Quotes About Ink

You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience—the pen still behind your ear, the ink stains on your fingers and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration.

only the emperor among three hundred millions is allowed to use vermilion ink. Imagine that. If Queen Victoria said, 'From now on, only I am allowed to use vermilion,' as much as we love her, forty thousand Britons would instantly forswear all ink but vermilion. I would mysel'.

...I deliberately spilled the black ink of despair because my perfect soul was a stained glass illusion - can you understand that?...

Generally, I don't pencil, especially with the autobiographical comics, although I've usually planed out composition in my head during the scripting stage. I like to work directly in ink, to keep the spontaneity and expression conveyed by a less worked over line.

Browsing the dim back corner Of a musty antique shop Opened an old book of poetry Angels flew out from the pages I caught the whiff of a soul The ink seemed fresh as today Was that voices whispering? The tree of the paper still grows.

I've had secrets come out of my typewriter in invisible ink.

Ink to paper is thoughtful Ink to flesh, hard-core. If Shakespeare were a tattooist We'd appreciate body art more.

Ink smears, as thoughts sometimes do.

The smell of ink is intoxicating to me — others may have wine, but I have poetry.

Most collectors collect tangibles. As a quotation collector, I collect wisdom, life, invisible beauty, souls alive in ink.

Some authors write with a grave ink, of a dramatic pen dipped into their dark souls.

Ink surrounds me all the time On my bed sheets, recorded in rhyme Quills 'ever scribbling in my head Sometimes damnit I forget what they said. Ink has settled into my fingerprints But to keep the words I fear to rinse...

and she saw another bit of ink, one she didn't recognize: a sword and a hammer encircled by a snake. She didn't know what it meant, exactly, but it was probably more Nazi white-guy shit, because it was always Nazi white-guy shit.

It would not have made a good book, I think. It would have been a folly. Its best telling was in these paragraphs: they contain all the ironies a tome would have contained, and waste less ink.

She recognizes the cramped handwriting, the internecine, slashing script. She has studied it under the gaze of the Institute Librarian, in locked rooms -- she even, in the early, giddy days of her conversion, practiced Fulton's handwriting for hours. Knows the ink. . . . Here it is now, on the familiar notebook paper Fulton preferred. She tracked down the manufacturer once; they have a plant across the river where they still turn out the Fontaine line.

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

A fine gentleman like that, they said, had no need of books. Let him leave books, they said, to the palsied or the dying. But worse was to come. For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

The melacholy and the tenderness of mortal life; the passion and the pain; The claret tailight of that dwindling plane Off Hesperus; your gesture dismay On running out of cigarettes; the way You smile at dogs; the trail of silver slime Snails leave or flagstone; this good ink, this rhyme. This index card, this slender rubber band Which always forms, when dropped, an ampersand, Are found in Heaven by the newlydead Stored in its strongholds through the years.

That's why he's madder than a wet pen.

When they coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink . . .

we produced a bundle of pens, a copious supply of ink, and a goodly show of writing and blotting paper. For there was something very comfortable in having plenty of stationary.

There could not well be more ink splashed about it, if it had been roofless from its first construction, and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the varying seasons of the year.

Dinner over, we produced a bundle of pens, a copious supply of ink, and a goodly show of writing and blotting paper. For, there was something very comfortable in having plenty of stationery.