Quotes About Inspiration

He was in the frame of mind when a weaker man would have started writing poetry.

You see, the catch about portrait painting— I've looked into the thing a bit— is that you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult for a chappie.

To my daughter Leonora without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.

I must say my heart leaped up, as Jeeves tells me his does when he beholds a rainbow in the sky.

I have never written a novel yet...without doing 40,000 words or more and finding they were all wrong and going back and starting again, and this after filling 400 words with notes, mostly delirious, before getting into anything in the nature of a coherent scenario.

There is nothing an author today has to guard himself more carefully against than the Saga Habit. The least slackening of vigilance and the thing has gripped him.

Tricky devils, these novelists. The ink gets into their heads.

you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult for a chappie.

I could make a poet out of far less promising material. I could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange peel.

that he has got a pippin of an idea

he had put it in the hands of a young man who in all his life had only once shown genuine inspiration and initiative – on the occasion when he had parted his hair in the middle at a time when all the other members of the Bachelors' Club were brushing it straight back.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know you would be a writer? WODEHOUSE: Yes, always. I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don't remember what I did before that. Just loafed, I suppose.

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

We must dream our way.

I need the sea because it teaches me

In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop...

Porque sentí que de alguna manera Compartí lo que hacían O mis hermanos o mis enemigos: Y ellos, de tanta nada que saqué De la nada, de la nada mía, Tomaron algo y les sirvió mi vida...

But you, cloudless girl, question of smoke, corn tassel. You were what the wind was making with illuminated leaves. Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily of conflagration, ah, I can say nothing!  You were made of everything.

Sólo con una ardiente paciencia conquistaremos la espléndida ciudad que dará luz, justicia y dignidad a todos los hombres. Así la poesía no habrá cantado en vano.