Muse Marvel Quotes

The Laughing Heart your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watch. there are ways out. there is a light somewhere. it may not be much light but it beats the darkness. be on the watch. the gods will offer you chances. know them. take them. you can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvelous the gods wait to delight in you.

It was the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation [...] Gradually the cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy [...] All Nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene.

I am chaos eternal. I desire everything this world and the next offers. I am greed, I am hunger. Oh how I hunger... I want the pathetic mortals of this world to bow before me. I want all that they own, all they desire, every marvelous creation of theirs, but there is only one thing in this world that I need, and that, Muse, is you.

Yes, we all die but there's a tendency to focus on the end too much. Life can be a wondrous, sparkling comet trail that we leave in our wake for others to marvel at.

Plato calls her ‘the tenth Muse’; Strabo ‘a marvel’, and adds ‘In all the centuries since history began we know of no woman who could be said with any approach to truth to have rivalled her as a poet.’ To us, of all the ancient Greek poets, she stands supreme ...

Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored.

One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the steps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearing a way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last few yards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a very wood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps as big as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of young oaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collection of plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest of roses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on the same stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, while climbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended in spindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fall at the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood — narrow footways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolled in the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowers of small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Some sunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with bright patterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and an aroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on a woman’s bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rose bushes were full of songbirds’ nests. ‘We must take care not to lose ourselves,’ said Albine, as she entered the wood. ‘I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I was able to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt at every step.’ They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn out with fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were on the edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through the wood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round blue gap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from the clearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushes rising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangle of thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, and hung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tiny apertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, the light

Young black boys, Charlie thought, the most marvelous beings in the universe. As nonchalantly as Herald bit into that fruit did black boys ever ponder their influence on the whole world. How effortlessly they rounded the shape of the earth with their swagger and illuminated its days with their creativity. Their hope, Charlie mused, offered even the bleakest parts of our planet a second sun.

I wonder why it’s orange,” I mused aloud. To my surprise, I heard Emily answer. “When the moon is low in the sky, the light scatters because it has to pass through more layers of the atmosphere than when it’s overhead. By the time the light reaches our eyes, the blue, green, and purple parts of the spectrum have scattered, leaving only yellow, orange, and red visible to us.” “How do you know that?” I marveled, turning to her.

The juxtapositions can seem haphazard, and to some extent they are; we watch his mind and pen leap from an insight about mechanics, to a doodle of hair curls and water eddies, to a drawing of a face, to an ingenious contraption, to an anatomical sketch, all accompanied by mirror-script notes and musings. But the joy of these juxtapositions is that they allow us to marvel at the beauty of a universal mind as it wanders exuberantly in free-range fashion over the arts and sciences and, by doing so, senses the connections in our cosmos. We can extract from his pages, as he did from nature’s, the patterns that underlie things that at first appear disconnected.

O guide my judgment and my taste, Sweet Spirit, author of the book Of wonders, told in language chaste And plainness, not to be mistook. O let me muse, and yet at sight The page admire, the page believe; "Let there be light, and there was light, Let there be Paradise and Eve!" Who his soul's rapture can refrain? At Joseph's ever pleasing tale Of marvels, the prodigious train, To Sinai's hill from Goshen's vale. The psalmist and proverbial seer, And all the prophets sons of song, Make all things precious, all things dear, And bear the brilliant word along. O take the book from off the shelf, And con it meekly on thy knees; Best panegyric on itself, And self-avouch'd to teach and please. Respect, adore it heart and mind. How greatly sweet, how sweetly grand, Who reads the most, is most refind'd, And polish'd by the Master's hand.

Hm. Have you ever read War and Peace, John? I know, I know; I had to read an extract for a literature class once, ended up reading the whole thing It’s not actually as boring as people say, and its central thesis is that the tiniest, most insignificant factors can control the destiny of the world. In its post-script, Tolstoy muses on the concept of free will, on whether or not he really believes in it. He ultimately decides that if all the millions upon millions of factors that weigh upon our choices were fully and completely known, then all could be foreseen and predetermined. But, he argues, it is quite impossible for the human mind to comprehend even a fraction of these. And in that vast, dark space of ignorance lies: free will. Isn’t that marvelous, John? Free will is simply ignorance. It’s just the name we give to the fact that no one can ever really see everything that controls them. Of course, that’s not the real crux of the free will question that’s bothering you at the moment, is it? I think that one probably comes down to whether or not you’re choosing to continue reading this statement out loud.

Instinct is a marvellous thing,’ mused Poirot. ‘It can neither be explained nor ignored.

Burnett asks the group she’s convened what drives their busyness. Being busy makes them feel productive and important, they say. Admitting you take time for yourself is tantamount to a show of weakness. The thought of leisure time makes them feel … guilty. “It’s like everything has to have a purpose,” muses Dawson, fifty-nine, marveling at how the leisure of so many retired people she knows sounds so exhausting, all the golf they make a point of telling her they play, the traveling they do. “Maybe it justifies how you spend your time. When you’re busy, you’re saying, ‘This is who I am. I’m doing something important. I’m not just taking up space on Earth.’” Dawson

Adaira’s gaze returned to him, as if she had heard his musings, and there her eyes remained, for she saw him at last. Her old menace. A slender smile danced on her lips, and he was relieved, recognizing that mirth within her. Despite the weight of the past few days, he could still coax it from her without a single word. He acknowledged it then. She had just accomplished the sweetest revenge. Here he was, about to bind himself to her. To give his vow with a willing heart. And he marveled at her.

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.

Instinct is a marvellous thing,” mused Poirot. “It can neither be explained nor ignored.

Suddenly, an ethereal haze formed above their heads, and images of the words they sang began to dance in the sky. The gods all tilted back in their seats, expressions of awe and delight illuminating their already glowing faces. Ree nearly lost track of the lyrics when she glanced over and noticed that same glow radiating from Thalia. Then Mel. Then Calli. Then Clio. She looked down at her own body and marveled at the incandescent sheen covering her skin. She and her sisters all shone like the gods of Olympus.

Haylan regarded her, his inner voice reminding him of all of the reasons why he should not be speaking with her at all. But then he said, “I am normally quite a pleasant person, really. Amiable. That is a word I have often heard used in reference to me. ‘He is so amiable.’” Wynnfrith seemed to detect the edge of bitterness in him when he said it, and now it was she who shifted her position to better face him. “It is a good thing to be, surely.” “It is,” Haylan sighed. “But you see, I always wanted to be known as something more than that.” “You are a soldier,” she noted. “I suppose you wanted to be thought brave and fearsome.” Haylan hesitated for the briefest of moments. “Strong,” he said. “Strong and capable.” “Capable of what? Killing?” “Capable of the role I was meant to fill.” “Mm,” she mused. “Well, being amiable does not mean that you are weak or incapable.” “That is true.” He leaned his head back against his column. “Of course that is true. A person can be all three at once. But it was the amiability of which they always spoke. Why not, ‘He is wise’? or ‘He is shrewd’? or even ‘just’ or ‘merciful’? Amiable…” “I suppose it is not a description that demands respect,” Wynnfrith granted. “You are right,” Haylan said abruptly. “I do know the firedark well. And if a man encountered him, that man would not leave the encounter saying, ‘he is amiable.’ Though,” he laughed weakly, “in truth, he is. People see Gabrel, and… There is an air of power and authority about him that cannot be denied. Even if you never see him demonstrate that power, you can feel it—the fact that he could perform marvels if he wished to do so.