Quotes About Creativity

Old soldiers never die, they write novels.

The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.

Art is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end.

To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.

Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.

I've been working hard on [Ulysses] all day, said Joyce. Does that mean that you have written a great deal? I said. Two sentences, said Joyce. I looked sideways but Joyce was not smiling. I thought of [French novelist Gustave] Flaubert. You've been seeking the mot juste? I said. No, said Joyce. I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence.

Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?

A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM!

ere the hour of the twattering of bards in the twitterlitter between Druidia and the Deepsleep Sea

But Noodynaady's actual ingrate tootle is of come into the garner mauve and thy nice are stores of morning and buy me a bunch of iodines.

White roses and red roses: those were beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place and third place were beautiful colours too: pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could.

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination

I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description

Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low!

But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could.

Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in grasp and ivoroiled overalls which he habitacularly fondseed...

No man, said the Nolan, can be a lover of the true or the good unless he abhors the multitude; and the artist, though he may employ the crowd, is very careful to isolate himself.

We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

And, as a mere matter of ficfect, I tell of myself how I popo possess the ripest littlums wifukie around the globelettes globes (...)

Dress the pussy for her nighty and follow her piggytails up their way to Winkyland.

To say that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic merit, is no better than to say he is rheumatic or diabetic.