L L Musings Quotes

My obsession. My muse. My enemy. “All

This quote – Tess says it to her mother after Alec D’Urberville has had his wicked way with her.” “I know,” muses Kate. “What is he trying to say?” “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.” “The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Kate asks with a completely straight face. “Yes, that bit.

To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else's eyes, flaws and all.

When we first walked through those doors, we did so without knowing that we were now part of some strange fanatic religion where anything could be excused so long as it was offered at the altar of the Muses. Ritual madness, ecstasy, human sacrifice.

After a few days, I mused, I would have no trouble. Whoever heard of a revolution of fat men?

You aren't a morning person, are you?" he mused. "No, I'm not. There is a reason mornin' and mournin' sound the same.

Lovely thoughts came flying to meet me like birds. They weren't my thoughts. I couldn't think anything half so exquisite. They came from somewhere.

Remember, the village idiot was the spiritual man who built the ark and saved his family. Keep being you and never give up marching to the beat of your own drum!

A sacrifice is not about expecting God to break the bond you have with another person. You make the sacrifice on your own because God is more important than the bond.

No connection can ever be broken if love holds tight at both ends.

I called Grace right before I went into the diner. Actually, I called Sam, but Grace answered his phone. “It’s the end,” I said. “I’m going to breakfast with my parents.” “I had the worst dream about you last night,” Grace mused. “Did I go around L.A. biting people? Because that already happened.” “No,” she replied. “You came home.

Never on painter's canvas lives The charm of his fancy's dream.

Like one of those damned clapper lights. Love on. Love off. Robert musing about his parents love for him

There is evidence that the honoree [Leonard Cohen] might be privy to the secret of the universe, which, in case you're wondering, is simply this: everything is connected. Everything. Many, if not most, of the links are difficult to determine. The instrument, the apparatus, the focused ray that can uncover and illuminate those connections is language. And just as a sudden infatuation often will light up a person's biochemical atmosphere more pyrotechnically than any deep, abiding attachment, so an unlikely, unexpected burst of linguistic imagination will usually reveal greater truths than the most exacting scholarship. In fact. The poetic image may be the only device remotely capable of dissecting romantic passion, let alone disclosing the inherent mystical qualities of the material world. Cohen is a master of the quasi-surrealistic phrase, of the "illogical" line that speaks so directly to the unconscious that surface ambiguity is transformed into ultimate, if fleeting, comprehension: comprehension of the bewitching nuances of sex and bewildering assaults of culture. Undoubtedly, it is to his lyrical mastery that his prestigious colleagues now pay tribute. Yet, there may be something else. As various, as distinct, as rewarding as each of their expressions are, there can still be heard in their individual interpretations the distant echo of Cohen's own voice, for it is his singing voice as well as his writing pen that has spawned these songs. It is a voice raked by the claws of Cupid, a voice rubbed raw by the philosopher's stone. A voice marinated in kirschwasser, sulfur, deer musk and snow; bandaged with sackcloth from a ruined monastery; warmed by the embers left down near the river after the gypsies have gone. It is a penitent's voice, a rabbinical voice, a crust of unleavened vocal toasts -- spread with smoke and subversive wit. He has a voice like a carpet in an old hotel, like a bad itch on the hunchback of love. It is a voice meant for pronouncing the names of women -- and cataloging their sometimes hazardous charms. Nobody can say the word "naked" as nakedly as Cohen. He makes us see the markings where the pantyhose have been. Finally, the actual persona of their creator may be said to haunt these songs, although details of his private lifestyle can be only surmised. A decade ago, a teacher who called himself Shree Bhagwan Rajneesh came up with the name "Zorba the Buddha" to describe the ideal modern man: A contemplative man who maintains a strict devotional bond with cosmic energies, yet is completely at home in the physical realm. Such a man knows the value of the dharma and the value of the deutschmark, knows how much to tip a waiter in a Paris nightclub and how many times to bow in a Kyoto shrine, a man who can do business when business is necessary, allow his mind to enter a pine cone, or dance in wild abandon if moved by the tune. Refusing to shun beauty, this Zorba the Buddha finds in ripe pleasures not a contradiction but an affirmation of the spiritual self. Doesn't he sound a lot like Leonard Cohen? We have been led to picture Cohen spending his mornings meditating in Armani suits, his afternoons wrestling the muse, his evenings sitting in cafes were he eats, drinks and speaks soulfully but flirtatiously with the pretty larks of the street. Quite possibly this is a distorted portrait. The apocryphal, however, has a special kind of truth. It doesn't really matter. What matters here is that after thirty years, L. Cohen is holding court in the lobby of the whirlwind, and that giants have gathered to pay him homage. To him -- and to us -- they bring the offerings they have hammered from his iron, his lead, his nitrogen, his gold.

I did not have sex with a mongoose.

The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

L’ispirazione non esiste. È forse qualcosa che guida le mani di scultori e pittori e detta immagini e note all’udito di poeti e musicisti, ma che non va mai a trovare il romanziere: quest’ultimo è del tutto trascurato dalle muse ed è condannato a sostituire quella collaborazione negatagli con la testardaggine, la fatica e la pazienza

She was remembering His gaze, those deep pools of blue, crystalline in nature, peering deep into her soul. She remembered the first night she had looked into that darkness – no, into that light in his eyes – they were level and straight, kind and compassionate, without any ado, Her hands in His, offerings of comfort and concern for Her station, the concern she felt for those close to Her, each to their own heaven or hell, and the law of attraction began to build.

Nobody quits the book club. Once you’re in the club, you’re in it forever.

When we first walked through those doors, we did so without knowing that we were now part of some strange fanatic religion where anything could be excused so long as it was offered at the altar of the Muses. Ritual madness, ecstasy, human sacrifice. We were bewitched? Brainwashed? Perhaps.

Never underestimate the power of a well-timed, quality piece of chocolate.

That’s twenty Slater children if we all meet the quota,” Branna mused. “Twenty-five when Damien eventually settles down.” I blew out a large breath. “Our poor fuckin’ fannies.” We burst into a fit of laughter.

I have my moments,” he mused. “They’re few and far between,” I countered, grinning

A writer should remember that about his muse there is a great deal of the Siren. He should view his mental offspring as relentlessly as a Spartan father - if it is not perfectly sound, let it be cast out.

He mused on this village of his, which had sprung up in this place, amid the stones, like the gnarled undergrowth of the valley. All Artaud's inhabitants were inter-related, all bearing the same surname to such an extent that they used double-barrelled names from the cradle up, to distinguish one from another. At some antecedent date an ancestral Artaud had come like an outcast, to establish himself in this waste land. His family had grown with the savage vitality of the vegetation, drawing nourishment from this stone till it had become a tribe, then the tribe turned to a community, till they could not sort out their cousinage, going back for generations. They inter-married with unblushing promiscuity.

I watch as he moves gracefully through his kitchen. He's so at ease with his body on one level, but then he doesn't like to be touched... so maybe deep down he isn't. No man is an island, I muse – except perhaps Christian Grey. 'What are you thinking?' he asks, pulling me from my reverie. I flush. 'I was just watching the way you move.' He raises an eyebrow, amused. 'And?' he says dryly. I flush some more. 'You're very graceful.' 'Why thank you, Miss Steele' he murmurs.

I wonder where our legs have been while we've been gone?" mused Cap'n Bill,

To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.

Just when I figured out how to quiet the characters in my head, the multiple stories my creative muse wants me to write started screaming for attention!

Southern California sunsets, neon, flowers, ocean, desert landscapes, and wide boulevards sifted their ways into the subconsciousnesses (or consciousnesses) of L.A. artists.

I can’t wait to see them both when you get them done.” Kane playfully nudged me. “I could get them done tomorrow if junior here would hurry up and vacate your premises.” I giggled. “She will come out when she is good and ready.” “Like a typical woman then?” Kane mused. “Her way or the highway option.” I bobbed my head up and down. “You got it.” “Good thing it’s a boy then.” He grinned as he leaned in and kissed my head. “I love you, babydoll.” “And I love you.

The Muses can kiss my ass. Inspiration’s done too much damage already— Gabbler suspects I’m insane. Yet Gabbler’s still so interested in my story. Gabbler hopes I’m joking—only putting on a show (Gabbler has always liked my eccentricities).

Keela hung up before Alec could say another word. “Five fuckin’ kids each.” “That’s twenty Slater children if we all meet the quota,” Branna mused. “Twenty-five when Damien eventually settles down.” I blew out a large breath. “Our poor fuckin’ fannies.” We burst into a fit of laughter.

I think it’s the things that hurt the worst that mean the most, don’t you?” she mused, her hair flying around her face as if she’d stirred a new concept that’d been waiting to be revealed. “Good or bad. That’s what’s gonna shape us. Make us into who we are. Guide us on the path to what we want the most.

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

Lo giorno se n’andava, e l’aere bruno toglieva li animai che sono in terra da le fatiche loro; e io sol uno m’apparecchiava a sostener la guerra sì del cammino e sì de la pietate, che ritrarrà la mente che non erra. O muse, o alto ingegno, or m’aiutate; o mente che scrivesti ciò ch’io vidi, qui si parrà la tua nobilitate.

No,” I say. I can’t look at him. Not yet. “Not anything you said. The song. Your singing. You say I wrote the song like I pulled it out of your head?” He nods. “You have the voice that’s in my head. The one I wish was mine. The one that goes with every single song I write. Your voice is all I’m after. That’s the truth.” Finally, I work up the nerve to raise my eyes to Cameron’s. His have gone soft, sympathetic. Hopeful. “So you hate me, but I’m your muse?

Ten years of trying to explain Dellecher, in all its misguided magnificence, to men in beige jumpsuits who never went to college or never even finished high school has made me realize what I as a student was willfully blind to: that Dellecher was less an academic institution than a cult. When we first walked through those doors, we did so without knowing that we were now part of some strange fanatic religion where anything could be excused so long as it was offered at the altar of the Muses. Ritual madness, ecstasy, human sacrifice. Were we bewitched? brainwashed? Perhaps.

I pull her up so her face is aligned with mine, so she can see the truth in my eyes. “Because he’s a selfish, self-absorbed dick who doesn’t know what he has right in front of him. Because if he did, he would have no need for other women. He wouldn’t have to question whether or not he loved her, because it was physically impossible not to. And every second he suffered trying to fight against that fact would be an act of self-inflicted madness, because deep down, he always knew he was in love with her. Right from the start. From the top of her messy bun to the toe of her knee high socks. She was his muse, his soul mate. She was the beauty in his world of heartbreak.

P. 51, l. 915. The speech of the Muse seems like the writing of a poet who is, for the moment, tired of mere drama, and wishes to get back into his own element. Such passages are characteristic of Euripides.—The death of Rhesus seems to the Muse like an act of vengeance from the dead Thamyris, the Thracian bard who had blasphemed the Muses and challenged them to a contest of song. They conquered him and left him blind, but still a poet. The story in Homer is more terrible, though more civilised: "They in wrath made him a maimed man, they took away his heavenly song and made him forget his harping." Thamyris, the bard who defied Heaven; Orpheus, the bard, saint, lover, whose severed head still cried for his lost Eurydice; Musaeus, the bard of mystic wisdom and initiations—are the three great legendary figures of this Northern mountain minstrelsy.

wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. "Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!" "They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." "I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY." "They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry. "I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome. "Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." "I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest." "I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. "They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. "Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. "She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." "Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe

Forgetfulness" The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Sadhguru: See, it’s not that the other person is totally bereft of understanding. With your understanding you can create situations where the other person would be able to understand you better. If you’re expecting the other to understand and comply with you all the time while you don’t understand the limitations, the possibilities, the needs and the capabilities of that person, then conflict is all that will happen; it is bound to happen. Unfortunately, the closest relationships in the world have more conflict going on than there is between India and Pakistan. India and Pakistan have fought only four battles. In your relationships, you have fought many more battles than this and are still fighting, isn’t it so? This is because your line of understanding and theirs is different. If you cross this L.O.C., this Line of Control, they will get mad. If they cross it, you will get mad. If you move your understanding beyond theirs, their understanding also becomes a part of your understanding. You will be able to embrace their limitations and capabilities. In everyone, there are some positive things and some negative things. If you embrace all this in your understanding, you can make the relationship the way you want it. If you leave it to their understanding, it will become accidental. If they are very magnanimous, things will happen well for you; if not, the relationship will break up. All I am asking is: do you want to be the one who decides what happens to your life? Whether they are close relationships, professional, political, global or whatever, don’t you want to be the person who decides what happens in your life? If you do, you better include everything and everybody into your understanding. You should enhance your understanding to such a point that you can look beyond people’s madness also. There are very wonderful people around you, but once in a while they like to go crazy for a few minutes. If you don’t understand that, you will lose them. If you don’t understand their madness, you will definitely lose them. If you do, then you know how to handle them. Life is not always a straight line; you have to do many things to keep it going. If you forsake your understanding, your capability will be lost. Whether it’s a question of personal relationships or professional management, in both places you need understanding; otherwise, you won’t have fruitful relationships.

Fuyez de ces auteurs l'abondance stérile, Et ne vous chargez point d'un détail inutile. Tout ce qu'on dit de trop est fade et rebutant; L'esprit rassasié le rejette à l'instant. Qui ne sait se borner ne sut jamais écrire. Souvent la peur d'un mal nous conduit dans un pire. Un vers étoit trop foible, et vous le rendez dur; J'évite d'être long, et je deviens obscur; L'un n'est point trop fardé, mais sa muse est trop nue; L'autre a peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue. Voulez-vous du public mériter les amours, Sans cesse en écrivant variez vos discours. Un style trop égal et toujours uniforme En vain brille à nos yeux, il faut qu'il nous endorme On lit peu ces auteurs, nés pour nous ennuyer, Qui toujours sur un ton semblent psalmodier. Heureux qui, dans ses vers, sait d'une voix légère Passer du grave au doux, du plaisant au sévère!

Le dogme des châtiments après la mort, ces expiations par le feu, sont encore des emprunts que la muse des poètes, en tous lieux, et en Grèce la philosophie a faits à la philosophie des barbares. Je lis ces paroles solennelles dans le dernier livre de la République de Platon : « En ce moment, des hommes qui paraissaient être de feu, et dont le visage respirait la férocité, répondant à l'appel de l'abime, apparurent tout à coup. Ils commencèrent par emmener à l'écart les nouveau-venus. Puis ils se saisirent d'Aridée et de quelques autres, leur lièrent la tête, les mains, les pieds, les étendirent par terre, leur arrachèrent la peau, et les trainèrent dehors, en leur déchirant les membres sur des pointes d'aspalathes (21) qui bordaient le chemin.» Je le demande, ces hommes au visage de feu ne représentent-ils pas les mauvais 432 anges qui saisissent les coupables pour les torturer, suivant cette parole de l'Écriture : « Qui fait de ses anges l'esprit des tempêtes et de ses ministres la flamme dévorante. »

Is there a different between Attention Deficit Disorder and daydreaming? He mused. Ah, there I go again. Focus,

I was now able to logically decipher my behavior and analyze my actions. I understood all the conditioning that the exploitation and disgrace had in creating the different personality parts and behavioral traits that dwelt in my depths. I started to understand how criticism and insults painfully intensified my ignominious impression of myself, causing me to take everything personally. The numb, confused, and skeptic defender parts now made sense to me. I could see how they contributed to the various problems I incurred throughout my life. I comprehended why I mistrusted and did pernicious things to loved ones—for fear they would do them to me first. The need to self-medicate made sense. I began to recognize the urge for porn. The need to commit acts of perversion was a result of my adolescent mind being manipulated and programmed to believe it was acceptable. I perceived that the reason why I wanted to be humiliated sexually was because the shameful part from the humiliation of the maltreatment wanted to be reinforced. The logic of it all—how all the parts fit together, their roles and reasons for being—became apparent to me. I opened my eyes for a brief moment. Keith was leaning forward with his right elbow resting on his leg, his hand supporting his chin, staring at me as if he was trying to analyze my thoughts. I gazed off in a distance, remembering my numerous misbehaviors. I could trace the main contributing factor for why I acted the way I did to the resulting ignominy from the desecration. But the most significant understanding I had was, that even though it wasn’t my fault, I was still responsible for my behavior. My lengthy musings came to a halt when Keith said, “Marco? Where are you now ... tell me what you’re seeing, thinking.” I proceeded to explain to him my current revelation. “Excellent work, Marco,” Keith said, cracking a smile. “Now think about your next step.” My next step was to cleanse and reprogram the inadequate part. I closed my eyes again and began to concentrate. The only way to accomplish this was to create a tangible picture in my mind of the inadequate part being exorcised of all its imperfect characteristics. Once I was able to concentrate on this step, I looked up into his gaze. “I see myself overlooking a canyon during a sunset. As the sun descends, I envision its rays reflecting off the sparse layers of cloud cover, creating a beautiful multi-layer spectrum of blazing colors. I imagine a cool breeze flowing across my body, as a warm illuminating light from above shines on me and creates a white-out effect that is the cleanest, brightest white I can imagine. I picture the whiteness as a soothing cleansing treatment for the blackness within. I’m feeling as pure and clean as the brilliant color itself.” "And now how do you want to orchestrate the inadequate part?" I stood up and puffed out my chest. "I want it to be the exact opposite—confident, strong, and stable. It should be at peace with itself and not paranoid about what other people think.” Sitting back down, I folded my hands over my crossed knees. “I don't want to feel as if I have to worry about working to exhaustion in my personal life. On the job, or in the gym, I shouldn’t feel I have to be perfect in order to be accepted in society. I want to move past that. I want to feel good and proud of myself. But most of all, I want to feel morally acceptable." I now had a better understanding of the inadequate part, its defender parts, and what they wanted. I was able to see the un-blending taking place within me. The unburdening and bearing witness process got me to the point of reprogramming the misconception that the inadequate part thought about itself. I could go straight to the visualization technique of cleansing and reprogramming the part whenever I felt its symptoms coming on. CHAPTER

It’s Friday evening and I’m staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop, waiting for the right words to come to me so I can move that fucker across the page and make some progress. But my muse has been on an extended sabbatical and refuses to make an appearance. Again.

Pourquoi j’écris ? Peut-être parce que je suis venue au monde à Czernowitz, parce que le monde est venu à moi à Czernowitz. Ce paysage si particulier. Ces personnes si particulières. L’air était gorgé de contes et de légendes, on les absorbait en respirant. Czernowitz, la quadrilingue, était une ville des muses abritant de nombreux artistes, poètes, amateurs d’art, de littérature et de philosophie. La ville d’adoption du magnifique fabuliste yiddish Elieser Steinberg. Elle a vu naître Itzik Manger, le plus éminent poète yiddish, ainsi que deux générations de poètes germanophones. Le cadet parmi eux et le plus important était Paul Celan, l’aîné était Alfred Margul–Sperber, mort à Bucarest en 1968 à l’âge de soixante-neuf ans, un poète et traducteur vénéré tant en Roumanie qu’en RDA. C’est lui qui me découvrit et qui compila premier livre de poésie publié en 1939 à Czernowitz sous le titre « L’Arc-en-ciel ». (p. 93)

Le papier peint formé par la tristesse n'a pas bougé. Il est toujours intact, solidement incrusté dans le mur. Parfois, je m'use encore les ongles pour tenter de l'arracher, mais la plupart du temps, je me contente d'accepter qu'il soit là. J'accroche quelques cadres, pour le voir un peu moins.

L-Boogie, this your award too, ma. Thank you for everything. Always my muse and my motivation. My biggest cheerleader and critic, you a real one. You don’t ever have to wonder cause it’s always you for me.

The point is that we love you,” Olly says. “You. Period. And that’s not just Damien. That’s all of us.” “Oh.” “And maybe Damien loves you a little different from the rest of us,” Olly muses, raising his eyebrows pointedly, “but that’s none of my business.” Rome thinks he might need to sit down.

Hedone had only ever seen her from afar, one dancer lost among the other eight. It was easy to mix up The Muses. Hedone found it less stressful to think of them as a group organism rather than learn their names by heart.

chansons. Tout ce qui fait le charme, la grâce, l’irrésistible d’une chanson, enlèverait à la Vérité son autorité et son pouvoir. Froide, calme, impassible, l’humeur démonstrative repousse les diamants et les fleurs de la Muse ; elle est donc absolument

Dans une vie de bohème on peut faire de poème. Comment serait la vie sans la douce poésie?

What was love, anyway? he mused. She said it was caring, caring more about someone else than about yourself.

One cannot skim a chapter of the Bible a day, offer up a mumbled prayer, without pondering and meditating and musing over a lifetime, and expect to gain a happy blessedness. What may result instead is a pernicious wickedness, fueled by selective reading, by brief musing, by little delight. So much of the use of the Bible in our century smacks of these three mockeries of the psalmist’s call for rich reading, lengthy pondering, and genuine joy. Rather than stout trees, such Torah misuse breeds chaff, driven away by the next false wind of hatred, bigotry, or triumphalist nationalism.

Affordable,” I mused. “That’s an interesting concept. That depends on who pays, and what. It’s always better if people can trade benefits. That way, no one has to explain the budget, and each party can take credit for the increased revenues or production or whatever.

How long I sat there before Carolynne appeared beside the desk, I didn’t know, and really didn’t care. In the dimness relieved only by the single lamp behind the stove, she appeared almost solid, in the recital gown that she always wore. It must be hell for a female ghost to always appear in the same clothes, I mused.

Simţea că devenise mai mult decât ceea ce fusese, de parcă se deschisese o uşă de mult ascunsă în ea, scoţând la iveală un coridor sinuos prin care alerga ea însăşi. Din clipa în care-l întâlnise, bărbatul acesta îi zăbovise în gând. Îi amplificase enorm trăirile, îi lărgise orizonturile. Pentru prima oară în viaţă, fusese ajutată să simtă la scară monumentală. O neliniştea ceea ce putea urma, însă, în acelaşi timp, îl dorea atât de puternic, încât nici măcar Isaac posedând-o nu era sigură că i-ar putea domoli această dorinţă.

Élégie de la forêt de Ropraz Écoute, bûcheron, arrête un peu le bras Tu tues ma mémoire avec ces arbres J'ai songé dans le bocage que tu abats J'ai suivi mainte muse sous cet ombrage Ta hache fait couler la résine crois-tu Mais c'est mon souvenir que tu tues L'odeur des corps les seins la douce aisselle Toute la mémoire bocagère tombe sous tes armes N'entends-tu les oiseaux crier l'alarme Ou sur l'écorce du cœur effrayé qui t'appelle Ne vois-tu le lait dans le bois que tu entailles Ô ces figures en larmes dans la faille […] Arrête, bûcheron, laisse un méchant travail N'entends-tu ces appels sous le concert des haches ? Mais tu n'écoutes rien et c'est ce qui me fâche Des respirations enfouies dans l'émail Ou la moire soyeuse des mousses et des tiges Moi je retrouve mes traces jusqu'au vertige À chaque pas plus avant dans ces bois Chaque trait de la muse au corps adroit Les mots qu'elle avait pour le sommeil et pour le songe Ainsi l'arbre dont le destin me ronge Si tu l'abats tu me défais de ma vraie voix Me laissant seul, sans troupes bel arroi (p. 151)

Pour le commun des mortelles trans, la route était barrée dès le début. Pas de taf, pas de mariage, pas de bébé, et, si une femme trans pouvait être une muse, personne ne voulait d'une œuvre où elle s'exprime elle-même. C'est ainsi que, par défaut, les femmes trans dérivèrent dans une sorte de no-futurisme là où d'autres queers célèbrent l'ironie, la joie et la mort dans lesquelles iels se précipitent. Cette dérive vers le nihilisme paraissait bien plus glamour quand le corps devenu cadavre était un choix sauvage et volontaire plutôt qu'une probabilité statistique

Écriture Si ma plume se faisait vaine je l'internerais Je me ferais fort de briser sa vindicte Je revitaliserais mes mots, je mémoriserais Ma poésie dans des apprêts fantômes Si ma muse oublieuse de son inspiration Folâtrerait dans l'abandon, je la cinglerais De mon verbe acerbe, dérangerais ses amours J'hypothéquerais sa verve et son attention Si les mots venaient à manquer, défaillants Je rééditerais impassible les vieux, les anciens Combattants des campagnes lunaires, astronautes Infiltrant l'espace sidéral de la muse Calliope Si ma poésie se lisait à l'envers, à l'endroit Je réfléchirais mes vers dans un miroir octogone Je les lirai à l'insu d'une bougie qui s'étiole. (p. 45)

Tout me parut simple: écrire, c'est augmenter d'une perle le sautoir des Muses, laisser à la postérité le souvenir d'une vie exemplaire, défendre le peuple contre lui-même et contre ses ennemis, attirer sur les hommes par une Messe solennelle la bénédiction du Ciel. L'idée ne me vint pas qu'on pût écrire pour être lu.

It’s extraordinary,” Macduff mused, looking pensively at Ess Pu. “They feel fine only when they’re hating someone.

When the muse hits you in the nut sack, you crawl back and ask her to hit harder, faster, stronger. Make me bleed. Make me gasp for it, live for it, then die for it. Make me lose my mind and find my soul. Do your magic, Muse. But don’t leave me hanging like you did before. Howling for you to come rescue me in an empty room. Waiting for you to show up unannounced like an indecisive lover.

DOÏNA POUR LA POÉSIE La poésie est fraîche Comme nourrisson en crèche Comme la sage-femme Qui a perdu son âme. Poésie bébé À peine est-elle née Qu'elle a commencé Soit à pleurnicher Soit à tituber Puis elle est tombée Dans ta petite école Dans d'autres encore Teacher nous l'a donnée Tellement digérée La poésie mouche Mâchée dans sa bouche Nos cerveaux hurlaient Des oiseaux passaient The Wall grandissait Pink Floyd s'entendait (We don't need no EDUCATION) et inside chantaient les chœurs d'enfants on n'a plus envie de la poésie on n'a plus envie de la poésie chandelles incertaines étudiants par centaines élèves redoublants d'autres ... éminents un grand NON disaient dès qu'ils entendaient de la poésie poésie pourrie et autres lubies des dizaines - pourries des pleurnicheries lugubres envies ... et ils s’écœuraient et ils essayaient de se libérer de cette poésie tellement pourrie dont les profs voulaient toujours les gaver Têtes penchées pauvre mémoire mémoire-Tiroir ... Comme elle souffrait Comme elle tremblait Sanguinolait ... Et avalait Encore un poème Encore et encore La poésie-Chlore Poèmes, poésie Tellement out of vie Éloge de la patrie De n'importe quoi De n'importe qui Pour une fête scolaire Pour une thèse misère ... Oh, pauvre mémoire Qui s'évanouissait Imbécillisée ... Stupidifiée ... Pauvre petite cervelle Comme cigale frêle Quand vient le gel ! D'un coup comme un signe Le VENT dans la vigne Joli mois de mai Le vent PARACLET. J'ai vu s'avancer Les Muses d'antan Elles se mêlaient toujours À des Muses plus cool Pour l'artiste saoul La cervelle-moule ... Elles se méli-mêlaient Pour encore changer L''ère glaciaire Des cervelles amères L'ère glaciaire Des cervelles amères …

Dans une carte postale datée de décembre 1923, envoyé depuis Téhéran à Brancusi, la baronne René Irana Frachon, le "modèle" de le "Muse endormie" (1909–1910), transmet ses vœux à tous ceux qui devaient se réunir à l'atelier du sculpteur: "Bon Noël, cher amis et mille affectueuses pensées pour vous et les camarades: Lysica, Irène Germaine Taillefer, Cendrars, Léger, Cocteau, Milhaud, Poulenc et les gentils et Elessen." Ainsi la présence de Lizica Codréano dans les milieux artistiques parisiens durant la deuxième décennie du XXe siècle et mes questionnements sur ses créations artistiques, sont au fondement de ma recherche sur la personnalité de cette danseuse, restée dans l'histoire de la danse moderne à travers quelques images. (p. 16)

VERS NULLE PART Au bout du monde je t’ai trouvé tu dessinais sur les pierres des sirènes profanes tu observais l’infini dans leurs yeux tristes les chants coulaient dans leurs veines diaphanes Un sens interdit me dit de demeurer c’est une impasse inféconde j’entre en hâte dans un shopping ennuyeux et j’achète une Écriture avec des muses profondes. (cf. p. 58)

When we first walked through those doors, we did so without knowing that we were now part of some strange fanatic religion where anything could be excused so long as it was offered at the altar of the Muses. Ritual madness, ecstasy, human sacrifice.

Mortally Unable To Talk, Damon mused. But that made…“Mutt,” he said aloud, shaking his head slightly. Maybe, though, it would remind him in the future.

«Feia tants dies, mesos, que no sentia l’impuls d’escriure, d’escriure literàriament alguna cosa digne de ser llegida, que segurament no s’hi hauria agafat si no hagués estat per la pluja. La pluja l’havia inspirat mil vegades des de l’adolescència, i al llarg de gairebé quaranta anys fins el dia d’avui, però feia tants dies, mesos, que l’impuls no l’agafava pels pebrots i el llençava a l’abisme d’omplir de lletres la pantalla blanca i buida, que quan per fi es va decidir, no sabia on agafar-se. La novel·la inacabada de torn, per no parlar de les que feia anys que dormien el son sord dels avortaments, li semblava massa enrevessada per a aquella engruna d’inspiració filla d’un ruixat: es passaria una hora rellegint cabdellets, una altra perfilant l’agulla, i perdria el fil abans de lligar la primera puntada. Potser podia repassar un dels darrers contes, que són fàcils d’entallar però sovint costa acabar de cosir, tot i que fins i tot això li resultava remot, com l’eco de una veu que ja no sentia seva. D’altra banda, devia tenir mig centenar de contes polits i a punt d’editar que també dormien als llimbs, probablement per sempre. Li constava que la literatura, o més ben dit l’esforç narratiu creatiu, li havia salvat la vida. Li havia justificat gairebé quatre dècades de respirar i fer la viu-viu, esperant sempre que al capdavall ell, ell com a individu més enllà de cap altra persona, hi descobrís un sentit genuí, transcendent, que li compensés poc o molt totes les hores, esperances, il·lusions i etcèteres que ja a l’adolescència i sense ser-ne gaire conscient havia dipositat en la màgia, sovint desagraïda per no dir traïdora, de la creació literària». · Les muses - Jordi Cussà

«Feia tants dies, mesos, que no sentia l’impuls d’escriure, d’escriure literàriament alguna cosa digne de ser llegida, que segurament no s’hi hauria agafat si no hagués estat per la pluja. La pluja l’havia inspirat mil vegades des de l’adolescència, i al llarg de gairebé quaranta anys fins el dia d’avui, però feia tants dies, mesos, que l’impuls no l’agafava pels pebrots i el llençava a l’abisme d’omplir de lletres la pantalla blanca i buida, que quan per fi es va decidir, no sabia on agafar-se. La novel·la inacabada de torn, per no parlar de les que feia anys que dormien el son sord dels avortaments, li semblava massa enrevessada per a aquella engruna d’inspiració filla d’un ruixat: es passaria una hora rellegint cabdellets, una altra perfilant l’agulla, i perdria el fil abans de lligar la primera puntada. Potser podia repassar un dels darrers contes, que són fàcils d’entallar però sovint costa acabar de cosir, tot i que fins i tot això li resultava remot, com l’eco de una veu que ja no sentia seva. D’altra banda, devia tenir mig centenar de contes polits i a punt d’editar que també dormien als llimbs, probablement per sempre. Li constava que la literatura, o més ben dit l’esforç narratiu creatiu, li havia salvat la vida. Li havia justificat gairebé quatre dècades de respirar i fer la viu-viu, esperant sempre que al capdavall ell, ell com a individu més enllà de cap altra persona, hi descobrís un sentit genuí, transcendent, que li compensés poc o molt totes les hores, esperances, il·lusions i etcèteres que ja a l’adolescència i sense ser-ne gaire conscient havia dipositat en la màgia, sovint desagraïda per no dir traïdora, de la creació literària». · Les muses - Jordi Cussà Balaguer

I shall fall asleep slightly less ignorant tonight.

Pas un outrage dont j'aie donné le spectacle, qui n'ait allumé en moi une colère véritable ; pas une souffrance que j'aie peinte, qui ne m'ait coûté des pleurs. Courage, ô ma muse ! encore quelques pages, et toutes ces belles douleurs ramassées par toi avec un soin si religieux, toutes ces belles douleurs jusqu'à ce jour ignorées du monde, étouffées, perdues, comme de petites herbes sous les gerbes de faits éclatants et sans nombre qui jonchent le sol de l'histoire, auront trouvé leur dénouement et revêtu une forme qui ne leur permettra plus de mourir, de mourir dans la mémoire des hommes.

More completely than lights, shadows, and reflections, the mirror image anticipates, within things, the labor of vision...The mirror appears because I am seeing-visible, because there is a reflexivity of the sensible; the mirror translates and reproduces that reflexivity. My outside completes itself in and through the sensible. Everything I have that is most secret goes into this visage, this face, this flat and closed entity about which my reflection in the water has already made me puzzle... Artists have often mused upon mirrors because...they recognize...the metamorphosis of seeing and seen which defines both our flesh and the painter's vocation. This explains why they have so often liked to draw themselves in the act of painting (they still do—witness Matisse's drawings), adding to what they saw then, what things saw of them. It is as if they were claiming that there is a total or absolute vision, outside of which there is nothing and which closes itself over them.

Sometimes, the light gets blinded by its own light that it fails to reach the 'only one' taken away by the darkness.

...while riot grrrl is part of the punk rock/alternative rock feminism of the 1990s, it's by no means the majority of it. Despite the slogan, not every girl was a riot grrrl, and there's a huge swath of awesome women in '90s music who aren't riot grrrls. In no particular order: L7, Hole, PJ Harvey, Belly, Throwing Muses, Seven Year Bitch, Babes in Toyland, Liz Phair, Bjork, Juliana Hatfield, Gwen Stefani/No Doubt, Shirley Manson/Garbage, the Breeders, Luscious Jackson, Elastica, Sleater-Kinney, and may more women were part of either the alternative or indie rock music scene. Beyond that, the decade was pretty amazing for singer-songwriters like Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette, Tracy Chapman, and Melissa Etheridge; for the R&B and hip-hop artists like Salt-n-Peppa, Queen Latifah, TLC, En Vogue, and Missy Elliott; and, at the tail end of the decade, all the pop you could ever want with the Spice Girls, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Destiny's Child. So, if you read this book, then run to Spotify to listen to riot grrrl bands, and find they're not for you, remember: there's more than one way to be a girl, and there's more than one kind of music to power you to your goals. What you listen to will never be as important as what you do.

You’d better muse over your lessons and sums,” said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. “If you’re going back to school I hope we’ll hear no more of breaking slates over people’s heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you.” “I’ll try to be a model pupil,” agreed Anne dolefully. “There won’t be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn’t a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I’m going round by the road. I couldn’t bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did.” Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue—a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far.

You chased my muse away.” My tone was low, lazy, and sort of psychotic. Even to my own ears. “And?” She didn’t bother turning around. “And now you owe me. So it’s a good thing you’re in my possession.” “Your possession?” she echoed, incredulous. “I’m not your anything, Winslow.” “You are. For three months. I have a signed contract to prove it, and now I’m going to take what’s inside you and put it in my notebook, because I’m empty and you’re full.” It was weird. To say the truth out loud. The truth was meant to be whispered, not shouted, but I didn’t care what she thought of me,

Was it something I said?” Roth mused. “I was just pointing out the obvious.” Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him. “What?” He grinned impishly. “Come on. You don’t look like the type of girl who watches football, hangs out with the cool crowd and ends up deflowered by the senior jock in the back of his daddy’s Beamer.” “Deflowered?” “Yeah, you know. Losing that pesky thing called virginity.” Fire swept over my skin. I pivoted around, heading toward the gym doors. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what deflowered meant. I just couldn’t believe he’d actually used that word in the twenty-first century. Or that I was even having a conversation about virginity with him. Roth caught my arm. “Hey. That’s a compliment. Trust me. He’s on the fast track to Hell anyway. Just like his daddy.” “Good to know,” I managed to respond coolly, “but would you please let go of my arm? I have to get to class.” “I’ve got a better idea.” Roth leaned in. Dark locks of hair fell into those golden eyes. “You and I are going to have some fun.” My teeth hurt from how hard I was grinding them. “Not in this lifetime, buddy.” He looked offended. “What do you think I’m suggesting? I wasn’t planning on getting you drunk and having my way with you in the back of a Beamer like Gareth is. Then again, I guess it could be worse. He could be planning it in the back of a Kia.” I blinked. “What?

So in this Hemisphere when the moon goes down, I sit in one of those all-night-into-mornings cafes, watching short short skies below the skyscrapers and low-rises and sense the big turntables turning and the roadies setting up from stadium to stadium from L.A. to New York and all north and south and east and west and in between – and i know there must be a lot of kids who aren't sleeping but listening to their muse – iPad-ing and YouTubing...and the final shore ain't no shore at all but a long ether cable cyperspacing us together – cutting the continent in half.

Musee de l'Homme.

Daily: staying in touch with your life as it unfolds History: reconstructing the contours of your past Dialogue: journaling a “conversation” Pilgrimage: exercises to promote personal growth Bible study: analyzing and applying Scripture Dreams: recording your nightly images Musings: recording insights, thoughts, and reflections Family: marking key events in your family’s development Work: keeping notes and materials related to your job8

Extraits du poème: Pages d’histoire... ...Je sais, Muse C’est le temps de penser. Lui le poète ; Eux, peuples d’Afrique ! Pour toi, par les nervures de ton crane, Pour les yeux, par les fibres de ton cœur, Par le souffle de l’aorte et des veines de leurs poumons, Par ces bourgeons dont germeront fleurs et fruits du destin, Rien que pour toi, pour eux et nous. ...