Edmond Rostand

“Cyrano: I can see him there---he grins---He is looking at my nose---that skeleton---What's that you say? Hopeless?---Why, very well!---But a man does not fight merely to win!No---no---better to know one fights in vain!...You there---Who are you? A hundred against one---I know them now, my ancient enemies---Falsehood!...There! There! Prejudice---Compromise---Cowardice---What's that? No! Surrender? No!Never---never!...Ah, you too, Vanity!I knew you would overthrow me in the end---No! I fight on! I fight on! I fight on!Yes, all my laurels you have riven awayAnd all my roses; yet in spite of you,There is one crown I bear away with me,And to-night, when I enter before God,My salute shall sweep all the stars awayFrom the blue threshold! One thing without stain,Unspotted from the world, in spite of doomMine own!---And that is...Roxane: ---That is...Cyrano: My white plume....”

“Cyrano: The leaves---Roxane: What color---Perfect Venetian red! Look at them fall.Cyrano: Yes---they know how to die. A little wayFrom the branch to the earth, a little fearOf mingling with the common dust---and yetThey go down gracefully---a fall that seemsLike flying!”

“A great nose may be an indexOf a great soul”

“Proclaim your pride and bitterness loudly to the world, but to me speak softly, and tell me simply that she doesn't love you.”

“Ah non ! C'est un peu court jeune hommeOn pourrait dire, O Dieu, bien des choses en sommeEn variant le ton, par exemple, tenez: Agressif: moi monsieur, si j'avais un tel nezIl faudrait sur le champ que je me l'emputasse !Amical: mais il doit tremper dans votre tassePour boire faîtes-vous donc fabriquer un hanap.Descriptif: c'est un roc ! c'est un pic ! c'est un cap !Que dis-je, c'est un cap ? c'est une péninsule !”

“Eh bien ! Oui, c’est mon vice. Déplaire est mon plaisir. J’aime qu’on me haïsse.”

“What would you have me do? Seek for the patronage of some great man,And like a creeping vine on a tall treeCrawl upward, where I cannot stand alone?No thank you! Dedicate, as others do,Poems to pawnbrokers? Be a buffoonIn the vile hope of teasing out a smileOn some cold face? No thank you! Eat a toadFor breakfast every morning? Make my kneesCallous, and cultivate a supple spine,-Wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?No thank you! Scratch the back of any swineThat roots up gold for me? Tickle the hornsOf Mammon with my left hand, while my rightToo proud to know his partner's business,Takes in the fee? No thank you! Use the fireGod gave me to burn incense all day longUnder the nose of wood and stone? No thank you!Shall I go leaping into ladies' lapsAnd licking fingers?-or-to change the form-Navigating with madrigals for oars,My sails full of the sighs of dowagers?No thank you! Publish verses at my ownExpense? No thank you! Be the patron saintOf a small group of literary soulsWho dine together every Tuesday? NoI thank you! Shall I labor night and dayTo build a reputation on one song,And never write another? Shall I findTrue genius only among Geniuses,Palpitate over little paragraphs,And struggle to insinuate my nameIn the columns of the Mercury?No thank you! Calculate, scheme, be afraid,Love more to make a visit than a poem,Seek introductions, favors, influences?-No thank you! No, I thank you! And againI thank you!-But...To sing, to laugh, to dreamTo walk in my own way and be alone,Free, with a voice that means manhood-to cock my hatWhere I choose-At a word, a Yes, a No, To fight-or write.To travel any roadUnder the sun, under the stars, nor doubtIf fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne-Never to make a line I have not heardIn my own heart; yet, with all modestyTo say:"My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own."So, when I win some triumph, by some chance,Render no share to Caesar-in a word,I am too proud to be a parasite,And if my nature wants the germ that growsTowering to heaven like the mountain pine,Or like the oak, sheltering multitudes-I stand, not high it may be-but alone!”

“My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own.”

“To joke in the face of danger is the supreme politeness, a delicate refusal to cast oneself as a tragic hero; panache is therefore a timid heroism, like the smile with which one excuses one's superiority.”

“I have a different idea of elegance. I don't dress like a fop, it's true, but my moral grooming is impeccable. I never appear in public with a soiled conscience, a tarnished honor, threadbare scruples, or an insult that I haven't washed away. I'm always immaculately clean, adorned with independence and frankness. I may not cut a stylish figure, but I hold my soul erect. I wear my deeds as ribbons, my wit is sharper then the finest mustache, and when I walk among men I make truths ring like spurs.”

“Guardami in faccia, e poi dimmi quale speranza consentir mi potrebbe questa protuberanza! Io non m'illudo, no. Talor certo, m'avviene d'intenerirmi anch'io nelle notti serene;e, se in qualche giardino entro, aspirando il maggio con il mio poveraccio di naso, sotto un raggio di argento qualche donna che passeggia a braccetto di un cavaliere io seguo, e il cor mi balza in petto, e penso, ahimè, che anch'io vorrei meco averne una per passeggiare a lenti passi sotto la luna. E mi esalto, e m'oblio... Quand'ecco all'improvviso l'ombra del mio profilo su pel muro ravviso!”

“All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses; yet in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me... One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is... my white plume.”

“My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.”

“Your neck. I want to kiss it.”

“To sing, to laugh, to dream, to walk in my own way and be alone, free, with an eye to see things as they are, a voice that means manhood—to cock my hat where I choose—At a word, a Yes, a No, to fight—or write. To travel any road under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne—Never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart; yet, with all modesty to say: "My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.”

“A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear.”

“Qui connaît son sourire a connu le parfait.”

“A kiss, when all is told, what is it? An oath taken a little closer, a promise more exact. A wish that longs to be confirmed, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love'. A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear, a moment of infinity humming like a bee, a communion tasting of flowers, a way of breathing in a little of the heart and tasting a little of the soul with the edge of the lips!”

“I love you, but I should poorly serve the work to which I devote myself anew at the side of one to whom it were less than the greatest thing in the world!”

“You must believe me when I believe, and not when I doubt.”

“I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!”

“...But...to sing,to dream, to smile, to walk, to be alone, be free,with a voice that stirs and an eye that still can see!To cock your hat to one side, when you pleaseat a yes, a no, to fight, or- make poetry!To work without a thought of fame or fortune,on that journey, that you dream of, to the moon!Never to write a line that's not your own...”

“Speak to me...be eloquent, be brilliant for me. Improvise! Rhapsodize!... I ask for cream and you give me milk and water... Please gather your dreams together into words. - Roxanne, Cyrano de Bergerac”

“Take it, and turn to facts my fantasies.”

“She is a mortal danger without meaning to be one; she's exquisite without giving ita thought; shes a trap set by nature, a rose in which love lies in ambush! Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She creates grace without movement and makes all divinity fit into her slightest gesture.And neither Venus in her shell, nor Diana striding in the great, blossoming forest, can compare to her when she goes through the streets of paris in her sedan chair.”

“They know how to die-a little way from the branch to the earth, a little fear of mingling with common dust and yet they go down gracefully-a fail that seems like flying!”

“Oui, je veux être aimé moi-même, ou pas du tout!”

“ROXANE: Live, for I love you!CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast-- But I remain the same, up to the last!ROXANE: I have marred your life--I, I!CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship--grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path.”

“How obvious it is now--the gift you gave him. All those letters, they were you... All those beautiful powerful words, they were you!.. The voice from the shadows, that was you... You always loved me!" Roxanne”

“And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love.' A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever.”

“Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . .The rare occasion, when our hearts can speakOur selves unseen, unseeing!”

“Ce qu'il faut pouvoir, ce qu'il faut savoir,C'est garder son rêve...C'est avoir des yeux qui, voyant le laid,Voient le beau quand même;C'est savoir rester, parmi ce qu'on haitAvec ce qu'on aime.”

“Roxane: His face is like yours, burning with spirit and imagination. He is proud and noble and young and fearless and beautiful-Cyrano:(losing all his colour.) Beautiful!Roxane: Yes. What's wrong?Cyrano: With me? Nothing. It's only... only... (Displaying his bandaged hand, with a little smile.) This fatal wound.”

“I-I am going to be a storm-a flame-I need to fight whole armies alone;I have ten hearts; I have a hundred arms;I feel too strong to war with mortals-BRING ME GIANTS!”

“My nose is Gargantuan! You little Pig-snout, you tiny Monkey-Nostrils, you virtually invisible Pekinese-Puss, don't you realize that a nose like mine is both scepter and orb, a monument to me superiority? A great nose is the banner of a great man, a generous heart, a towering spirit, an expansive soul--such as I unmistakably am, and such as you dare not to dream of being, with your bilious weasel's eyes and no nose to keep them apart! With your face as lacking in all distinction--as lacking, I say, in interest, as lacking in pride, in imagination, in honesty, in lyricism--in a word, as lacking in nose as that other offensively bland expanse at the opposite end of your cringing spine--which I now remove from my sight by stringent application of my boot!”

“Well when I write my book, and tell the tale of my adventures--all these little stars that shake out of my cloak-- I must save those to use for asterisks!”

“My heart to yours sends but one cry:If kisses fast could fleeBy letter, then with your sweet lipsMy letters read should be!”

“All our souls are written in our eyes.”

“A kiss, when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the "i" in loving; 'tis a secret told to the mouth instead of to the ear.”