I wandered everywhere, through cities and countries wide. And everywhere I went, the world was on my side.
All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art.
Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.
The ‘Muse’ is not an artistic mystery, but a mathematical equation. The gift are those ideas you think of as you drift to sleep. The giver is that one you think of when you first awake.
In life, more than in anything else, it isn’t easy to end up alive.
We were hooked when we woke. We had arms for each other. But I yearned to resume My dreams of another.
I regained my soul through literature after those times I’d lost it to wild-eyed gypsy girls on the European streets.
From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent. It can only be squandered.
She was so delicate that, while we sat beneath the linden branches, a leaf would fall and drift down and touch her skin, and it would leave a bruise. So as we sat in the afternoon hour, beneath that fragrant linden bower, I had to chase all of the leafs that fell away.
Alexander the Great slept with ‘The Iliad’ beneath his pillow. During the waning moon, I cradle Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ as if it were the sweet body of a woman.
To wish a healthy man to die is the wish from a mind of sickness. To wish an ailing man to die is the wish of the ambitious.
Who is better off? The one who writes to revel in the voluptuousness of the life that surrounds them? Or the one who writes to escape the tediousness of that which awaits them outside? Whose flame will last longer?