#poetic

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses. ↗

— Jean Cocteau

#bother #does #gardener #his #nor

What I wish I had, is that I wish I was a little more Greek, in that I wish I could lose my North American driven attitude and that I could be a little bit more poetic and laissez faire. ↗

— Nia Vardalos

#attitude #bit #could #driven #greek

I drift like a cloud, Across these venerable eastern lands, A journey of unfathomable distances, An endless scroll of experiences... Lady Zhejiang here we must part, For the next province awaits my embrace. Sad wanderer, once you conquer the East, Where do you go? ↗

— Tom Carter

#china #chinese #collecting-poetic-lines #hangzhou #ji-ju

Painting is so poetic, while sculpture is more logical and scientific and makes you worry about gravity. ↗

— Damien Hirst

#gravity #logical #makes #more #painting

The eyes of a poet discover in each person a unique and irreplaceable humanity. While arrogant intellect seeks to control and manipulate the world, the poetic spirit bows with reverence before its mysteries. ↗

— Daisaku Ikeda

#before #bows #control #discover #each

More generally, I made an effort to leave out things that weren't relevant to the main narrative themes of the book, namely that there were two sides to Steve Jobs: the romantic, poetic, countercultural rebel on one side, and the serious businessperson on the other. ↗

— Walter Isaacson

#businessperson #effort #generally #i #jobs

All that's left now is purely poetic work, putting more life into individual places, as I've made so sure of the fundamental mood and dimension of expression that it won't leave me groping around in uncertainty any more. ↗

— Oskar Kokoschka

#around #dimension #expression #fundamental #groping

A novelist has a specific poetic license which also applies to his own life. ↗

— Jerzy Kosinski

#applies #his #license #life #novelist

Some of the poetic writers who insert passages of realism in their texts have no underlying philosophy to uphold them, and revert to realism. ↗

— Marguerite Young

#passages #philosophy #poetic #realism #revert

and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart, mon grand pch radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I cancelled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and halfthrottled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque, part o nous ne serons jamais spars; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torneven then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita. ↗

— Vladimir Nabokov

#obsession #poetic #imagination