c2p-cmd/Good-Quotes-Authors huggingface dataset:
When Love Was NewWhen love was newand life was young,and once we walkedin gracious sun,I never dreamt of darker days,or feared that fate had cruel ways.When life was strongand love was free,and time was onceeternity -we never planned for more or less,nor stopped to think we should digress.When love was youngand life was new,and everythingwas once our due,I never doubted what I owned,nor knew the cost was merely loaned.Now love is triedand life is old,and still my feetdrag down the road -not knowing where it all has gone,nor how much more it still goes on.But life grows newand love gets old,and this tired heartstays off the cold -not caring it compares with fools,nor wise enough to fear the rules.-Drea Damara
— Drea Damara
What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Oh, poems, no less! Poems, everybody!
— Roger Waters
I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.
— Jenim Dibie, The Calligraphy of God
Reading a stranger's words and finding yourself in them.
— Jenim Dibie, The Calligraphy of God
Through windows,in wishing wells,whispering in the wind...that's where I find you.
— Jessica Kristie
In that wounded place,buried betweenmy ribs and letting go,I miss you.
— Jessica Kristie
I die a little,In the echo of your silence.
— Jessica Kristie
I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.
— Jessica Kristie
I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.
— Jessica Kristie
Bridge burned from end to end,and I don't miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI've birthed freedom.
— Jessica Kristie
You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.
— Jessica Kristie
I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.
— Jessica Kristie
Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.
— Jessica Kristie
Broken.As I search for hope,In the same eyesI lost it.
— Jessica Kristie
I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.
— Jessica Kristie
Fear is a hurdle that stops the expression
— Andy Lindley, Poems from the Depths of a Gay Heart
I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.
— Jessica Kristie
I balance you on the end of my pen.Teetering between loveand letting go.
— Jessica Kristie
Careful.The fall is quick,steep,and permanent.
— Jessica Kristie
Love knows not from where you came, what religion you are, or even your name. Discover it and you will be whole, for when you do you have found your soul.
— Charles F. Glassman, Brain Drain   The Breakthrough That Will Change Your Life
I need to work on me.The mewithout you.
— Jessica Kristie
Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.
— Jessica Kristie
I started to think about the abyss that separates the poet from the reader and the next thing I knew I was deeply depressed.
— Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives
In Damascus:poems become diaphanousThey’re neither sensualnor intellectualthey are what echo saysto echo . . .
— Mahmoud Darwish
LoreleiIt is no night to drown in:A full moon, river lapsingBlack beneath bland mirror-sheen,The blue water-mists droppingScrim after scrim like fishnetsThough fishermen are sleeping,The massive castle turretsDoubling themselves in a glassAll stillness. Yet these shapes floatUp toward me, troubling the faceOf quiet. From the nadirThey rise, their limbs ponderousWith richness, hair heavierThan sculptured marble. They singOf a world more full and clearThan can be. Sisters, your songBears a burden too weightyFor the whorled ear's listeningHere, in a well-steered country,Under a balanced ruler.Deranging by harmonyBeyond the mundane order,Your voices lay siege. You lodgeOn the pitched reefs of nightmare,Promising sure harborage;By day, descant from bordersOf hebetude, from the ledgeAlso of high windows. WorseEven than your maddeningSong, your silence. At the sourceOf your ice-hearted calling-Drunkenness of the great depths.O river, I see driftingDeep in your flux of silverThose great goddesses of peace.Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
— Sylvia Plath
Oh, there are no living poets, Miss Van Damn. We're not entirely sure there ever were. They've found some shreds of sonnets in England and, embedded in a chalk wall of a cave in France, some yet undetermined thing which might be the legendary inward eye. But all evidence, such as it is, suggests that, if there ever were poets, they were all burned into extinction during the interglacial period of despair.
— Paddy Chayefsky, The Latent Heterosexual
Remove the computer chipslodged in your brain before they convince youthat you’ve gone insane…Take a bite out of realityinstead of becominga reality byte.
— Kitty Clairmont, Reality, Bits, Bytes and Chips
It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Poet
A Paradise for you and meTrust, true love to guide us freeLoneliness shall not fill the dayI will forever be with youOur Love is beautiful like the sunshine lighting the wayYour gentle feelYour caring handsThere is no doubt in your soulNo eerie place in your heart to express this feelingOur compassion flows in the waves just to save and brighten my day My heart has no hoes Awaiting your paceto touch this placeOur love, withstanding all odds Diminishing hate, in our thoughts There is no place I rather be til eternity... Than in your soul, life and in your dreams... I am here to stay with you forever.
— Henry Johnson Jr
A touch so tenderBliss of sweet words fills of desire Open Hearts of sweet surrender Nightly poison gas the fire. A quite place to romance Touches as we held hands. No loud words spoken, but whispers Just Heart, promises to be kept No tales being told tonight. No looking back ­ no regrets. Longing for this momentSuch complacent little time. We vowed to another. Being lonely is the only hate within my heart. Tomorrow bringing sorrow. A smoke of Marlboro to release myself. A brief moment of blame with shame With memories reflecting back to those nights. A release from compassion's flames.
— Henry Johnson Jr
My religion consists of a dwelling admiration of illimitable spirit, with no hate in place, a whole heart to Love and care about the human race. There is lust within each of us, it's sometimes self center, that we call our heart. We were born with it. It is never completely grace, but the state to Love others and appreciates the human race in a unique way is left to "question". I am convinced that it is a fundamental energy of the human spirit that can create diversity, and can also stop the caste system, racism, segregation and sexism
— Henry Johnson Jr
A sacred soul Thus, within the cosmic creation proceed Life is precious as gold Death will come In a better place, where there’s no earthly lifeEternity exist...God..... Judgement falls upon usNothing to minus and nothing to plus Only the truthIn a better place where there’s no cuss They say tranquility exist hereNo fussNo sorrowA better place with great yarrow It will come in the morrowIn present times Life is but a Dream
— Henry Johnson Jr
Once, we were a mighty nation Our people came from strong foundation Until cursed with darker days A dragon red came from skies blue Came and stole the things we once knew Making us humble, unknown But we were told one day of old That we’d give our throne of ancient gold To a prince and dragon slayer’s son For us to regain the ancient throne He will fight and bleed for our mountain home This dragon prince of Bowen’s line He will kill the drake that broke us He will remove the Witch who cursed us And become our King some glad day So now we wait ever patiently We wait for the one promised to make us free We wait for this prince to come
— Kathryn Fogleman, Tales of the Wovlen: The Dragon' Son
Where the mind is without pain Where knowledge is gain; With you, life is not vain Where hate is a burdenFaith in humanity is not entwine The traces of you is meI am you and you are me Where dreams are not metWhere the sun set and yet;we still strive towards perfection;Where the clear stream of democracyhas not lost its way into a struggling nation frozen snow of dead end;The traces of you is found with in young soul that rise up with faith and knowing that positive activism is the way to create a just society.
— Henry Johnson Jr
Reckless of my mortality,Strengthen me to behold a face,To know the spirit of a beloved oneYet to endure, yet to dare!
— Edgar Lee Masters
Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.
— Mark Strand, Blizzard of One
Home will always be where comfort is, even if that comfort is pain
— Jackson Saint-Louis, Crucified for 33 Thoughts: Spoken Word Poems: Crucified for 33 Thoughts: Spoken Word Poems
Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.
— Phar West Nagle
I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I'm 56 and I often want to write like a child.
— Stanley Victor Paskavich, Stantasyland: Quips Quotes and Quandaries
Most of the poems I write take 5 minutes, but the words can give a lifetime of relief. Many people that have read my book say it helped them with their grief.
— Stanley Victor Paskavich, Stantasyland: Quips Quotes and Quandaries
I do have a funny perception of mine I'd like to share. Being basically a lifetime poet. I've had many people say "I don't like poetry" But they'll listen to song after song that rhymes on the end in couplets Just a thought...
— Stanley Victor Paskavich
hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.
— Ana Claudia Antunes, ACross Tic
There was a young lady of NigerWho smiled as she rode on a tiger
— They returned from a rideWith the Lady insideAnd the smile on the face of the tiger.
She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn't matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot that you would want towhen she spoke, it was captivatingHer heart was like a candlewarm and delicatejust what you needed during darknessSometimes, she'd go off and explore the worldtest her limitslaugh too muchcry when humans were cruelIt wasn't hard to see why people envied herYou'd come to realize she was a lionand she could not be tamed.
— M.J. Abraham
It's physics. Pure physics,I'm falling fast and faster still.So fall with me. Fall down with me.And stay.
— Cecily von Ziegesar, Don't You Forget About Me
A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;A pungent odor from the dusty sage;A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;A breaking of the distant table-landsThrough purple mists ascending, and the flareOf water ditches silver in the light;A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world;A sudden sickness for the hills of home.
— Willa Cather, April Twilights: and Other Poems
Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead"When you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go,Say not soft things as other men have said,That you'll remember. For you need not so.Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they knowIt is not curses heaped on each gashed head?Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto,"Yet many a better one has died before."Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should youPerceive one face that you loved heretofore,It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.Great death has made all his for evermore.
— Charles Hamilton Sorley, Marlborough and Other Poems
I didn’t leave early that morning. I waited for him to wake up and kiss me good morning. He said he was going to take a shower and I should come join him. I thought now was as good of a time as any and placed the ring on his corner table with my note. It read:My Love, I don’t know how you will accept my decision. I do love you with all my heart but you are not my first love. I am always going to be infatuated with my love for the sea. Accept my proposal after I have completed my education, claim my heart for thy own & obtain thy love in which it possesses.With all My Love, Zara-emerald eyes of the sea
— Hazel Cartwright, Emerald Eyes of The Sea
The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar. Moderation in moderation. Fun is scary with a happy ending. Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to tolerate.
— Emily Thornton Calvo
The sonnet, a lyrical poem, the beauty and magic... convey with our hearts the truth of the universe in a single moment briefly.
— R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)
2.07 WALK OF LIFELife but like a cycle that you be riding,You will fall if you ever stop peddling,Life not of good cards you be holding,But those held and how you be playing.[68]	- 4
— Munindra Misra, Eddies of Life
There is a girl who still writes you
—  she doesn’t know how not to.
But I have seen the best of you and the worst of you, and I choose both
— Sarah Kay
William tell, William tell,Take your arrow, grip it well,There’s the apple– – aim for the middle– –Oh well … you just missed by a little.
— Shel Silverstein, Falling Up
When They Die We Change Our Minds About Them When they die we change our minds about them. While they live we see the plenty hard they’re trying,to be a star, or nice, or wise, and so we do not quite believe them. When they die, suddenly they are what they claimed. Turns out, that’s what one of those looks like. The cold war over manner of manly or mission is over. Same person, same facts and acts, just now a quiet brain stem. We no longer begrudge his or her stupid luck.When they die we change our minds about them. I will try to believe while you yet breathe.
— Jennifer Michael Hecht
The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low: And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
— Robert Browning, Dramatic Lyrics
The Old StoicRiches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"Yes, as my swift days near their goal:’Tis all that I implore; In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure.
— Emily Brontë, Poetry of Hope: Classics of Inspirational Verse
You will not know all about the firesimply because you asked.When she speaks of the forestthis is what she is teaching you,you who thought you were her master.
— Katie Ford, Blood Lyrics: Poems
Beyond the YearsI the years the answer lies,Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears.Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears,And carping Sorrow pines and dies— Beyond the years.IIBeyond the years the prayer for restShall beat no more within the breast; The darkness clears,And Morn perched on the mountain's crest Her form uprears—The day that is to come is best, Beyond the years.IIIBeyond the years the soul shall findThat endless peace for which it pined, For light appears,And to the eyes that still were blind With blood and tears,Their sight shall come all unconfined Beyond the years.
— Paul Laurence Dunbar
BurialCathy Linh CheThere is the rain, the odor of fresh earth, and you, grandmother, in a box. I bury the distance, 22 years of not meeting you and your ruined hands.I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back, your áo dài of crushed velvet, the implements you used to farm,the stroke which claimed your right side, the land you gave up when you remarried, your grief over my grandfather's passing,the war that evaporated your father's leg, the war that crushed your bowls, your childhood home razedby the rutted wheels of an American tank— I bury it all.You learned that nothing stays in this life, not your daughter, not your uncle, not even the dignity of leaving this worldwith your pants on. The bed sores on your hips were clean and sunken in. What did I know, child who heard you speak only once,and when we met for the first time, tears watered the side of your face. I held your hand and said,bà ngoai, bà ngoaiTen years later, I returned. It rained on your gravesite. In the picture above your tomb,you looked just like my mother. We lit the joss sticks and planted them. We kept the encroaching grass at bay.
— Cathy Linh Che, Split
True poetry is embarrassing.
— Julien Torma
An envy of that one consummate partSwept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep, Some inner silences are at my heart.
— Léonie Adams
The Power of the Dogby Rudyard KiplingThere is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; And when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie-- Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, Then you will find--it's your own affair-- But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!). When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear. We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent. Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- So why in--Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
— Rudyard Kipling, Collected Dog Stories
Why not fall in love with an artist? Otherwise there are no letters, pictures, paintings and songs for you when you wake up.
— Darnell Lamont Walker
Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.
— David Mitchell, Black Swan Green
If I were John LennonAnd my feelings for you grew,I'd have left The BeatlesTo spend all my time with you
— Lisa Swerling, If Our Love Were a Book - This Is How It Would Look
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns belowWe are the DeadShort days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders FieldsTake up our quarrel with the foeTo you from failing hands we throw The torchbe yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep/though poppies growIn Flanders Fields
— John McCrae, In Flanders Fields: Poem
Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous pretensions. The poet was meant to be a seer; he was designed to run toward the intensities and magnificences of life, to bathe his hands in reality. But where the mystic ran toward Reality in silence and lost himself in it, the poet as soon as he had experienced it, ran back toward humanity crying the good news and putting it into shimmering webs of words.
— Francis Beauchesne Thornton, How to Improve Your Personality by Reading
when the glory night envelop the moon that would light up the exhilaration of heart..the sun was reluctant to reveal smile to warm the earth..when the fire burn until the wood becomes charcoal yield and melted into disappointment..the earth will always embrace the rest of the wood by the fire burning in her arms..then it's me and you in equation narrative prose deep and glorious..
— rinto yusnianto
I hide myself behind, a cloud of smoke; the smoke screen varies, dependent on the variable. The variable consists of: stress, anguish, boredom, madness, anger, depression, apathy, negativity, sex, violence & a little chunk of chaos.
— Emily H. Sturgill, Sex in the Kitchen Sink: Poetry and Art
The burning off and the gathering together are one.
— Billy Marshall-Stoneking, Singing The Snake: Poems From The Western Desert, 1979 1988
Success"If you want a thing bad enoughTo go out and fight for it,Work day and night for it,Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for itIf only desire of itMakes you quite mad enoughNever to tire of it,Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for itIf life seems all empty and useless without itAnd all that you scheme and you dream is about it,If gladly you'll sweat for it,Fret for it,Plan for it,Lose all your terror of God or man for it,If you'll simply go after that thing that you want.With all your capacity,Strength and sagacity,Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity,If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,Nor sickness nor painOf body or brainCan turn you away from the thing that you want,If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,You'll get it!
— Berton Braley
You write poetry?" Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one."Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine.""Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!
— Lemony Snicket, The Austere Academy
They're only trees. Only trees. Whose afraid of lonely trees?
— Ruth Frances Long, The Treachery of Beautiful Things
Don't ask me what it means
—  ask me how it felt.
The Ph.D is one of the chosen who know that some things can never be fathomed, no matter how hard you try. What good are explanations? There is no possibility of explaining how such a work [Mozart's Requiem, in the instance] could ever have come into being. (The same holds true for certain poems, which should not be analyzed either.)
— Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher
think think think until you blink
— ganeshsaidheeraj
Words mean nothingActions are everythingExpect nothingAppreciate everything
— patrick cruz
Sad that there is books that are based on bad events that has happened. But there is books that has been based on really good events. I like to read the ones that are based on both.
— Dawn Huntsman
Poems are the chorus of our lives. the poet sets the words to the music of our souls. Each poem has its own rhythm that drums like a heartbeat.
— John   Ritter, Choosing Up Sides
Yesterday I fell completely off the face of the earthContemplating life, light and love in the darkness of the voidStrangely it was in the dark that I found meaning for the light
— Neil Leckman
Two seeds destined to grow in concert, planted together in the field of love.’” She took in a lungful of air and continued. “‘The sky cast wet buckets of dreams and desires, the roots took shape, and the leaves tangled as one.
— Christina  Lee
THE WILD ROSE” – BY WENDELL BERRYSometimes, hidden from me in daily custom and in ritualI live by you unaware, as if by the beating of my heart.Suddenly you flare again in my sightA wild rose at the edge of the thicket where yesterday there was onlyshadeAnd I am blessed and choose again,That which I chose before.
— Wendell Berry
We are not what we might be
—  what we are / Outlaws all extrapolation / Beyond the interval of now and here: / White whales are gone with the white ocean.
Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another.
— W.H. Auden
You leave behind your fine poems.You leave behind your beautiful flowers. And the earth that was only leant to you. You ascend into the Light, O Quechomitl, you leave behind the flowers and the singing and the earth. Safe journey, O friend.
— Aliette de Bodard, Servant of the Underworld
When one does not die for the other, then we are already dead_
— Tasos Livaditis
The poems are all wrong. It's a bang, a really big bang. Not a whimper. And sometimes gold can stay.
— Kami Garcia
[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l'effervescent contact de l'esprit avec la realite)
— Pierre Reverdy, The Cubist Poets in Paris: An Anthology
Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not blur the nuanceit is now or never the momentto be sensitive to poetry for it dominatesall dreadfullyGuillaume Apollinaire]
— Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War
...some of the best love poems have been written by monks and nuns...
— John Geddes, A Familiar Rain
The rat isthe mous-tacheinthetrache.the wrong-doerinthesoer.
— J. Patrick Lewis, World Rat Day: Poems About Real Holidays You've Never Heard Of
Asthmatic spewer of filth gasps, but clean air does not sufficeTo fuel fires fueled by thoughts got rottenLest we all be forgotten thingsThat sit like dust upon the mantel of her mind
— Neil Leckman
It lies here deep in the heart, the small chest of painSharp words like daggers placed it hereTo fill with hurtIn filling it grew heavy and drug me downFor to not feel is not to liveUntil I rest at last in dirtThe worst of you got the best of me…
— Neil Leckman
You should gofrom place to placerecovering the poemsthat have been written for youto which you can affix your signature.Don't discuss these matterswith anyone.Retrieve. Retrieve.When the basket is fullsomeone will appearto whom you can present it.
— Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing
No map to help us find the tranquil flat lands, clearings calm, fields without mean fences. Rolling down the other side of life our compass is the sureness of ourselves. Time may make us rugged, ragged round the edges, but know and understand that love is still the safest place to land.
— Rod McKuen
When I Read the Book"When I read the book, the biography famous, And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life? And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life? (As if any man really knew aught of my life,Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life, Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections I seek for my own use to trace out here.)
— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
I will forever walk alone in a world overflowing with those that will never understand my meaning of “Learning to See” I’m always teaching myself to see beauty in all aspects of reality, yearning to learn the beauty in others, from their vision of everyday life to their deepest secrets of their dreams. As the sun rises I must smile, smile for those with the beautiful mind and soul. I’m so passionate for the visions I see, and the dreams I wish the world could be.
— Michael    Jones
a politician is an arse uponwhich everyone has sat except a man
— E.E. Cummings
The machines are too dull when weare lion-poems that move & breathe.
— Michael McClure, Ghost Tantras
Daddy-by Nancy B. BrewerWhen I used to say, speak up you are as good as they, You would just smile and say, let them have their way. When in my foolish youth, I so often disobeyed,He would just smile and say, let her have her way. When summer passed and winter overcame. He was not afraid, never once did he say. When in the moonlight his final hour came, He just smiled and said Lord I'll go your way.
— Nancy B. Brewer, Quotes and Poems in Black and White
Inside you there’s an artist you don’t know about… say yes quickly, if you know, if you’ve known it from before the beginning of the universe.
— Jalaluddin Rumi
For me, the camera is a sketch book, an instrument of intuition and spontaneity.
— Henri Cartier-Bresson
As artists, we are eternally heartbroken.
— Lady Gaga
I see myself forever and ever as the ridiculous [person], the lonely soul, the wanderer, the restless frustrated artist, the [person] in love with love, always in search of the absolute, always seeking the unattainable.
— Henry Miller, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird
To photograph is to hold one's breath, when all faculties converge to capture fleeting reality. It's at that precise moment that mastering an image becomes a great physical and intellectual joy.
— Henri Cartier-Bresson, Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Mind's Eye: Writings on Photography and Photographers
I have Social Disease. I have to go out every night. If I stay home one night I start spreading rumours to my dogs.
— Andy Warhol
The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.
— Francis Bacon
Did you just use juxtaposition in a sentence?" "Yes, Sage" he said patiently. "We use it all the time with art, ... That, and I know how to use a dictionary
— Richelle Mead, The Golden Lily
Myth must be kept alive. The people who can keep it alive are the artists of one kind or another.
— Joseph Campbell
Everyone should eat hashish, but only once.
— Salvador Dalí
Suicide carried off many. Drink and the devil took care of the rest
— Robert Louis Stevenson
The artist is not a different kind of person, but every person is a different kind of artist.
— Eric Gill
—except for the fact that your scars mean you’ve been hurting, I am one-hundred-percent cool with having them in the painting. Some models, especially the professional ones, it’s like painting air-brushed people. Give me something raw any day.
— J. Kenner, Release Me
Ordinary persons, he said, smiling, found no differences between men. The artist found them all.
— Alexander Theroux, Darconville’s Cat
It's the movies that have really been running things in America ever since they were invented. They show you what to do, how to do it, when to do it, how to feel about it, and how to look how you feel about it."Andy Warhol
— Andy Warhol
It costs nothing to dream and everything not to
— Rodney R. White
There's nothing an artist needs more - even more than excellent tools and stamina - than a deadline.
— Adriana Trigiani, Viola in Reel Life
Genius - the pursuit of madness.
— Criss Jami, Killosophy
The great artists are those who impose their personal vision upon humanity.
— Guy de Maupassant, Pierre et Jean
For an artist, there's nothing better than having the opportunity to create a world that doesn't- but could- exist.
— Christophe Lautrette
The importance of an artist is to be measured by the quantity of new signs which he has introduced to the language of art.
— Henri Matisse
Dogmatism of all kinds--scientific, economic, moral, as well as political--are threatened by the creative freedom of the artist. This is necessarily and inevitably so. We cannot escape our anxiety over the fact that the artists together with creative persons of all sorts, are the possible destroyer of our nicely ordered systems. (p. 76)
— Rollo May, The Courage to Create
The artist (I suppose) usually pays for the privilege by some sort of partial insomnia, by the possession of one faculty that will not be controlled nor put to sleep. In a poet this must often be the visual imagination, bringing before his eyes a succession of images which he never summoned, and of which some (it is only too likely) will be ugly or pitiful.
— Mary Lascelles, Jane Austen And Her Art
[Kandinsky] arrived, as they say, 'with snow on his boots', and it never really melted.
— Neville Weston, The Reach of Modern Art: A Concise History
It's always been most important for me to figure out "my space" rather than trying to check out what everyone else is up to, minute by minute. Technology is making it easier to connect to other people, but maybe harder to keep connected to yourself-- and that's essential for any artist, I think.
— Jay-Z, Decoded
The Artist," an ancient sage had once said, "is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.
— Charles Bukowski, The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
Today the artist has inherited the combined functions of hermit, pilgrim, prophet, priest, shaman, sorcerer, soothsayer, alchemist.
— Thomas Merton
The intention (of an artist) is (the same as a scientist)...to discover and reveal what is unsuspected but significant in life.
— H W Leggett
No man is equal to his book. All the best products of his mental activity go into his book, where they come separated from the mass of inferior products with which they are mingled in his daily talk.
— Herbert Spencer, An Autobiography, Part 1
There were no sparks, just a gasoline fire burning through the dark
— Sukh Dev
This assumption of the intrinsically repressive nature of collective experience and redemptive power of individuation is a staple of contemporary art theory and criticism. I would argue that a closer analysis of collaborative and collective art practices can reveal a more complex model of social change and identity, one in which the binary oppositions of divided vs. coherent subjectivity, desiring singularity vs. totalizing collective, liberating distanciation vs. stultifying interdependence, are challenged and complicated.
— Grant H. Kester, The One and the Many: Contemporary Collaborative Art in a Global Context
The mystery of esthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the god of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
— James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
He was an awkward mixture of strong moral impulse and restless aesthetic curiosity, and yet he would have made a most ineffective reformer and a very indifferent artist. It seemed to him that the glow of happiness must be found either in action, of some immensely solid kind, on behalf of an idea, or in producing a masterpiece in one of the arts.
— Henry James, Roderick Hudson
There is, perhaps, no more dangerous man in the world than the man with the sensibilities of an artist but without creative talent. With luck such men make wonderful theatrical impresarios and interior decorators, or else they become mass murderers or critics.
— Dame Edna Everage
The light of artistic creation is also blinding.The artist can’t see the suffering he causesto those around him. And the’ll neverunderstand the purity of his goal, how the heatof his invention won’t melt the ice in his heart.He must be ruthless!No religion, no purpose except this:Make something perfect before you die.Life is short, art is for all time
— Ian McEwan, For You
It is a matter of artistic instinct. In his own thoughts and feelings and way of doing things an actor is worth nothing or he is worth something. If he is worth something then he will try to be worth something more as is only normal in anyone who wants to get on. I can think of no other way to explain artistic development.
— Maurice Chevalier
Children need to see themselves in books. They need to see their gender. They need to see their color, hair texture, their disability, themselves. Picture books are like many children’s first introduction to the world. Seeing yourself is almost like a message. It’s saying, you matter, you are visible, and you’re valuable
— Christian Robinson
Murder = Art...Everyone is artist... we all understand different the word "Artist
— Deyth Banger
Here, this is for you," the girl said, holding out one of the pages on which she'd been drawing."Oh, I... well, thank you." Meg reached out and took the sketch between her fingers.Gazing down, her eyes widened. Instead of the typical childish scribble she'd expected, she discovered two well-rendered figures. The style was a bit loose, and still immature with a tendency to distort the proportions. Even so, it was refined enough enough to have captured remarkably accurate likenesses of her and Cade seated side by side on the sofa. Esme might be only be nine years of age, but already she was an exceptional artist, better than many adults would ever hope to be."This is... extraordinary," Meg said."It's you and Cade," the girl offered, clutching a small fist against her yellow wool skirt. "Do you like it?""I most certainly do. How could I not? You've drawn Cade and me so perfectly. It's beautiful."The girl's oval features came alive with a pleased smile. "Good night, Miss Amberley. I'm glad you're going to be my sister."At a sudden loss for what she knew would never be, Meg settled on the only honest reply she could offer."Sweet dreams, Esme.
— Tracy Anne Warren, Tempted by His Kiss
But nowadays I feel guilty that I am granted the immunity of the artistically gifted, having never actually achieved anything to prove myself worthy.
— Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
A tender smile softened his face. "That would be Esme. She's nine and a delight. I haven't seen much of her these past few years, but she writes me letters. Sends me drawings as well. I have a likeliness of every cat, hound, and horse she's ever met, and considering the menagerie she keeps in the country at Clybourne, that's a great many indeed.
— Tracy Anne Warren, Tempted by His Kiss
An actual artist, living right under her nose.
— Garth Risk Hallberg, City on Fire
Our best canvas is all around us, in everything we touch and do.
— Fennel Hudson, Fine Things - Fennel's Journal - No. 8
An artist can try and pretend he is not following rules, but let's remember that nature itself provides rules. Gravity for instance.
— Kate Carlisle, Books of a Feather
A dreamer rises above their inherent fearfulness that they will always produce inferior work and grants oneself a license to put forth their best effort.
— Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
I have never found a painter more beautiful than his paintings nor a writer who was more expressive than his works. While one got his hands dirty, other made the paper dirty to create masterpieces!
— Ramana Pemmaraju
Realism without naturalism... is a leading motif in Modern Art. There is a move away from the struggle to perfect the reflection of Nature in Art's mirror, which I attribute to the all-pervading effects of photography...You must serve the tradition without being its slave. Remember you are an artist, not a draughtsman.
— Tom Holt, Lucia Triumphant
You can never be an artist if your work comes without effort. That is the problem with modern ink from a bottle. You do not have to think. You simply write what is swimming on the top of your brain. And the top is nothing but pond scum, dead leaves, and mosquito spawn. But when you push an inkstick along an inkstone, you take the first step to cleansing your mind and your heart. You push and you ask yourself, What are my intentions? What is my heart that matches my mind?
— Amy Tan, The Bonesetter's Daughter
Everyone who loves life is an artist at heart. Although it is sometimes difficult to love our world and our lot in life, failure to find the ability to love life and express appreciation for our world is tantamount to not existing at all.
— Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
Maybe the job of the artist is to see through all of this strangeness to what really is, and that takes a lot of courage and a strong faith in the validity of the artistic vision even if there is not a conscious faith in God.
— Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art
I create neo-surreal gardens with my paint brush
— Minnelli Lucy France
I'll be an artist one day because my creator's masterpiece leaves me perplexed.
— Jeffy Thomas
You knew that what makes me very glad is that you are an artist.
— mohammad rishad sakhi
Every sort of trouble I can think of, we've tried it out- become expert at some of it, even, so much so that I've come to wonder whether artists in particularity seek out hard times the way flowers turn their faces toward the sun.
— Therese Anne Fowler, Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald
If you have a sharp brain, then you are an artist.
— mohammad rishad sakhi
Shiloh had never seen a man who was a hunter. But she saw one now. There was an intense feeling around Roan, raw and untamed, as he studied her, his nostrils flaring to catch her scent. He ruthlessly dug into her opening eyes, reading her, trying to understand where she was at within herself and what she wanted from him.	“This is your call,” he said, his voice low and guttural.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
She felt his fingers caress her scalp, the sensations swift, heated shocks rocking through her body. His breath was punctuated against her cheek and nose. The tension mounted in him until Shiloh felt as if he would snap and break, unleashing that throbbing sexual power she sensed so intensely around him.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
She looked over at him, her eyes warm. “Your face has a story to tell.”	Mouth quirking, Roan growled, “It’s a top-secret face, Darlin’.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
Frowning, Shiloh forced herself to look up at him. Roan deserved her courage, not her cowardice. “You wanted to kiss me.”	“I still do.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
Let’s get one thing clear between us, Shiloh. I would never laugh at you. I might tease the dickens out of you, but I would never, ever make fun of you. That’s not who I am. I don’t believe in humiliating another person. It’s not in my DNA.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
The lush greenness of the pastures infused Shiloh. Overhead, she saw a red-tailed hawk flying in higher and higher circles in the sky. There were bluebirds everywhere, many of them sitting on fence posts. When they took off, that flash of brilliant blue always made her gasp with delight; it was almost an unearthly gorgeous color.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
Nothing can fix a broken heart except love. Love always repairs those fractures we get in our heart.
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
She took his finger and placed a small kiss on the end of it. “You’re just full of surprises, Taggart.” She saw him give her a very pleased male smile.	“Stick around, Darlin’, there’s more to me than meets your eyes.”	“Should I be afraid?
— Lindsay McKenna, Wind River Wrangler
What was missing, I've come to believe, were the two postures that are most characteristically biblical -- the two postures that have been least explored by Christians in the last century. They are found at the very beginning of the human story, according to Genesis: like our first parents, we are to be creators and cultivators. Or to put it more poetically, we are artists and gardeners. ... after the contemplation, the artist and the gardener both adopt a posture of purposeful work. They bring their creativity and effort to their calling. ... They are acting in the image of One who spoke a world into being and stooped down to form creatures from the dust. They are creaturely creators, tending and shaping the world that original Creator made.
— Andy Crouch, Culture Making: Recovering Our Creative Calling
I understand that in our work - doesn't matter whether it's acting or writing - what's important isn't fame or glamour, none of the things I used to dream about, it's the ability to endure.
— Anton Chekhov, The Seagull
The immigrant artist shares with all other artists the desire to interpret and possibly remake his or her own world. So though we may not be creating as dangerously as our forebears—though we are not risking torture, beatings, execution, though exile does not threaten us into perpetual silence— still, while we are at work bodies are littering the streets somewhere. People are buried under rubble somewhere. Mass graves are being dug somewhere. Survivors are living in makeshift tent cities and refugee camps somewhere, shielding their heads from the rain, closing their eyes, covering their ears, to shut out the sounds of military “aid” helicopters. And still, many are reading, and writing, quietly, quietly.
— Edwidge Danticat, Create Dangerously: The Immigrant Artist at Work
Honor those who inspire you, who show you the way. The teachers, artists , writers, the healers. Respect their time, their intellectual properties, their fee. They live a life of service, but this is also the way they make their living. This is how they feed, clothe and shelter themselves and their families. This is how they can continue to do their work in the world.
— Eileen Anglin
Writing is a Passion, Art is my Dreams, Crafting is something I Enjoy.The day one stops learning is the day one stops living.
— Carol Hopkins, The Little Gardeners
He wanted to do more than paint his flame-haired model.
— Juliette Banks, The Artist
We may never pick up a paintbrush or sculpt a masterpiece, but each one of us—without exception—is an artist in our own way.
— Laurie Buchanan, PhD
We discover truth by asking rapier-like questions that cut through the thick fog of doctrinarism. Artists and philosophers must be subversive: we need these rebellious cynics to ask questions, they must resist cultural norms; seek out truths that are not self-evident and challenge everything. Doubt, not blind belief, is essential for discovering truth.
— Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
Artist, never explains his work, it’s the audience that explores it. Explain Vs Explore is what we should adopt in our personality- Be unique always.
— Praveen Chenna
Koekebakker, I feel so strange inside.' 'Well you certainly smell like jenever,' I said. 'No,' Japi said, ' it's not the jenever. I think my soul is too big.
— Nescio, Amsterdam Stories
What I wear on and off stage is my mask. You see, a mask doesn't hide you, it exposes you.
— Nuno Roque
I am a victim. To be an artist is to be a victim, because if you don't do what you want to do you die. That is the reality.
— Alejandro Jodorowsky
I do not think it matters whether one agrees or not as long as ons is forced to think.
— Vanessa Bell, Selected Letters Of Vanessa Bell
I do not think it matters whether one agrees or not as long as one is forced to think.
— Vanessa Bell, Selected Letters
The artist is the closest man comes to being God.
— Leonard Peikoff, Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand
We strolled to the end of the platform. We came to a man with a signal lamp and I saw that as he passed us he looked at a conductor standing on another platform and made a drinking movement with his hand near his mouth. We stopped past the end of the roof and looked at the sun. "You see the sun, Koekebakker?" The sun was especially clear, right in front of us, close by, bigger and redder than I had ever seen it. It almost touched the rails, it didn't flash brightly on things anymore, there was a dull glow only on the frosted windowpanes of the train shed to the right of the track. "You think I'm drunk?" I did indeed. "It doesn't matter, Koekebakker, when I'm sober I don't understand anything anyway.""Do you understand what the sun wants from me? I have thirty-four setting suns leaning against the wall, one on top of the other, all facing the wall. But every evening it's there again.""Unless it's cloudy," I said. But he wouldn't let himself be distracted."Koekebakker, you've always been my best friend. I've known you since--how long has it been?""Thirteen years. That's a long time. You know what you need to do? Do me a favor. You have a hatbox?"I didn't say anything."Put it in a hatbox, Koekebakker. In a hatbox. I want to be left alone. Put it in a hatbox, a plain old hatbox. That's all it's worth."Bavinck blubbered drunkard's tears. I looked around helplessly. A man in a uniform with a yellow stripe on his cap came up to us and spoke to me."I think it would be better, sir, if you took the gentleman home.
— Nescio, Titaantjes
When the poor give to the rich, the devil laughs.
— Benvenuto Cellini
Art is seldom the result of true genius; rather, it is the product of hard work and skills learned and tenaciously practiced by regular people.
— Sally Mann
Each artwork requires its own design
— Siren Waroe
Normal, average and ordinary are not a part of my vocabulary. I am an artist after all!
— Paul S. Lynch