Quotes by Roman Payne

They say Alexander the Great slept with The Iliad beneath his pillow. Though I have never led an army, I am a wanderer. During the waning moon, I cradle Homer’s Odyssey as if it were the sweet body of a woman.

I was glad to be made awarethat “Veimke” (jeune fille au pair),is subject to natural law,and can be made fat,by such things as poor diet,and alcohol.

She was a free bird one minute: queen of the world and laughing. The next minute she would be in tears like a porcelain angel, about to teeter, fall and break. She never cried because she was afraid that something would happen; she would cry because she feared something that could render the world more beautiful, would not happen.

Alexander the Great slept with The Iliad beneath his pillow. Though I’ve never led an army, I am a wanderer. I cradle The Odyssey nights while the moon is waning, as if it were the sweet body of a woman.

I cursed myself. For once, heaven had sent me Beauty in its most perfected form and I abandoned it. She might not have been a girl after all but an angel: a force to guide me on this hazardous path of life I hurry down... How can life be hazardous if it can only end in death?

I’ve seen knives pierce the chest,Children dying in the roadCrawling things hooked and baited,Rapists bound and then castrated,Villains singed in public square.Yet none these sights did make me cringeLike when my Love cut all her hair.

Fortunes fool! How we humans lie upon beauty like lizards upon a sun-baked rock.

This was how it was with travel: one city gives you gifts, another robs you. One gives you the heart’s affections, the other destroys your soul. Cities and countries are as alive, as feeling, as fickle and uncertain as people. Their degrees of love and devotion are as varying as with any human relation. Just as one is good, another is bad.

This was how it was with travel: one city gives you gifts, another robs you. One gives you the heart’s affections, the other destroys your soul. Cities and countries are as alive and feeling, as fickle and uncertain as people. Their degrees of love and devotion are as varying as with any human relation. Just as one is good, another is bad.

The green-eyed angel came in less than a half hour and fell docile as a lamb into my arms. We kissed and caressed, I met no resistance when I unlaced the strings to free her dress and fill myself in the moist and hot bed nature made between her thighs. We made love outdoors—without a roof, I like most, without stove, my favorite place, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with dew, and our love for each other was seen. Our love for the world was new.

All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art.

I’ve decided the act that cannot wait / is the important will to create / But, ah, if my belly is ignored / the pantry door I shall implore / But I’ve been known to reach the bed / ideas still famished in my head.

I will always know the glory of the beautiful and rare, as they will know security from labour and prayer. As they will hear the laughter of the children they gave life, I will know the torments of the song born under knife.

From flophouse bedTo poorhouse bread,all outhouse sorrow:I thee wed.

Of all public figures and benefactors of mankind, no one is loved by history more than the literary patron. Napoleon was just a general of forgotten battles compared with the queen who paid for Shakespeares meals and beer in the tavern. The statesman who in his time freed the slaves, even he has a few enemies in posterity, whereas the literary patron has none. We thank Gaius Maecenas for the nobility of soul we attribute to Virgil; but he isn’t blamed for the selfishness and egocentricity that the poet possessed. The patron creates literature through altruism, something not even the greatest genius can do with a pen.

Sexual frenzy is our compensation for the tedious moments we must suffer in the passage of life. Nothing in excess, professed the ancient Greeks. Why if I spend half the month in healthy scholarship and pleasant sleep, shouldnt I be allowed the other half to howl at the moon and pillage the groins of Europes great beauties?

When I was younger, I would cling to life because life was at the top of the turning wheel. But like the song of my gypsy-girl, the great wheel turns over and lands on a minor key. It is then that you come of age and life means nothing to you. To live, to die, to overdose, to fall in a coma in the street... it is all the same. It is only in the peach innocence of youth that life is at its crest on top of the wheel. And there being only life, the young cling to it, they fear death... And they should! ...For they are in life.

The season was waning fastOur nights were growing cold at lastI took her to bed with silk and song,Lay still, my love, I won’t be long...I must prepare my body for passion.O, your body you give, but all else you ration.It is because of these dreams of a sylvan scene...A bleeding nymph to leave me serene...I have dreams of a trembling wench.You have dreams, she said, that cannot be quenched.Our passion, said I, should never be feared...As our longing for love can never be cured...Our want is our way and our way is our will...We have the love, my love, that no one can kill.If night is your love, then in dreams you’ll fulfill...This love, our love, that no one can kill.Yet want is my way, and my way is my will,Thus I killed my love with a sleeping pill.

SAUL: We made love outdoors, my favorite place to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with sweat.

Favoring resolution the way we do, it is hard for us men to write great love stories. Why?, because we want to tell too much. We aren’t satisfied unless at the end of the story the characters are lying there, panting.