Quotes About Typewriter

Once, before leaving on vacation, I copied an entire page from an Alice Munro story and left it in my typewriter, hoping a burglar might come upon it and mistake her words for my own. That an intruder would spend his valuable time reading, that he might be impressed by the description of a crooked face, was something I did not question, as I believed, and still do, that stories save you.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in. Very quick. Very intense.

This is the desk I sit at and this is the desk where I love you too much and this is the typewriter that sits before me where yesterday only your body sat before me

Don't let me ever think, dear God, that I was anything but the instrument for Your story-just like the typewriter was mine.

Miller is not really a writer but a non-stop talker to whom someone has given a typewriter.

Mrs Dorothea's typewriter was like a heart, a giant heart beating in the middle of the fog and chaos.

When success happens to an English writer, he acquires a new typewriter. When success happens to an American writer, he acquires a new life.

This was the kind of moral dilemma Pauline often got her into. Mr. Someone-or-Other, Pauline had mouthed. Adele at lunch with him, crying. But Mr. Who? She turned to her typewriter, Pauline's eyes still on her. She would like to ask "Who?"—but to do so, in that same mouthing whisper Pauline had used, would be to enter too fully into Pauline's tale, Pauline's bitter triumph, and, in some way, into Pauline's unhappy life. But Mr. Who?

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!

I'm with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on this same dreadful typewriter.

There is a similarity between juggling and composing on the typewriter. The trick is, when you spill something, make it look like a part of the act.

R]eality and real people are too subtle and complicated for anybody's typewriter, even Tolstoy's, even yours, even mine.

Old Mrs. Whiton stopped waving. She stood on the steps of the old house, looking up at the sky, where clouds were piling in the northeast. That meant a storm was coming, and old Mrs. Whiton's eyes flashed. She liked storms. They were a challenge to her. She went into the house, and soon her typewriter keys were clacking wildly, furiously, as though the storm were already there and she were racing the wind of it.

I heard Mrs Pergamon say that she planned to write her memoirs. Then I asked – and Nietzsche might have described the question as springing from my inner Fatum – 'Will you use a typewriter or an adding machine?

Microsoft Word was for kids, but the typewriter was God, the desk shook with each keystroke.

I wasn't as used to the new dumb questions, so when men I had once thought of as wise daddies now asked me 'How do you write?' I did not try and spill red wine in their suede pants. I would just smile and say, 'On a typewriter in the mornings when there's nothing else to do.'

In spite of advances in technology and changes in the economy, state government still operates on an obsolete 1970s model. We have a typewriter government in an Internet age.

They gave 12 monkeys a typewriter for a week, and after a week, they only used it as a bathroom.

I am amazed; until the day I die I shall wonder how Whittaker Chambers got into my house to use my typewriter.

I figured somebody wrote a story who had a typewriter and I thought that movies were made by the cowboys and that they just said, 'Okay, you fall off the horse this time.

A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys.

I pictured myself sitting by the fire and knitting the Celtic mists and shadowy pools into my cloth. I pictured Jonathan getting up from his typewriter and going out to split wood like a man in Ingmar Bergman, and the child, with woollen mittens flapping at its cuffs, tottering after him.

At the beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity. The person who owned one was a curiosity, too. But now it is the other way about: the person who doesn't own one is a curiosity.