Bard Inspiration Quotes

You can’t go back and make a new start, but you can start right now and make a brand new ending.

Hope springs forever.

Only a fool wants war, but once a war starts then it cannot be fought half-heartedly. It cannot even be fought with regret, but must be waged with a savage joy in defeating the enemy, and it is that savage joy that inspires our bards to write their greatest songs about love and war.

Stories have power. Gleemen's tales, and bards' epics, and rumors in the street alike. They stir passions, and change the way men see the world.

A bard must know history so she does not repeat it. She tells the tales but is never part of them. She watches but remains above what she sees. She inspires passions in others and rules her own.

She used to think that if she stole enough, the want would fade, the hunger would go away, but maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of what she didn’t have, of what she wasn’t, but what she was.

Another Celtic legend tells of the duel of two famous bards. One, accompanying himself on the harp, sang from the coming day to the coming of twilight. Then, when the stars or the moon came out, the first bard handed the harp to the second, who laid the instrument aside and rose to his feet. The first singer admitted defeat.

This reasoning is based on the wishful thinking that genius can only be earned through education and hard work. It denies the time-proven truth that genius can strike like a random bolt of lightning, at any time in any place, even in a humble glover's home in a small town in Elizabethan England.

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

and thought to tart it up with a few Shakespeare quotations, having a vague recollection from my undergraduate days that the Bard was fond of joking about the great pox. I dusted off my battered copy of the Riverside Shakespeare and started leafing through it. Holy crap, I thought, there is a lot of stuff here on syphilis. My curiosity was piqued, and I did some more digging. Was there a connection between Shakespeare’s syphilitic obsession, contemporary gossip about his sexual misadventures, and the only medical fact known about him with certainty—that his handwriting became tremulous in late middle age? I wrote an article that appeared in Clinical Infectious Diseases, supposing it to be of scant interest beyond its immediate specialty audience. To my surprise, it generated a fair amount of Internet buzz, and inspired a segment on The Daily Show. I began to think that there might be interest in a book on the topic of writers and disease, written from a medical perspective.

Raise the bar for yourself, increase, improve and inspire others to do same. Never miss the success of each day!

The fear of death should not rule a man’s actions, he thought. Rather, its rushing inevitability should inspire the moments of his life.

allowed them to rise to such heights? Most people would answer along the lines of “extraordinary inherent talent.” And they would be wrong. - - - Call in the inspired bard, Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song. That’s one of the many god-given gifts of characters in the Odyssey. We’ve learned much since it was written—we’ve decoded human DNA and discovered our place in the universe—but we still marvel at the abilities of geniuses in the same way as the ancient Greeks did. Whether we listen to a sonata of Beethoven’s, watch highlight reels of Michael Jordan, or learn a law of Newton’s, we view extraordinary human

Alexandre Dumas, also in the audience, wrote that Shakespeare arrived in France with the “freshness of Adam’s first sight of Eden.” Fellow attendees Eugène Delacroix, Victor Hugo, and Théophile Gautier, along with Berlioz and Dumas, would create works inspired by those seminal evenings. The Bard’s electrifying combination of profound human insight and linguistic glory would continue catapulting across national borders to influence poets, painters, and composers the world over, as no other writer has done. Yet the UCLA English department—like so many others—was more concerned that its students encounter race, gender, and disability studies than that they plunge headlong into the overflowing riches of actual English literature—whether Milton, Wordsworth, Thackeray, George Eliot, or dozens of other great artists closer to our own day. How is this possible? The UCLA coup represents the characteristic academic traits of our time: narcissism, an obsession with victimhood, and a relentless determination to reduce the stunning complexity of the past to the shallow categories of identity and class politics.

So be optimistic whatever your perception of the universe happens to be. You wouldn’t look at an ocean and deny the existence of ships. So don’t look at the vastness of space and time and deny that there could be vehicles that can traverse the enormity before us. In time we will breach the walls that surround us. That is just who we are.

And eventually, maybe millions of years from now, life might evolve to a point where living beings somewhere will discover how to create a new universe. Perhaps they will even learn how to travel back to the beginning of time, and begin the construction of the universe we live in now. After all, life and love are really about creating something out of nothing.

Write and rewrite until you fall in love with what you have created. Your final draft should move you and make you feel something intensely. If you can do that, then that alone is reward enough for your efforts. And if someone else shares your love, then you have done something amazing.

Ziellos zappte sie durch die Kanäle: Von einer Kochshow, in der ein besonders kritischer Halbling die Cousine von zwei Zwergenköchen harsch aburteilte, über eine Dokumentation, die sich mit Schimmersüchtigen beschäftigte, und einen ausführlichen Bericht über den Bombenanschlag auf den Kosmetikkonzern Lesvin vor drei Wochen, bei dem ein Mann und seine kleine Tochter starben, eine Folge von "Durchs Verlies", die auf den Krieger-Comics beruhte, und in der eine Gruppe von Helden (zwei Gnome: sie Klerikerin, er Barde), ein menschlicher Barbar, ein halbelfisches Geschwisterpärchen (er mit Messern, sie mit Bogen und Bärenbegleiter) und ein menschlicher Scharfschütze mit altertümlichen Feuereisen als Bewaffnung heroisch überzeichnete Abenteuer erlebten bis hin zu einer Reportage, die gerade erst angefangen hatte.

History was second on my list of favorite subjects when I was studying at the Academy in Oxenfurt.” “What was first?” “Geography,” said the poet seriously. “The atlas was bigger and it was easier to hide a demijohn of vodka behind it.” Geralt laughed dryly and got up, removed Lunin and Tyrss’s Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy from the shelf and pulled a round-bellied vessel wrapped in straw from behind the bulky volume and into the light of day. “Oho.” The bard visibly cheered up. “Wisdom and inspiration, I see, are still to be found in libraries. Oooh! I like this! Plum, isn’t it? Yes, this is true alchemy. This is a philosopher’s stone and worth studying. Your health, brother. Ooooh, it’s strong as the plague!

Change inspired historians to write and bards to sing; it made for a story worth telling. Valeriya would do everything in her power to ensure her life meant something—that her legacy lived long after her ashes scattered to the winds.

A worthy tale is one that unsettles its hearers, spurns them to act in such a way to change their lives for the better. Flourished tales might earn a bard quick fame, but they only bolstered the vanity of a people. Sétanta hoped to tell tales that would inspire people to strive toward greatness. Not to delude crass people into believing that they had achieved greatness already.

The mystery inspires our awe, is part of what we love about Shakespeare, is part of what, in fact, makes Shakespeare Shakespeare.

Knight, who visited Stratford to gather inspiration for his biography, used the Birthplace to build out scenes of the poet’s formative years—those “happy days of boyhood” for which no accounts actually exist. Never mind. Knight imagined them, conjuring the Shakespeare family’s cozy domesticity around an evening fireside: “The mother is plying her distaff, or hearing Richard his lesson out of the ABC book. The father and the elder son are each intent upon a book of chronicles, manly reading… and then all the group crowd round their elder brother, who has laid aside his chronicle, to entreat him for a story.

Mushroom hunting in Provence is veiled in secrecy, second only to truffle hunting in the level of dissimulation and suspicion it inspires. If you are lucky enough to find a good spot, you might unearth skinny yellow and black trompettes de la mort (trumpets of death) or flat meaty pleurots (oyster mushrooms) or even small spongelike black morels. If you are not sure exactly what you've found, you can take your basket to the local pharmacy, and the pharmacist will help you sort the culinary from the potentially deadly--- it's part of their training.

This vein of poetry they call Awen, which in their language signifies as much as Raptus, or a poetic furore; and in truth as many of them as I have conversed with are, as I may say, gifted or inspired with it. I was told by a very sober and knowing person (now dead) that in his time there was a young lad fatherless and motherless, and so very poor that he was forced to beg; but at last was taken up by a rich man that kept a great stock of sheep upon the mountains not far off from the place where I now dwell, who clothed him and sent him into the mountains to keep his sheep. There in summer time, following the sheep and looking to their lambs, he fell into a deep sleep, in which he dreamed that he saw a beautiful young man with a garland of green leaves upon his head and a hawk upon his fist, with a quiver full of arrows at his back, coming towards him (whistling several measures or tunes all the way) and at last let the hawk fly at him, which he dreamed got into his mouth and inward parts, and suddenly awaked in a great fear and consternation, but possessed with such a vein, or gift of poetry, that he left the sheep and went about the Country, making songs upon all occasions, and came to be the most famous Bard in all the Country in his time.