Roman Payne Quotes
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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.
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.
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.
Although I love elegant parties, dancing and dining and spending the night with a sweet woman in my arms, my life belongs to literature.
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.
Ô, Sunlight! The most precious gold to be found on Earth.
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.
Ô, wine!, the truth-serum so potent that all those who wish to live happy lives should abstain from drinking it entirely!... except of course when they are alone.
From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent. It can only be squandered.
Women are extraordinary creatures!
Wine gives one 'ideas, ' whereas champagne gives one 'strategies.
All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art.
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.
Be there a picnic for the devil, an orgy for the satyr, and a wedding for the bride.
Fortune's fool! How we humans lie upon beauty like lizards upon a sun-baked rock.
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.
Never did the world make a queen of a girl who hides in houses and dreams without traveling.
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.
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?
I care not that this moment’s lot was thin and sparsely dealt all pleasures sweet can be forgot the instant they are felt.
I fear it is my lot, to bide my days in hunchbacked thought, to find what I forgot.
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.
The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.
I regained my soul through literature after those times I'd lost it to wild-eyed gypsy girls on the European streets.
I wandered everywhere, through cities and countries wide. And everywhere I went, the world was on my side.
A writer needs to ingest love to be passionate. Passion is a metabolite of love, and good writing is an active metabolite of passion.
Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.
Looking back on my life, I sigh. The caprice of youth goes with the wind, I’ve no regrets.
The lot of the brideto be wed before beddesired until rotten.The lot of the authorto be read before bedadmired then forgotten.
A girl without braids is like a city without bridges.
In life, more than in anything else, it isn’t easy to end up alive.
Alexander the Great slept with 'The Iliad' beneath his pillow. During the waning moon, I cradle Homer’s 'Odyssey' as if it were the sweet body of a woman.
[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 birthing wolf, Her heart fed with tenderness, Gave forth from ripe brown nipples, Food to feed the universe.
May a man live well-enough and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.
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.
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
May a man live well-, and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
All that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria.
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.
Even the memory of cradling her in my arms is pure euphoria. And all that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria.
I’ve only been to jail a few times, but in several different countries, at that. No, I've only been to jail a few times. But I still claim the ability to write a "serious" novel.
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.