Best 254 quotes in «muse quotes» category

...If I ever got sloppy and maudlin, it would be for the streets of my childhood—but no self- respecting writer should ever eulogize a slum...

If only thy eyes flutter once, the bees lose their direction and the fighting men their aim!

I found you in our truth. Running sideways for a broken muse who loved strangers as much as alcohol.

If there are princes involved, you should stay out of their way.” Jerry’s smile softened his hard-as-nails persona. “I wish I could.” I smiled my own half-hearted smile. “Maybe they should stay outta my way?” He chuckled, the sound of his laughter soft and delicious. “Maybe.

If you have someone in your life who makes you feel loved and cared and inspires you then you are truly blessed!

I know not what it is about you that makes me go crazy but I do know that the radiance in your eyes is more dazzling than that in all the diamonds of this world! And that the inimitable fragrance of your skin is more sublime than that of all the perfumes of this world!

If you schlep a shit job everyday, keep and feed a little secret life--whether it's writing, art, running, music, your thoughts. It's yours.

I get a kick out of cursing people for life on Sundays.

I had to revise all my feelings once again. I pulled out the dregs of affection from the glass of misunderstanding to rebuild my faith. I had to reinvent the cause for love, as it were. It was something I had to draw inside me, a real portrait of her, not just the inspiration but the girl as a whole, with all her shortcomings to be able to love her again.

I have not lived for millennia to be bested by a half-blood whore and her puppet prince." ~ Valenti

I know not what it is about you that makes me go crazy but I do know that the fragrance of your skin is more sublime than that of all the perfumes of this world!

I know not what it is about you that makes me go crazy but I do know that the radiance in your eyes is more dazzling than that in all the diamonds of this world!

If you hurt Muse, I will hunt you down, use every rusted weapon I own, cut off your precious parts and feed them to the hellhounds." Ryder

I got to tell you, I think (deifying artists) was a huge error. You know, I think that allowing somebody…to believe that he or she is…the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It’s like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.

In Poems of Love and Light: The Light of The Sun…Our Breath as One, the tenor seems to have changed slightly, as the progression of Love and lovers is, in many cases (if not all) quixotic, dependent upon mutual understanding, the conditions of the moment, the awareness of the future, as well as the mundane life, in which we all must exist, embracing real life, as is the natural state, which sentient individuals traverse – illusion may help those in the ‘moment’, but does nothing for the long-term, except misdirect it. Poetry has always been a way to leave something for those who come after, a legacy of inspiration, methodology, spirit, love, emotion, historical sense and utility, depending upon the subject matter, intentions of the bard, and the situations, which frame the creation of that sense of experience, with which the Poet receives his Muse. Poems of Love and Light: In The Light of the Sun, Our Breath as One

I'm just a wretched half-blood girl caught in a storm." Akil tasted his wine and smiled. "Muse, you are the storm.

I love that moment when she shyly asks me: Writer Sahab how are you?

I love you till I die!

Inspiration is the windfall from hard work and focus. Muses are too unreliable to keep on the payroll.

I sat across the table from him and watched as he popped open the lid. “I gather you like ice cream?” An eyebrow twitched comically. “Snow demon.” He shrugged.

In your arms I come alive... In your arms I drink nectar of life... In your arms I partake love... In your arms I truly live... In your arms I will truly die...

I remained with Lark in the hospital room until Aaron arrived out of breath from running. “My muse,” he said, taking her hand. Leaving them alone to prepare for the surgery, I walked into the waiting room. Cooper patted the chair next to him and I joined him. “She’ll be okay,” he said, sounding convincing. I didn’t feel like talking, so I texted Dylan, Harlow, Mom, and Dad to let them know what was happening. Cooper spoke quietly on the phone with Farah who was on her way with Tawny. First, Dick and Maryann arrived then Raven not long afterwards with Bailey. “We were shopping when you called,” Bailey announced as Raven hurried to Lark’s room. Joining her brother, Bailey tapped her foot and stared at the door. “How long will it take?” “Patience,” Cooper muttered then returned to talking with Farah. Bailey changed seats, so she was next to me. “Don’t be scared. Pixies are powerful creatures.” Smiling softly, I took Bailey’s hand and waited.

I see it, Jack. Your muse is back. The thing that gave you passion, tormented you, and haunted you is back. You're reeling in ecstasy and dread. It's something you want, but can't ever have. And the one that brings the pain is pure, white as snow... and standing in front of you.

I should’ve probably warned you: once you end a relationship with an artist, you are perpetually reminded of them. They have now ruined classical music and jazz for you. They have ruined books and poetry. You should just forget about galleries and museums. But you know what the worst part is? It’s how they witnessed and observed you, making you feel like the only person in the room. And you secretly loved being looked at, being worshipped. So now you avoid mirrors. Because when you look at yourself, you remember me.

It ain't so easy writing about nothin

I’ve long considered becoming a writer to be the death of nightmares. For me at least, since I started writing I hadn’t had any. Something really terrible or awful happens in a dream and you wake up and think, awesome, and reach for a pen and paper.

I’ve lost a guardian angel and gained a muse.

I wish to pervade your mind and slowly discover your secrets!

Masochists hold on to broken people. Artists hold on to broken memories.

Love is artists' foremost muse.

May the key of inspiration unlock your dungeon of creativity

Muse zu sein ist ein echt beschissener Job. Dein ganzes Leben lang rennst du irgendwelchen Kerlen hinterher, umsorgst sie, hegst und pflegst ihre Talente, und wenn sie dann reich und berühmt sind, lassen sie dich wie 'ne heiße Kartoffel fallen.

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.

Muse’s creations are predominately lyrical often resulting in poetic sonnets and fairytale like art.

Muse is not to be so easily dismissed. She is quite capable of turning your insides to ash before you can draw breath to apologize.

My muse is six feet, a hundred and ninety pounds and cradles my soul in his arms without knowing it.

My muse is a restless genie, a conniving devil, a wanton mistress and a fairy godmother. At times he’s Othello’s Iago, at others he’s Clarence from 'It’s a Wonderful Life'.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

My theory is you shouldn't apologize for believing in an idea-channeling muse. You should just be sure to feed her.

Never fails. Every new book I write seems impossible, writes like I'm typing from dictation, edits like I didn't write it, and finishes like I couldn't possibly have written it.

Never durst a poet touch a pen to write Until his ink was tempered with love's sighs.

NO MUSE IS GOOD MUSE To be an Artist you need talent, as well as a wife who washes the socks and the children, and returns phone calls and library books and types. In other words, the reason there are so many more Men Geniuses than Women Geniuses is not Genius. It is because Hemingway never joined the P.T.A. And Arthur Rubinstein ignored Halloween. Do you think Portnoy's creator sits through children's theater matinees--on Saturdays? Or that Norman Mailer faced 'driver's ed' failure, chicken pox or chipped teeth? Fitzgerald's night was so tender because the fender his teen-ager dented happened when Papa was at a story conference. Since Picasso does the painting, Mrs. Picasso did the toilet training. And if Saul Bellow, National Book Award winner, invited thirty-three for Thanksgiving Day dinner, I'll bet he had help. I'm sure Henry Moore was never a Cub Scout leader, and Leonard Bernstein never instructed a tricycler On becoming a bicycler just before he conducted. Tell me again my anatomy is not necessarily my destiny, tell me my hang-up is a personal and not a universal quandary, and I'll tell you no muse is a good muse unless she also helps with the laundry.

Now the poet has to embrace his destined sadness in life,by entering into this ecstatic world of imagination to unroll the heart secrets with his muse,and to happily fulfill her musky moist dreams of Romance.

Not all moments can be between two people. Some moments are between two souls!

„…Nur der Künstler kann uns den Spiegel vorhalten. Erfahrungen in eine Geschichte kleiden. Fragen stellen, Antworten geben, unser Dasein erleichtern. Uns sagen, wie das ist, ein Mensch zu sein auf diesem Planeten; hier zu leben, zu sterben oder jemanden sterben zu sehen. Was es heißt, glücklich zu sein. Ohne Kunst kein Leben.

Often the Muse will not respond to direct and logical requests. She must be lured in with the playful and gentle.

Often the inspiration to write music comes from the voices in your head. You’re not crazy. Just be thankful they are not making you rescue people in 20-degree weather at 2:30 in the morning in the forest.

O' melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.

Oh my sweet muse tell me what do I do on such romantic full-moon nights! You inflame my passion, and the moon serenades my obsession!

Once or twice, at night, he planted himself in front of the type-writer, trying to get back to the book he'd come to New York to write. It was supposed to be about America, and freedom, and the kinship of time to pain, but in order to write about these things, he'd needed experience. Well, be careful what you wish for. For now all he seemed capable of producing was a string of sentences starting, Here was William. Here was William's courage, for example. And here was William's sadness, smallness of stature, size of hands. Here was his laugh in a dark movie theater, his unpunk love of the films of Woody Allen, not for any of the obvious ways they flattered his sensibility, but for something he called their tragic sense, which he compared to Chekhov's (whom Mercer knew he had not read). Here was the way he never asked Mercer about his work; the way he never talked about his own and yet seemed to carry it with him just beneath the skin; the way his skin looked in the sodium light from outside with the light off, with clothes off, in silver rain; the way he embodied qualities Mercer wanted to have, but without ruining them by wanting to have them; the way his genius overflowed its vessel, running off into the drain; the unfinished self-portrait; the hint of some trauma in his past, like the war a shell-shocked town never talks about; his terrible taste in friends; his complete lack of discipline; the inborn incapacity for certain basic things that made you want to mother him, fuck him, give your right and left arms for him, this man-child, this skinny American; and finally his wildness, his refusal to be imaginable by anyone.