Best 254 quotes in «muse quotes» category

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

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.

May the key of inspiration unlock your dungeon of creativity

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

Love is artists' foremost muse.

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.

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

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'.

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.

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

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 —

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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.

One day she asked me: "Is this love?" I said: "If this is not love, then love is nothing!

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.

One must give himself completely to his art and not hold back. Throw caution to the wind. Embrace the muse. Make love to your art.

One significant development with regards to these muses of modern-day art is that the gender roles that were used in the past are no longer valid. The days where the women were the ones who solely inspired the men are no longer as both men and women alike are able to make efforts to create music and other forms of art.

People are dying out there, and I’m not faring much better.” “Worrying about the demise of anonymous people won’t bring them back.” Pursing my lips, I planted a hand on a hip. “How very demon of you.” “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” ~ Muse & Akil

Poets write for an audience. And when the audience is soulful and sensitive to understand the nuances and subtleties of poetry then writing and reading the lines of your poetry becomes a pleasure!

Poetry Is The Language Of Mysticism & Discourse. It Is The Whisper In The Dark, The Shadow In The Light. Poetry Is An Incantation From The Depths Of Your Very Soul.

Secrets are a part of life. Their mysteries make our world beautiful. Their depths inspire our hearts, intrigue our minds, and embrace our very souls.

Outline of your frame My paper witness your silhouette Sipping in coffee My muse, my Juliet. Afternoon spent, In hungry desires Ending with a kiss On your coffee lips.

Second chances come when we least expect them.

She cured me of my sadness.

She gave me hugs that were like oxygen to a dying man and uplifted my soul!

She is a beautiful muse. She cares for me and nurtures our bond. And when she is in my life then I feel an unknown happiness and an unusual serenity. This bond has been strong for a long time by now. And I feel a victory each time when she wins in life.

She is my intoxication!

She is the fragrance of a dozen jasmines.

She loved me deeply, madly and passionately. She knew no other way!

Ritual Version —for Kate Middleton humself, shamself, hymnself, shameself—. lameself, lambself, numbself, unself—. sing anger, goddess, of—. many devices—. sing anger godless—. tell me who—. sacred in the sea suffered so many woes—. bookshelf, doubtshelf, debtshelf, riftshelf—. driftshelf, truthshelf, foolshelf, rueshelf—. sing less the many souls sent—. they perished—. sing spoils for the dogs—. who swallowed down the foolish song—. the soul and its companions—. nounself, nonceself, nonself, lashself—. ashself, lawself, thoughtself, aughtself—. tell me, muse, from any point—. and birds—. sing less the wrath of—. a man’s cleverness—. tell also us—. of recklessness—. of home—.

She said "Go ahead and ruin me!" And my pen made her into a story!

She tells me that she would not make for a good conversation. Yet every time that she talks, I don't want her to ever stop!

She was in awe of all his work. 'How do you do it?" she asked. He smiled and said, 'By loving you.

She was remembering His gaze, those deep pools of blue, crystalline in nature, peering deep into her soul. She remembered the first night she had looked into that darkness – no, into that light in his eyes – they were level and straight, kind and compassionate, without any ado, Her hands in His, offerings of comfort and concern for Her station, the concern she felt for those close to Her, each to their own heaven or hell, and the law of attraction began to build.

Sitting to think of what to write will only set your ass on fire, give you headache, twist your face to look stupid, instead, walk around with a blank mind and something from somewhere will fill it up.

Some days we need as much quiet courage as we can muster. NOt to risk our lives or our hearts to break paradigms or change the world. But just to wake up and push through the small and aching spaces. To sit down and do the work. To show up in love and fullness. Sometimes, just those things take so much. If this is you today, know that we are in it together. And there’s got to be some power in that.

Some people are too precious. Their presence brings peace and tranquility into our lives.

Some people are truly beautiful. The light of beauty shines through their souls. And the world gets drenched in their inimitable light of love.

some poems froth and foam and rise... out of my morning cup of mist-sweetened coffee.