I have always believed that opera is a planet where the muses work tog — Muses

"Whether on Ida’s shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From antient melody have ceas’d;Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth;Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wand’ring in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!How have you left the antient love That bards of old enjoy’d in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forc’d, the notes are few!"

"The mother of the Muses, we are taught, Is Memory: she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old."

"To feed your Muse, then, you should always have been hungry about life since you were a child. If not, it is a little late to start."

"The ancient Greek "oral poets" all had this anxiety about the deficiencies of their memories and always began poems by praying to the muse to help them remember. The invocation of the muses may have been a purely formal element by the time we encounter it, but it very likely reflected a real sense of the anxiety that the memory of forgetting could induce in a sensitive artist of an "oral society."

"When inspiration does not come, I go for a walk, go to the movie, talk to a friend, let go... The muse is bound to return again, especially if I turn my back!"

"The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on, Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire By little whimpering boy, with rueful face— Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing day."