development as an artist, and the peculiarity of the artist’s life, about his dreams, friendships, pain, and laughter. He probes his motivations and explains his philosophies, giving intimate details in soaring prose. And sprinkled throughout are anecdotes about the elite and historic people he associated with.

Beyond illuminating a truly remarkable life, The Difficulty of Being is an inspiring homage to the belief that art matters.

Genres: Nonfiction, Philosophy, Art, Biography, Memoir, France, Film

176 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1947

About the author

Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau (5 July 1889 – 11 October 1963) was a French poet, novelist, dramatist, designer, boxing manager, playwright and filmmaker. Along with other Surrealists of his generation (Jean Anouilh and René Char for example) Cocteau grappled with the "algebra" of verbal codes old and new, mise en scène language and technologies of modernism to create a paradox: a classical avant-garde. His circle of associates, friends and lovers included Jean Marais, Henri Bernstein, Colette, Édith Piaf, whom he cast in one of his one act plays entitled Le Bel Indifferent in 1940, and Raymond Radiguet.

His work was played out in the theatrical world of the Grands Theatres, the Boulevards and beyond during the Parisian epoque he both lived through and helped define and create. His versatile, unconventional approach and enormous output brought him international acclaim.

Reviews

[Steve]

The Difficulty of Being

With La difficulté d'être (1947) Jean Cocteau (1889-1963) has written a collection of short autobiographical essays on the apparent model of the classic French moralists. Of these I have read but Montaigne and a little of de La Rochefoucauld, so I can hardly draw lines of influence and style for Cocteau's essays. With titles like "De l'amitié" and "Des moeurs", etc. he deliberately alludes to Montaigne (*), but he delivers essays which are notably shorter and less erudite than the latter's. And, frankly, in the end, these allusions and the cover blurbs talking about Pascal and Chamfort are quite misleading.

I have the possibly mistaken notion that sincerity is essential for moralizing essays and find that Cocteau occasionally escapes into what seems to me to be a pose. Nonetheless, there are many passages in this book which seem quite sincere to me: when he sketches the nature of Erik Satie and what he meant to Cocteau; when he does the same for the precocious little genius, Raymond Radiguet; when he evokes what the Comédie-Française in Paris meant to him, etc.

But, really, although Cocteau does some moralizing - some offering of advice in the game of life - in this book, his central theme is himself, his life, his work, his friends. This is as close an approximation to an autobiography that we have from Cocteau, with the possible exception of Opium and Portraits-Souvenir which are concerned with limited portions/aspects of his life. Read from this point of view, the book is quite interesting; read from the point of view of moral essays, quite a bit less so. As autobiography I find it engaging, even though I have a fairly good idea of the course of his life; nothing quite replaces seeing someone else's life through their own eyes (despite the, shall we say, corrections that person makes in the story). How much more engaging will it be for those who yet know little about Cocteau's life?

Imagine for a moment this anecdote, told in the book: Serge Diaghilev having challenged Cocteau in the Place de la Concorde late one night with "étonne-moi!" (amaze me), Cocteau, Picasso and Satie put together a little thing called "Parade",(**) which generated such a reaction from the audience that only the sight of Guillaume Apollinaire, with his head still heavily bandaged from a war wound and in uniform, dissuaded the ladies of the audience from stabbing out the authors' eyes with their hatpins! According to other witnesses, perhaps the ladies wouldn't have resorted to their hairpins, but physical harm was imminent...

He writes beautifully about his aesthetics of writing, theater, and cinema. And there are other stories of Nijinsky, Diaghilev, Apollinaire, Picasso, Proust, hints of how such a multi-talented artist juggled so many balls, and yet more...

These essays have been translated into English and are available in multiple editions.

(*) It's not a good idea to ask to be compared to Montaigne.

(**) A "cubist" theater piece/ballet (1917) for which Satie wrote the music (which included foghorns and typewriters, at Cocteau's insistence); Picasso made the sets, costumes and props; Cocteau was responsible for the story and characters; Léonide Massine did the choreography, and Ernest Ansermet conducted the orchestra. In this link

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WATQDq...

you will find a little video about the scandal of "Parade" which includes a recording of Cocteau himself relating a few anecdotes in connection with it. And in this clip

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Chq1T...

you will find excerpts from a recent recreation of the piece. One can well understand why a 1917 audience might have thought it was being made into an ass.


Rating

http://leopard.booklikes.com/post/686...

[Elena · Rating 4 out of 5]

Cocteau cuenta con cincuenta y siete años cuando escribe esta recapitulación de su vida. Se siente enfermo y cansado: está filmando "La bella y la bestia". Recapitula y reflexiona sobre su pasado, los grandes temas de la vida (y de la muerte) y algunos ¿menores? como la risa. Son retazos de sus pensamientos con el orden que dicta su libertad. Por sus páginas se pasean Radiguet, Jacob, Genet, Picasso.

Una recapitulación que contradice a aquellos que lo tachaban de frívolo a quienes pasa la mano por la cara: "Qué más da. No debemos convertirnos en un espectáculo. Cuando más se equivocan en lo que a nosotros se refiere, cuando más nos cubren de fábulas, más nos resguarda todo eso y más nos enseña a vivir en paz. Basta con la estima de las personas de nuestro entorno. Lo que somos cuando nos ven los demás no es nada que nos afecte."

La escritura como resurrección: "El lector se saca este libro del bolsillo. Lee. Y si consigue leerlo sin que nada pueda ya distraerlo de lo que escribo, poco a poco notará que me acomodo dentro de él, y me resucitará. Correrá incluso el riesgo de hacer de improviso uno de mis ademanes o de lanzar una de mis miradas. Por supuesto que estoy hablando a la juventud de una época en que ya no estaré aquí en carne y hueso y mi sangre irá unida a mi tinta."

Una invitación a la observación y la escucha solo apto para mentes desprejuiciadas y curiosas.

[Nathan · Rating 2 out of 5]

Spent far too much time trudging through this pretentious twaddle, hoping there would be some redemption towards the end.

Rare glimmers of 'real insight', but for the most part a wandering torment of verbal procrastination; a sponge bath of name dropping and egotism.

I'd vote 1 star in that frustrated Goodreads non-expert manner that many do, but I am aware that between the trees lies the shrubbery of genuine profundity—I was probably just too impatient to search it out.

[Dan · Rating 3 out of 5]

In 1946, the poet / novelist / playwright / filmmaker Jean Cocteau was checked into Morzine with a case of jaundice. While there, he started writing The Difficulty of Being, a book of short essays in which he comments on such subjects as his childhood, his friendships (with Raymond Radiguet, Guillaume Apollinaire and Marcel Proust, for instance), his writing style, and on some of his experiences working in the theatre and with film.

The first of the essays is titled "On Conversation," and late in the text Cocteau writes "My book has no other object than to engage in conversation with those who read it. It is the opposite of a lecture." Of course, a reader's "conversation" with an author through a written text lacks the kind of immediacy and back-and-forth between speakers that is typically associated with dialogue, so for much of the text it is as if Cocteau were in conversation with himself. Indeed, as he discourses on his life and experiences, and expresses his opinion on such topics as his native France, contemporary youth, and haunted houses, it is as if he were interviewing himself for a profile in a magazine.

Although the essays lack the back-and-forth of dialogue, yet there are twists and turns in Cocteau's thought and discourse that suggest the immediacy and spontaneity of conventional conversation. Cocteau contradicts himself, for instance, or digresses, or expresses not only his finished thoughts but also describes the thoughts he works through in order to arrive at his finished thoughts. He seems aware of these rough, unfinished passages, writing at one point "I correct carelessly, let a thousand faults pass, am lazy about rereading my work and only reread the idea. So long as what's to be said is said, it's all one to me."

Despite Cocteau's disclaimers, though, for most of the text the style is gem-like, sparkling and iridescent, as poetic image and abstract thought interact, each pointing up new facets in the other.

For me, the best moment of the book comes near the end, as Cocteau represents himself as taking leave of his reader and, like a filmmaker, turns it into a scene of action and drama.

Acquired 2003
Gift from Anthony

[SergiFàbregas · Rating 4 out of 5]

«La mort viu amb nosaltres cada segon i ens hi hauríem de resignar. [...] Tots allotgem la pròpia mort i ens tranquil·litzem amb el que ens inventem, a saber, que és una figura al·legòrica que només apareix al darrer acte. || Experta en mimetisme, com més allunyada sembla que estigui, més incrustada es troba en la nostra alegria de viure. És la nostra joventut. És el nostre creixement. És els nostres amors. Com més m'escurço, més s'allarga ella.»

[Octavio Pontes · Rating 5 out of 5]

"No final das contas, para tudo se dá um jeito, menos para a dificuldade de ser, que nunca se ajeita."

[Louise · Rating 2 out of 5]

J'avais trouvé Les Enfants Terribles incroyable, bien que biscornu et "spiraleux". Autant cette plume m'avait intrigué dans un cadre fictionnel, mais ici sur un pan autobiographique, ça coince vraiment.
Les idées développées par Cocteau sont, je pense, dignes d'intérêt, mais tout est très complexifié : tournures de phrases, démonstrations, métaphores… J'ai trouvé qu'il pensait de belles choses mais qu'il ne les exprimait pas bien. Son style est souvent assez fumeux, manque de concision ou d'images percutantes comme j'avais aimé dans Les Enfants Terribles.
J'ai eu l'impression d'un homme un peu boursouflé de lui même, qui réfléchit plus à ce qu'il veut paraître être qu'à ce qu'il est. C'est donc souvent agaçant car ça ressemble à une démonstration prétentieuse de son originalité d'artiste. J'ai du mal à croire que la forme soit naturelle, on sent l'effort d'écriture dans la plupart des phrases.
Au fur et à mesure, je me suis habituée au style et j'ai su grapiller ça et là des citations inspirantes et très belles, mais globalement c'est trop ampoulé pour être touchant.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Best to read after reading most of his earlier works of surrealism. I enjoyed this memoir

[Merinde · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book is like sitting down across from Jean Cocteau and talking for him for hours. I wish.

"I had come to imagine us so clearly, youth matching my youth, standing at a street corner, sitting in a square, lying face down on a bed, elbows on a table, gossiping together. And I leave you. Without leaving you, needless to say, since I am so closely merged with my ink that my pulse beats into it. Do you not feel it under your thumb, as it holds the corner of the pages? That would astonish me, since it throbs under my pen and produces that inimitable, wild, nocturnal, ultra-complex hubbub of my heart, recorded in Le Sang d’un Poète. ‘The poet is dead. Long live the poet.’ This is the cry of his ink. This is what his muffled drums beat out. This is what lights his funeral candelabra. This is what shakes the pocket in which you put my book and makes passers-by turn their heads and wonder what the noise is. This is the whole difference between a book that is simply a book and this book, which is a person changed into a book. Changed into a book and crying out for help, for the spell to be broken and he reincarnated in the person of the reader. This is the sleight-of-hand I ask of you.


Please understand me. It is not so difficult as it seems at first sight. You take this book out of your pocket. You read. And if you manage to read it without anything being able to distract you from my writing, little by little you will feel that I inhabit you and you will resurrect me."

and sometimes, so did Jean Cocteau.

[Cliff M · Rating 4 out of 5]

Cocteau at his most self-aware, self-critical and incisive. Amusing that he wrote this book as he turned fifty because he assumed death would soon be upon him (he lived until almost 80). Great to read his comments on contemporaries, and also on recent predecessors such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud.

[amélie · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Lorsque je lis un livre, je m'émerveille du nombre de mots que j'y rencontre et je rêve de les employer. Je les note. [...] Je me limite à mon vocabulaire. Je n'arrive pas à en sortir et il est si court que le travail devient un casse-tête. Je me demande, à chaque ligne, si j'irai plus loin, si la combinaison de ces quelques mots que j'emploie, toujours les mêmes, ne finira pas par se bloquer et par me contraindre à me taire. [...] J'ai dit que je jalouse les mots des autres. C'est qu'ils ne sont pas les miens. Chaque auteur en possède un sac de loto avec lequel il faudra qu'il gagne."

[Licia · Rating 2 out of 5]

On n'y apprend -presque- rien sur la difficulté d'être. C'est un amas de fragments de pensées de l'auteur, très auto-centrées, tentant probablement de palier sa blessure narcissique liée à sa décrépitude et l'approche de sa fin.

[Selma]

Certaines réflexions sont touchantes et attendrissantes :( et ce, malgré la souffrance de l'écrivain

[Maca Maca · Rating 4 out of 5]

,,Žena spí. Triumfuje. Už nemusí klamať. Celá je klamstvom od hlavy po päty. Nebude skladať nijaký účet zo svojich výlevov.

Prekvapuje ma, že zo sekundy na sekundu sa naše ja zo sna nájde vrhnuté do nového sveta bez pocitu ohromenia, ktorý by v ňom vyprovokoval ten istý svet v bdelom stave.”

[Jinny Chung]

"My worst fault, like almost everything in me, springs from childhood. For I am still the victim of those unhealthy rites which make children obsessive, so that they arrange their plates in a certain way at meals and only step over certain grooves in the pavement.
"In the midst of work, here are these symptoms gripping me, forcing me to resist what is driving me, involving me in strange halting writing, preventing me from saying what I want to say.
"That is why my style often assumes an air of its own which I loathe, or else suddenly drops it. Inward cramps which reproduce those nervous peculiarities to which childhood abandons itself in secret and by which it believes it can exorcise fate.
"Even now as I am explaining them, I experience them. I try to conquer them. I stumble against them, I get bogged down in them, I lose myself in them. I should like to break the spell. My obsession gets the better of me.
"...That is the definition of the writing sickness from which I suffer and which makes me prefer conversation.
"I have few words in my pen. I turn them over and over. The idea gallops ahead. When it stops and looks back, it sees me flagging behind. That puts it out of patience. It escapes. And it is lost for good.
"I leave the paper. I busy myself with something else, I open my door. I am free. That's easily said. The idea returns at top speed and I plunge into work.
"It is my passionate struggling against cramp that earns me a covering of legends, some more absurd than others. I am a man made invisible by fables and monstrously visible on account of this.
"...It is, it seems, a social crime to desire solitude. After a piece of work, I flee. I seek new territory. I fear the slackness of habit. I want to be free of techniques, of experience -- clumsy. That is to be a trifler, a traitor, an acrobat, a fantaisiste. To be complimentary: a magician.
"A wave of the wand and the books are written, the film is shot, the pen draws, the play is staged. It is very simple. Magician. That word makes everything easy. No need to labour at our work. It all happens of its own accord."

--On the work and the legend

[Madhuri · Rating 3 out of 5]

In this book, Cocteau has put together small essays on various topics. Some of these essays are very personal and honest in nature (like On Childhood). These are lovely to read, specially because the writer seems to be speaking from the heart. These are short, and ideas don't appear to be grandstanded.
But in the later essays, the voice begins to get impersonal, and the ideas insincere. For example the ideas on lines, beauty, etc. are a bit preachy and also dense. It is at this point that my interest began to wane off.
In both kinds of essays however, Cocteau shows an uncanny capacity to observe the world around him and within him. He finds patterns, and commits them to paper in a concise manner. I have read some beautiful quotes in this book to which I will have to return.

[Megan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Just lovely. I especially liked Jean Cocteau talking about hanging out with Stravinsky in the Alps, talking about the opera Faust, and how great it is, and how dreamy, and the grandson of the composer of the opera coming over and being like "I'm the grandson of the composer! He totally did dream those melodies! That's why they sound so dreamy!"

No one name drops like Cocteau.

[Erwin Maack · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Eu conhecia a maioria das palavras, mas o significado exato delas parecia estar o tempo inteiro fora do meu alcance, como se dissessem respeito a um mundo desconhecido onde a linguagem do mundo conhecido não servisse mais.”
Karl Ove Knausgård in Min Kamp 4

[M · Rating 5 out of 5]

Whenever I have a "difficulty in being," I read this beauty by Cocteau, the philosopher king.

[Sergio Pascual · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jean Cocteau se desnuda en este libro, abriendo su interior en una serie de apartados, con los que resume su vida, tanto profesional como privada, haciendo una digresión del libro en un todo que se engloba. Poeta, dramaturgo, novelista, pintor y director de cine, plasma su pasión por todas sus facetas.

“La muerte sabe hacerse olvidar y nos deja y nos deja creer que no vive en casa. Todos tenemos alejada a nuestra muerte y nos tranquilizamos con lo que nos inventamos, a saber, que es una figura alegórica que no sale hasta el último acto.
Experta en mimetismo, cuando más alejada parece estar de nosotros está incluso en nuestro gozo de vivir. Es nuestra juventud. Es nuestro crecimiento. Es nuestros amores.
Cuanto más menguo, más se estira. Más cómoda se pone. Más bulle por múltiples cosas. Más se dedica a sus tareas menudas. Cada vez se molesta menos en tenerme engañado.”

“Por eso mismo preferimos la conversación a los textos, porque se la puede atender pensando en otra cosa y no requiere esfuerzo alguno. Y eso hace que la conversación sea peligrosa. No sé de ninguna buena en que cada cual atienda a los demás. Se cuente lo que se cuente, se oye mal y se transmite de mala manera.”

“Se vive mucho con la cabeza debajo del ala. Nos resistimos a caer en la cuenta del grado de incultura y desorden mental en que chapotea la gente. Por prudencia, nos entrenamos para cruzar entre el gentío con mirada un tanto miope, con oídos un tanto sordos. Pero la vida social nos salpica y nos hace caer en toda la basura. Así que es malsano hacer vida mundana. Porque volvemos a casa con el alma contrita, pringados de pies a cabeza, desalentados hasta los tuétanos.”

“De la misma forma que el hombre no lee, sino que se lee, no mira, sino que se mira.”

“Una obra es hasta tal punto la expresión de nuestra soledad que nos preguntamos qué extraña necesidad de contactos mueve a un artista a mostrarla a plena luz.”

“La técnica no es sino la individualidad.”

“El oficio es eso que no se aprende.” Picasso

[Franz Xaver Canela · Rating 5 out of 5]

(...) El cementerio de Montmartre, que es el nuestro, me escandaliza. Es como aparcarnos en un garaje. Los borrachos que cruzan el puente nos mean encima.

(...) La lengua francesa es difícil. Le desagradan ciertas suavidades. Eso es lo que explica Gide de maravilla cuando dice que es un piano sin pedales. Es imposible amortiguar sus acordes. Funciona en seco. Su música es más para el alma que para el oído.

(...) Para definir a Genet ante el Alto Tribunal de Justicia (1942) dije que lo tenía por un gran escritor francés. Es fácil intuir que la prensa de la Ocupación se rió a mandíbula batiente. Pero a un tribunal parisino siempre le da miedo volver a caer en alguna célebre metedura de pata y condenar a Baudelaire. Salvé a Genet. Y no rectifico en nada aquel testimonio.

Cocteau fue uno de los intelectuales franceses que se propusieron, y consiguieron, sacar de la cárcel a Jean Genet. También colaboraron en este proyecto Picasso y Jean-Paul Sartre, pidiendo el indulto directamente al presidente de la República. Sobre Genet pendía la amenaza de la cadena perpetua. Fue indultado en 1948 y no volvió más a la cárcel.

En este magnífico libro Cocteau nos narra sus relaciones personales con figuras como Baudelaire, Raymond Radiguet, Jean Hugo, Georges Auric, Diaghilev, Nijinsky, Satie, Picasso, Josep Maria Sert y su esposa (de quien Cocteau subraya algunas ocurrencias), y Jean Genet, etc.

Josep Maria Sert se trasladó a París en 1899 y en 1900 recibió el encargo de pintar el interior de la catedral de Vic. Antes de acometer esta tarea viajó a Italia para conocer de cerca el arte italiano de la pintura al fresco: Capilla Sixtina, Palazzo Farnese, etc. Muy recomendable visitar Vic y su catedral de San Pedro con las imponentes pinturas de Josep Maria Sert.

[Mike · Rating 4 out of 5]

A collection of essays, which Cocteau calls lectures, that are really a form of shared therapy. Cocteau suggests that the writer composes in order to heal, while the reader, in briefly inhabiting and merging with the voice of the writer, takes on the same vices, joys, and sorrows, and so takes part in a communal healing: "We are all ill and only know how to read books which deal with our malady." … "Just as people do not read, but read themselves, [the artist] does not look, he looks at himself." … “You take this book out of your pocket. You read. And if you manage to read it without anything being able to distract you from my writing, little by little you will feel that I inhabit you and you will resurrect me.”

This is not to say that art provides a permanent cure. Indeed, Cocteau announces in the preface that such thing is not really possible: "In the end, everything is resolved, except the difficulty of being, which is never resolved.” But that doesn’t stop us from seeking the spiritual restorative provided by art, reading, and writing. If anything, the lack of a cure only heightens the search.

[guillemets · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jean Cocteau é um artista que passa por tantas áreas da arte quanto é possível. Há uma dificuldade em ser e uma inquietação de artista que eu me identifico bastante. Aqui ele escreve reflexões que ele mesmo diz não serem "aulas" ou "ensinamentos", é mais um diário ensaio. Foi uma leitura importante para a escrita do meu tcc alguns meses atrás e permaneceu interessante, inspirador, mesmo agora, já tendo passado pelo desafio de pensar sobre o ser artista. É um livro que se pode ler de forma rápida ou de forma lenta. Rápida quando digo é talvez demorar uma semana, lenta, assim como eu, tomando um ano inteiro. Não é que seja difícil, mas se beneficia de alguns respiros. E claro, alguns capítulos não são tão bom quanto outros, alguns não funcionaram para mim ou parecem até mesmo sem muito do que tirar, mas em grande parte é uma ótima porta para conhecer um pouco mais de Cocteau e, acima de tudo, conhecer mais de si mesmo.

[SeaShore]

I started reading this book today, April 24, 2024

From the blurb summary:
Reflections on life and art from the legendary filmmaker-novelist-poet-genius. By the time he published The Difficulty of Being in 1947, Jean Cocteau had produced some of the most respected films and literature of the twentieth century, and had worked with the foremost artists of his time, including Proust, Gide, Picasso and Stravinsky. This memoir tells the inside account of those achievements and of his glittering social circle. Cocteau writes about his childhood, about his development as an artist, and the peculiarity of the artist’s life, about his dreams, friendships, pain, and laughter. He probes his motivations and explains his philosophies, giving intimate details in soaring prose. And sprinkled throughout are anecdotes about the elite and historic people he associated with. Beyond illuminating a truly remarkable life, The Difficulty of Being is an inspiring homage to the belief that art matters.

[Oliver · Rating 5 out of 5]

Jean: The artist. The poet. The writer. The filmmaker. The drug addict. The dreamer. The philosopher. The friend. The sad. The lover. The human being. The life. The death and now the book.
Every artist should be obliged to read this book more than once in their lifetime to put things in perspective. More than a memoir or even a philosophical piece, it's the scream from a frustrated soul who knew about it's own anguish voice and the beauty of it.
Reading this feels like a privilege. You want to say "Thank you for being here with me. Goodbye" for it sharing words that hit you in such a private level, touching you kindly but with the harshness that's required to make you wake up and really think.
All that we leave in this world after our physical bodies die, it's our work. Our thoughts. And Cocteau became this book.

[Alphonse Meltz · Rating 3 out of 5]

Comme je l'expliquais dans un commentaire précédent je voulais lire du Giraudoux !

Mon esprit embrumé à malheureusement confondu les 2 auteurs et je me suis retrouvé à acheter la difficulté d être de Cocteau.

Je dois dire que j'ai quand même été consolé dans mon erreur déjà parcque Cocteau mentionne plusieurs fois Giraudoux dans son livre (ce qui a réduit legement mon sentiment d'inculture) et parcque j'ai trouvé quelques passages très satisfaisant:
Le concept de l'efficacité du style "sans ornement que j'avais déjà vu chez Hemingway et auquel j'essaie de me tenir
La victoire du poète et de l'artiste sur l'arithmétie.
Et encore d'autres charmant passages que je ne détaillerai pas par égard pour mes (très nombreux sans aucun doutes) lecteurs !

Finir se livre s'est tout de même révéler pénible, et j'ai du me forcer pour lire les derniers chapitres.

[Laila-Grace · Rating 3 out of 5]

I feel bad only giving this book 3 stars because it is beautiful and it is profound. However, as an overall work it just didn't do it for me. I think that this is a book to dip in and out of and to read passages / specific quotes. To read it all in one go is quite intense. I feel that this is a book that I will give another go in the future and there really are some beautiful quotes to be read but it's not an easy, enjoyable read.

**Read in French**

[Boukhalfa Inal Ahmed · Rating 3 out of 5]

Recueil de réflexions sur des thématiques diverses et variées, La Difficulté d'être interroge l'amitié, la mort, l'art, la frivolité et j'en passe tout en nous faisant revivre de manière désordonnée des instants précieux de la vie de Cocteau, qui esquisse les ruelles parisiennes aux alentours du Palais royal et se remémore ses échanges avec Picasso, Genet, Colette, Radiguet, Diaghilev, Apollinaire, Gide et bien d'autres, tout en convoquant les auteurs plus anciens qui firent impression sur lui.

[Bryan · Rating 5 out of 5]

I know quite well that I used to seek the friendship of machines that spin too fast and wear themselves out dramatically. Today paternal instinct keeps me away from them. I turn towards those who are not marked with the evil star. Cursed be it! I detest it. Once again I warm my carcass in the sunshine.

[Jonathan · Rating 4 out of 5]

“At the cinematograph, every film, thanks to the absence of color, escapes the commonplace, and accidentally enjoys the privilege of a work of art.”

Though Cocteau spends most of the book avoiding going into specific detail on his life or process, little bits slip through.