I wandered everywhere, through cities and countries wide. And everywhere I went, the world was on my side.
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Fueled by my inspiration, I ran across the room to steal the cup of coffee the bookshelf had taken prisoner. Lapping the black watery brew like a hyena, I tossed the empty cup aside. I then returned to the chair to continue my divine act of creation. Hot blood swished in my head as my mighty pen stole across the page.
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All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art.
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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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I'm not ashamed of heroic ambitions. If man and woman can only dance upon this earth for a few countable turns of the sun.. Let each of us be an Artemis, Odysseus, or Zeus.. Aphrodite to the extent of the will of each one.
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I was glad to be made awarethat Veimke (jeune fille au pair), is subject to natural law, and can be made fat, by such things as poor diet, and alcohol.
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My Love wakes in a puddle of sunlight. Her hands asleep beside her. Her hair draped on the lawnlike a mantle of cloth.I give her my troth, for our love is wholeI sing her beauty in my soul
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I was surrounded by friends, my work was immense, and pleasures were abundant. Life, now, was unfolding before me, constantly and visibly, like the flowers of summer that drop fanlike petals on eternal soil. Overall, I was happiest to be alone; for it was then I was most aware of what I possessed. Free to look out over the rooftops of the city. Happy to be alone in the company of friends, the company of lovers and strangers. Everything, I decided, in this life, was pure pleasure.
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[As a very young man, I thought] of Europe as a place that could not exist except in the imagination, in glorious dreams, and through the careful lies of the silver screen.
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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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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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Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.
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Sexual frenzy is our compensation for the tedious moments we must suffer in the passage of life. 'Nothing in excess,' professed the ancient Greeks. Why if I spend half the month in healthy scholarship and pleasant sleep, shouldn't I be allowed the other half to howl at the moon and pillage the groins of Europe's great beauties?
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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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Womankind always seems to be able to see a dozen steps into the future, far ahead of what men are able to see. And they have strength where we do not.
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Wanderess, Wanderess, weave us a story of seduction and ruse. Heroic be the Wanderess, the world be her muse.
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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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She wakes in a puddle of sunlight. Her hands asleep beside her. Her hair draped on the lawnlike a mantle of cloth.I give her my trothfor our love is whole; her breath is my wine, her scent is my soul.
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Who worries for dying? If I close my eyes tonight, I will either dream, or not, or my eyes will open and I will be here again. And if none of those happen, and I do not wake? Who worries for dying?
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Wine gives one 'ideas,' whereas champagne gives one 'strategies.
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May a man live well-enough and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.
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The birthing wolf, Her heart fed with tenderness, Gave forth from ripe brown nipples, Food to feed the universe.
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Cities were always like people, showing their varying personalities to the traveler. Depending on the city and on the traveler, there might begin a mutual love, or dislike, friendship, or enmity. Where one city will rise a certain individual to glory, it will destroy another who is not suited to its personality. Only through travel can we know where we belong or not, where we are loved and where we are rejected.
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