A Quote by Ovid
When I was from Cupid's passions free, my Muse was mute and wrote no elegy.
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The muse is blind as Cupid and skittish as Diana.
The Muse is mute when public men
Applaud a modern throne.
I was Versace's muse, I was Valentino's muse, I was Alaia's muse, Lancetti's muse, Calvin Klein's, Halston's. I could go on and on.
The concept of muse is alien to me. To speak of a muse implies there is a couple in which one person is the objectified passive element - there to help the creative, active, often male part of the duo to create. A muse is very passive. Who wants a muse? I don't want a muse.
Stupid cupid you're a real mean guy, I'd like to pick your wings so you can't fly, I am in love and it's a crying shame, and I know that you're the one to blame, hey, hey set me free, stupid cupid, stop picking on me.
In a seriously intended intellectual emancipation a person's mute passions and cravings also hope to find their advantage.
I wake up in the morning, or the middle of the night when an idea comes through. My songwriting style, basically I just write down information given to me from the muse and how that works for songwriters. Record the muse and the muse delivers.
I don't celebrate Valentine's Day. It gets in the way of Black History Month. Cupid didn't free any slaves.
Regard as free not those whose status makes them outwardly free, but those who are free in their character and conduct. For we should not call men truly free when they are wicked and dissolute, since they are slaves to worldly passions. Freedom and happiness of soul consist in genuine purity and detachment from transitory things.
I like to have a great vibe wherever I am creating. I like to have movies playing on mute - just eye candy - maybe a friend in the room, maybe a lovely young lady, someone you can use as a muse, who can give you inspiration by her essence.
It's not like that when you're a songwriter - songwriters aren't like pulp writers or journalists, even. You just follow the muse. It's called muse-ic. Whenever the muse decides to bestow her inspiration on the songwriter, then the song is born.
Have you noticed that they write parts for mute women but not for mute men? It must be a masculine dream: a woman who can feel and hear but not talk!
In the immediate aftermath of the separation I just wrote and wrote and wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote. Thank God I had that as an outlet.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses - Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing one's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes -
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
Most humans know their own "reason" only in the sense that Hume defined it, as "a slave to the passions"-and by "passions" he meant not moral passions or the passions of transcendent genius, but only low appetites or base desires, which society and economy ultimately shape and spur on in us.
The muse is not an angelic voice that sits on your shoulder and sings sweetly. The muse is the most annoying whine. The muse isn't hard to find, just hard to like - she follows you everywhere, tapping you on the shoulder, demanding that you stop doing whatever else you might be doing and pay attention to her.
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