Roman Payne Quotes

Everything was brighter and more colorful in those years, as if my childhood was ending in an explosion of unreal passion that made my life feel sacred and holy.

Life is Not a perpetual climb towards Greatness.For our family, ourselves, and friends, It is but sad Decay, so, Let every girl die after her Hebé (Ἥβη).And every man after his Aristeia(ἀριστεία).

Wherever you go in the next catastrophéBe it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ryDo not fear that your stay will besolit’ryCountless souls share your fate, you’ll have company!

May a man live well-enough and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.

I fear it is my lot, to bide my days in hunchbacked thought, to find what I forgot.

I wandered everywhere, through cities and countries wide. And everywhere I went, the world was on my side.

I was forced to wander, having no one, forced by my nature to keep wandering because wandering was the only thing that I believed in, and the only thing that believed in me.

From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered.

[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.

The artist's greatest creation beganthe night he washed his memory of his failuresrubbed opium on his lipsdrank the wine that women offered himand lay down and wept.

To wish a healthy man to die is the wish from a mind of sickness. To wish an ailing man to die is the wish of the ambitious.

All that I desire in life are three...A wilderness: A beach on the sun-drenched sea, A puff of opium, And thee.

Ah, youth!It was a beautiful night...The moon was out of orbit.The stars were awry.But everything else was exactlyas it should have been.

Being the Novelist-in-Residence at a riad hotel in the kasbah of an Arabic North African city is a lot like trying to write one’s memoirs on shreds of napkins in a nuthouse.

A writer needs to ingest love to be passionate. Passion is a metabolite of love, and good writing is an active metabolite of passion.

The birthing wolf, Her heart fed with tenderness, Gave forth from ripe brown nipples, Food to feed the universe.

The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.

No man sings as beautifully as when his song is accompanied by a woman’s voice.

We look up to see if it is day or night. If stars burn cool and moon does shine, We take to smoke divine and wine.If breath of sun does belch its heat, we boil coffee and prepare to eat.

We look up to see if it is day or night. If stars burn cool and moon does shine, we take to smoke divine and wine. If breath of sun does belch its heat, we boil coffee and prepare to eat.

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

Women are extraordinary creatures!

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 lifefor our love is wholeI sing her beauty in my soul.

Wine gives one 'ideas, ' whereas champagne gives one 'strategies.

A person does not grow from the ground like a vine or a tree, one is not part of a plot of land. Mankind has legs so it can wander.

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?

A girl without braids is like a city without bridges.

What a face this girl possessed!—could I not gaze at it every day I would need to recreate it through painting, sculpture, or fatherhood until a second such face is born.

A girl without braidsis like a city without bridges.

If you love my work, you are a good critic. If you do not love my work, you are a 'not good' critic.

The novelist is condemned to wander all his life. Homeless and blind like Oedipus he wanders until death. And so let us protect the novelist and adore him, with pity, honor, and love.

Visions from the gods are gifts alone for those who wander.

The lot of the brideto be wed before beddesired until rotten.The lot of the authorto be read before bedadmired then forgotten.

In life, more than in anything else, it isn’t easy to end up alive.

Ô, Sunlight! The most precious gold to be found on Earth.

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

A woman must prefer her liberty over a man. To be happy, she must. A man to be happy, however, must yearn for his woman more than his liberty. This is the rightful order.

When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a heroic wanderer, and woman, a wanderess.

What is a Wanderess? Bound by no boundaries, contained by no countries, tamed by no time, she is the force of nature’s course.

We were hooked when we woke.We had arms for each other.But I yearned to resumeMy dreams of another.

With the need for the self in the time of another / I left my seaport grim and dear / knowing good work could be made / in the state governed by both Hope and Despair.

I like the posture, but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning, but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden, the moment but not the dream. Quiet, my love. Be still. I am sleeping.

Be there a picnic for the devil, an orgy for the satyr, and a wedding for the bride.

We made love outdoorsWithout a roof, I like most, Without stove, to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and gushing of dew.

Rich will be my life if I can keep my memories full and brimming, and record them on clear-eyed mornings while I set joyously to work setting pen to holy craft.

The ‘Muse’ is not an artistic mystery, but a mathematical equation. The gift are those ideas you think of as you drift to sleep. The giver is that one you think of when you first awake.

From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent. It can only be squandered.

I care not that this moment’s lot was thin and sparsely dealt all pleasures sweet can be forgot the instant they are felt.

Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.

May a man live well-, and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.