Honest Musings Quotes

Why haven't I got a husband and children?" mused Greta Garbo to the Dutchess of Windsor, "I never met a man I could marry.

Don't pretend to be happy with any ordeal, it's cruel and could seal a fate that shouldn't be.

If you take temptations into account, who is to say that he is better than his neighbour? A comfortable career of prosperity, if it does not make people honest, at least keeps them so.

It was astonishing, I mused, how often people claimed to be honest when they were simply making a virtue of excessive rudeness.

So I shall be honest – I don’t think that I can love a man for longer than…” She mused as she leant her head charmingly to the side and considered. “One year?” I suggested. “What are you thinking of? – perhaps one month” “Even for me?” “No, for you… perhaps two.” “Two months!” I gasped. “Two months is quite long

I am my own muse,’ wrote Frida Kahlo. ‘I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to know better.

If you take temptations into account, who is to say that he is better than his neighbour? A comfortable career of prosperity, if it does not make people honest, at least keeps them so.

Now as always—humility and terror. Fear that the working of my pen cannot capture the grinding of my brain. It is so easy to understand why the ancients prayed for the help of a Muse. And the Muse came and stood beside them, and we, heaven help us, do not believe in Muses. We have nothing to fall back on but our craftsmanship and it, as modern literature attests, is inadequate. May I be honest; may I be decent; may I be unaffected by the technique of hucksters. If invocation is required, let this be my invocation—may I be strong and yet gentle, tender and yet wise, wise and yet tolerant. May I for a little while, only for a little while, see with the inflamed eyes of a God.

You're the most interesting person I've talked to in ages." Not you're a bright light in a dark corner of the world, not a fair face in a gloomy neighborhood, not a muse or a nymph or an angel with a rosy smile to bestow on her willing supplicants. None of that nonsense verbiage men usually offered her. He asked her to return, very simply, because he wanted to talk to her.

I don’t know what came over me. You were in my arms, crying and when I looked down at you I just couldn’t stop myself. It was like some uncontrollable force I just had to kiss you Layla. I know you’re mad and I’m sorry that you feel that way but honestly Layla? It was wonderful. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’m crazy about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up, the only thing I think about all day and the last thing I think about at night. You’re my muse. I must have written at least twenty new songs since I met you and they’re all about you. Your eyes, your smile the way you laugh and the way you make my heart want to tear its way out of my chest when you’re near me. I can’t fight it any more, it’s killing me. I’ve tried to forget it, to get over you but no other girl even compares. I don’t know what to do anymore.

How do you remain an individual when you are also part of so powerfully driven a pair?” “Irrational or justified, it is what it is.” Gideon was realizing the logic of that for himself even as he spoke the words. “Perhaps, in time, it will be less acute. I have no desire to rob you of your individuality, nor do I wish to lose my own. It is difficult for me as well . . . I have been so solitary throughout my lifetime, and now, to be suddenly given such riveting company . . . I fear I cannot do you the justice you deserve. And for you it will be worse; with the influx of power you are beginning to experience it will be taxing, to say the least.” “I know.” Legna reached up and splayed her palms over the dark silk covering his chest. “I suppose at some point, if I start to go crazy, you are going to have to knock me out or tie me up or something.” “Hmm. The latter has possibilities,” he mused with a growling smile that erased the tension in his face. Legna laughed, giving him a shove. “Gideon, you are nothing but an ancient pervert,” she teased him. “And this is an issue because . . . ?” “You are horrible!” She pushed away from him, gaining her feet. He reached to take her hand, pulling her closer once more and continuing to do so until she had nowhere else to go but his lap. She took the seat, her voluminous skirts spreading over them both. “I will forgive you, this time,” she conceded. “Thank you,” he said with honest graciousness. “Now, my beauty, tell me what you would like to do to get to know me better. I find myself looking forward to your discoveries.” “Well, I did not think of anything specific. I imagined time would fill itself.” “That is dangerously liberal, sweet. If you leave it up to the natural course of things, I can tell you exactly what we will end up doing.” Legna giggled, blushing because she realized he was right. Even just sitting in his lap and talking as she was, she could feel the mutual awareness that sparked between them, constantly simmering and waiting for just a little more heat to bring them up to the boiling point. “Very well, I am open to suggestions,” she invited. “Again, too liberal,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischievous starlight. “You are incorrigible. I never realized you were a sex fiend, Gideon.” “I am now,” he amended, drawing a finger down the slope of her nose.

every Friday night he would set up a desk in the Tight Manhole, an Irish bar where the mine workers drank and sang songs of misery. The oil company paid him to report on all the charitable and civic-minded projects they had in the works as well as hard-hitting news stories happening in Haggleworth. Because of his honest face and gifted speaking voice, men and women would come in from all the other bars in Haggleworth—the Dirty Chute, the Mine Shaft, the Rear End, the Suspect Opening, the Black Orifice, the Poop Chute, too many to list here—all to listen to The Shell Oil Burgundy Hour.

Having experimented in both poetry and prose, I can say that the two are such loaded words. But neither are quite as weighted as the word “poet”. I think some people can write poetry their whole lives, and never truly BE a “poet”. Whereas I see poets in the wanderers I encounter, the baristas who serve me, and the truckers I, so, love to talk to.To be a poet in my humble opinion is to be a muse of the human experience. I love that I love the idea, that anything can be poetry, it can’t be defined. It’s a feeling, like punk rock. I’m not one for form or structure. I say if your words are visceral and honest, it’s poetry. If you see the beauty of the world and humanity, and you preach it, you’re a poet.

He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song, and most of which had recently received a romantic interest from his own pen. In fact, I saw a great part of the border country spread out before me, and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances which had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about me for a time with mute surprise, I may almost say with disappointment. I beheld a mere succession of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eye could reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of trees, that one could almost see a stout fly walking along their profile; and the far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare hills, without a tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been the magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it had a greater charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England. I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott hummed for a moment to himself, and looked grave; he had no idea of having his muse complimented at the expense of his native hills. "It may be partiality," said he, at length; "but to my eye, these gray hills and all this wild border country have beauties peculiar to themselves. I like the very nakedness of the land; it has something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest gray hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die!

Four Years Since Today I remember the day but to be honest it is everyday That day then, the moment then, when you left us all here More than just a father I call, a gem I treasure, that day I lost We four girls, my mom’s other half, my brothers best bud, our first love, we lost Holding the key to the future called You, I stand still facing the gate of the past Why I keep on asking the same question? Why you? Why out of all those people? Why too soon? Why? It has been years, 4 years exact, it seems like yesterday yes You were taken too soon, words aren’t enough to express It’s not fair, but who I am to blame, who Am I to question? My eyes express longing you cannot fathom From my open mouth my broken heart pours Words that try to capture that image so faint He is the picture I could not ever paint Yet our memories is in the solid bowl being kept Spare me even just 5 or 10 minutes of your presence To build up this longing I feel, I am asking I want to hear your nag; I want to hear your laugh In my dreams please see me there I won’t get afraid nor get frightened Like a waterfalls my tears keeps on flowing Like a bubble your voice keeps on vanishing He, his shadow, he himself starts from fading I don’t want to forget you please stop time from ticking I don’t want to open my eyes don’t wake me from dreaming You are the art of my painting, the muse of my poem My strength, my inspiration why I’m still holding on My king, my superman, name them all, you are my only one I miss the old golden days when you used to carry us one by one Look papa, how I am now, hoping always, you’ll be proud It pains me to know this inevitable truth, yes That I can’t see you for now yes it’s the truth, but My father’s love undeniable not easily obtained Something that few, many people rather don’t have But I’m blessed and proud I have mine claimed.

This Temple of the Arts and Muses is dedicated to Almighty God by the first Governors of Broadcasting in the year 1931, Sir John Reith being Director General. It is their prayer that good seed sown may bring forth a good harvest, that all things hostile to peace or purity may be banished from this house, and that the people, inclining their ear to whatsoever things are beautiful and honest and of good report, may tread the path of wisdom and uprightness.

To be honest, I had to kind of sit a couple of weeks to figure out why I wanted to do this. I know it sounds pretentious, but MF DOOM was one of my muses. On December 31, I was sitting in this room and looking at my phone, working too late, and I saw that he died. I had just gotten the phone, and I threw it on the ground. I took it really personally, which is super surprising because I just don't get into celebrity culture. But I had to say something about it because I felt like I hadn't expressed enough what MF DOOM meant to me. It made sense to do it as a comic book, because he does the whole supervillain schtick. He pulled from Marvel Comics, Saturday morning cartoons, and all that stuff. It seemed like a no-brainer.

Are you okay? You seemed... tense, outside.” She glances at the spine of my book, cringing. “Uh-oh, Dorian Gray? I know you have some mileage on you, but honestly, thirty-two is young

the white tents. 17. Two views of The Wild West in Paris, igo5. Colonel Cody, a Hawkeye by birth, is personally lionized by the Parisians, and his unique exhibition, so full of historical and dramatic interest, made a wonderful impression upon the susceptible French public. The twenty lessons I took in French, at the Berlitz School of Languages, London, only gave me a faint idea of what the language was like, but as I was required to make my lectures and announcements in French, I had my speeches translated, and was coached in their delivery by Monsieur Corthesy, editeur, le journal de Londres. Well, I got along pretty fair, considering that I did not know the meaning of half the words I was saying. Anyway it amused them, so I was satisfied. I honestly believe that more people came in the side show in Paris to hear and laugh at my "rotten" French than anything else, and when I found that a certain word or expression excited their risibilities, I never changed it. I can look back now and see where some of my own literal translations were very funny. Colonel Cody's exhibition is unique in many ways, and might justly be termed a polyglot school, no less than twelve distinct languages being spoken in the camp, viz.: Japanese, Russian, French, Arabic, Greek, Hungarian, German, Italian, Spanish, Holland, Flemish, Chinese, Sioux and English. Being in such close contact every day, we were bound to get some idea of each other's tongue, and all acquire a fair idea of English. Colonel Cody is, therefore, entitled to considerable credit for disseminating English, and thus preserving the entente cordiale between nations. 18. Entrance to the Wild West, Champs de Mars, Paris, Igo5. The first place of public interest that we visited in Paris was the Jardin des Plantes (botanical and zoological garden) and le Musee d'Histoire Naturelle. The zoological collection would suffer in comparison with several in America I might mention, but the Natural History Museum is very complete, and is, to my notion, the most artistically arranged of any museum I have visited. Le Palais du Trocadero, which was in sight of our grounds and facing the

To be honest with you the perfect person does not exist. There is no woman or man you would meet who would make you write poetry. So poets create imaginary persons who could play muses in their life. And inspire them to write. I have met many people in life, but I have always enjoyed being alone.

All those who have done according to the best of their knowledge, whether they are Christians, Pagans, Jews, Muhammadans, or any other class of men that have ever lived upon the earth, that have dealt honestly and justly with their fellow beings, walked uprightly before each other, loved mercy, tried to put down iniquity, and done as far right as they knew how, according to the laws they lived under, no matter what the laws were, will share in a resurrection that will be glorious far beyond the conception of mortals.” Brigham Young, Journal of Discourses 7:288

I smile, and for the first time in a long time, I send thanks to Mama Luda’s God. My smile slowly turns into a chuckle as he continues to stare at me, uncomprehending. I shake my head. “I’m well aware that my father is dead,” I tell him. “I wasn’t talking about Ivan or Ace. I was talking about someone much worse.” “Who could be worse than the Undead?” he muses, seeming entertained by my apparent confidence. My smile widens. “My own brand of Heaven and Hell,” I tell him honestly. “The Undead aren’t nearly as cruel as the living, and he’ll be coming soon.” I know my man. He’ll always come.

Every father is the perfect man to his son; closer to gods in perfection and divinity. But here, as he was being unflinchingly honest in his response and baring his very human imperfections, he was beginning to appear more of an imperfectly beautiful human and less of a depressingly perfect god. The conversations were so engaging that we went from sounding like raunchy teenagers, to erotic novelists, to perfect anti-socials. To being two unpretentious adults involved in a man-to-man talk. Finally, to being two independent souls unfettered by the mundane world and its constrictive definitions of relationships. The man was to become my muse. The theme. The story; its meaning and meaninglessness. The character, the audience. The admirer, the critic. The patron, and the beneficiary.

You can still be honest at the same time as having something to hide.

school stood. He wished he’d had the guts to choose something honest, like the entry Andi had been bold enough to submit. While most students, like him, had produced anodyne statements calculated not to offend, she had mused about the private nature of journaling and how carefully curated everyone’s senior page actually was, before concluding with a poem: These Best Years Bridging the gap between childhood and adulthood Prepared, precisely prepped, on the path to our predestination Are we about to wake up? Or have we just fallen asleep? Every time Ian read her senior page, he thought about one of his entries from freshman year—the day he met her, September 20, 1993. A new girl started today. Her name’s Andi Bloom. She just showed up in algebra

If he went crazy, I'd be out the door and jogging like the devil was on my ass. That, or I'd end up in his bed. Let's be honest here, the second was more likely.

Thom pretended to think on it, but he couldn't stifle his smile. Reaching out, he ghosted his fingers across Riddle's jaw , and he let them linger over his lips. 'You know,' he mused, 'you're the one person I know who I don't have to be anyone around.' 'Do you prefer it?' 'I think it's a close to happiness as I can imagine.' 'Being no one?' 'Yes,' he said honestly. 'But I meant being with you.

I see,” she interrupted crisply. “Snorkeling is too tame for you. Okay. Fine. I can think of something else. Quite honestly, I didn’t think that I would have to justify my adventure.” She speared him with a dry look. “And you are the one who pointed out that I must invent my own. Nevertheless,” she went on. “If snorkeling isn’t your style I’m certain that I can come up with something a little more…titillating. Let’s see,” she mused.