Women are extraordinary creatures!
Roman Payne
I wandered everywhere, through cities and countries wide. And everywhere I went, the world was on my side.
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I regained my soul through literature after those times I'd lost it to wild-eyed gypsy girls on the European streets.
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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?
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The lot of the brideto be wed before beddesired until rotten. The lot of the authorto be read before bedadmired then forgotten.
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May a man live well-, and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.
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I like the posture, but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning, but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden, the moment but not the dream. Quiet, my love. Be still. I am sleeping.
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Be there a picnic for the devil, an orgy for the satyr, and a wedding for the bride.
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We made love outdoorsWithout a roof, I like most, Without stove, to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and gushing of dew.
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It is growing cold. Winter is putting footsteps in the meadow. What whiteness boasts that sun that comes into this wood! One would say milk-colored maidens are dancing on the petals of orchids. How coldly burns our sun! One would say its rays of light are shards of snow, one imagines the sun lives upon a snow crested peak on this day. One would say she is a woman who wears a gown of winter frost that blinds the eyes. Helplessness has weakened me. Wandering has wearied my legs.
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Women writers make for rewarding (and efficient) lovers. They are clever liars to fathers and husbands; yet they never hold their tongues too long, nor keep ardent typing fingers still.
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Rich will be my life if I can keep my memories full and brimming, and record them on clear-eyed mornings while I set joyously to work setting pen to holy craft.
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I sat up in the strange bed fearing it had been a dream, afraid I would never see her again. Not because I wanted anything from her, only her presence. The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.
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A writer needs to ingest love to be passionate. Passion is a metabolite of love, and good writing is an active metabolite of passion.
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Fortune's fool! How we humans lie upon beauty like lizards upon a sun-baked rock.
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