Quotes About Ink

Moist made a mental note: envelopes with a stamp already on, and a sheet of folded paper inside them: Instant Letter Kit, Just Add Ink! That was an important rule of any game: always make it easy for people to give you money.

Ignorance is in each cell of our body and our consciousness. It's like a drop of ink diffused in a glass of water.

Marx sat down next to Sam, and Sam handed him the keyboard so that he could play a round. Because SHOOT I could not SHOOT stop for SHOOT kindly An ink pot combusted on the screen, indicating that Marx, having shot the wrong phrase, had lost a life. "This is the most violent poetry game I've ever played," Marx said. "You've played other poetry games?" "Well, technically, no," Marx said. "Your friend's talented. And odd.

The visions are fragmented and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures.

Writing is] a trade [or]...a means of livelihood. You pass your imagination through the ink bottle, and it comes out in the shape of bread and meat, coats and shoes. [Julian Hawthorne]

Da li bi ?ovjek trebao tetovirati srce na ?elo? Tada bi cijeli svijet vidio: srce mu je udarilo u glavu. A budu?i da bi to bilo srce boje tinte, modro poput umiranja, agonijsko, moglo bi se re?i i: smrt mu je udarila u glavu. Mi samo trebamo zapisati koliko duboko nas je pogodio užas.

How do you tell when you're out of invisible ink?

We do not write the story of childhood with a dry-erase board, we write with a permanent Sharpie.

The greatest love stories are not written by the ink of the pen, but by the ink of the heart.

When love writes a letter, joy is its ink.

With dark raven paper and twinkling white ink, I wrote my heart in the night's sky.

You hid in my ink and guided my hand. You stained the pages with your silence as God wrote the words, "Be still." Yet, my heart's blindness could only write in loud hues of red, "I love you.

I hear the sound of my blood rushing out and I open my eyes to see it on the floor like ink and I watch as I end before I am empty.

YOU! You're boring! You're not even good enough for a good insult! You're in the one place Where magic is always real! Part the seas if you want! Rain down ink and blood! Transform! Fly! You're not allowed to spend the rest of your life panicking! You've got to give something back if you want to get out of here! What? What?? What do I give? You've got stories in there, I know, I can smell 'em-- Stoppit, stoppit! I don't! I can't tell a story to save my life! Funny you should put it that way.

The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.

Escribió su nombre y contempló cómo la tinta se secaba poco a poco. El placer de la página en blanco, que al principio siempre olía a misterio y a promesa, se desvaneció por ensalmo. Tan pronto como uno empezaba a colocar las primeras palabras comprobaba que en la escritura, como en la vida, la distancia entre intenciones y resultados iba pareja con la inocencia con que se acometían unas y se aceptaban los otros.

Everything on that page spoke of another time: the strokes that depended on the ink pot, the words scratched on the thick paper by the tip of the nib, the rugged feel of the paper.

Accursed be those whose dreams are made of paper and ink, for theirs will be the purgatory of vanity and disappointment.

I held it close to my face and smelled the ink. I have always loved the smell of ink in a new book.

Memory is more indelible than ink.

And then they were inside, and out of the wind, and surrounded by comforting walls and walls of books. The rich, delightful smell of old paper, leather, and ink permeated the place, washing away the pettier odours of blood and oil and smog.

Even as I write these words, which should be lucid and filled with glowing colour, I feel the very darkness of my own personality invading my pen. Only perhaps in the ink of this darkness can this writing properly be written? It is not really possible to write like an angel, though some of our near-gods by heaven-inspired trickery sometimes seem to do it.

There was even a scrap of poetry he treasured which stated that a moving finger having once written could never be lured back to unwrite.

Memory is fragile and capricious; each of us remembers and forgets according to what is convenient. The past is a notebook with many leaves on which we jot down our lives with ink that changes according to our state of mind.