Quotes About Paper

In this latest War, death was no enemy, but a collaborator. Homosexuality in high places is just a carnal afterthought now, and the real only fucking is done on paper. . . .

And he loves to read. He loves the whisper of the pages and the way his fingertips catch on rough paper, the pour of the words up from the leaves, through the soft light, into his eyes, the mute voice in his ears.

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

He typically divides the writing of a scholarly paper into three discrete tasks: analyzing the data, writing a full draft, and editing the draft into something publishable.)

I know in another decade or two I'm going to have to get used to the idea of reading without paper in my hands, but I'm going to be making that trip kicking and screaming. Maybe that sounds stubborn, but my relationship with the printed word is the longest one I've ever had and I'm not ready to quit on it yet.

But, even after two years, all we have is a great process on paper that no one follows and a tool that no one uses. When I pester people to use them, all I get are complaints and excuses.

The Library runs on conspiracy theory. Admit nothing, deny everything, then find out what's going on and publish a paper on the subject. It's not as if they can stop you doing that.

Ambian?a o lini?ti automat: lumina abundent? a felinarelor, mirosul de hârtie ?i piele ?i faptul c?, oriunde privea, vedea numai c?r?i, c?r?i ?i iar c?r?i.

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.

The atmosphere of the place soothed her automatically; the rich lantern-lights, the sheer scent of paper and leather, and the fact that everywhere she looked, there were books, books, beautiful books.

As he passed me, he leaned to Curran and handed him a paper fan folded from some sort of flyer. Curran looked at the fan. "What?" "An emergency precaution, Your Majesty. In case the lady faints." Curran just stared at him. Raphael strode toward the Pit, turned, flexed a bit, and winked at me. "Give me that," I told Curran. "I need to fan myself." "No, you don't.

Does he understand what you say?" I asked. "He does. It's his own kind of magic," Astamur answered. "If it weren't for supplies, I'd never go back down to town. But a man has to do what a man has to do. Hard to live like a king without toilet paper.

I do know that throughout history, all paper money has eventually come back to its true value, which is zero.

I remember, once I was stressed, with an upcoming paper deadline. That little Microsoft Word clippy guy would show up in my face, jumping around and asking if I needed help. It had no understanding of my emotions and had zero empathy. That got me interested in this idea of tech being responsive to our emotions.

Government is the only institution that can take a valuable commodity like paper, and make it worthless by applying ink.

At home, I tend to read print, and most of the time, that means recently released hardcover novels. I enjoy the feel of paper and board; I like turning pages, dog-earing my spot, jotting notes in the back.

The thing that I like about magazines, paper magazines, and papers in any kind of tangible format is the surprise factor of turning the page and not necessarily knowing what you're going to see. You're not looking for something. You're just experiencing something.

I think, you're not blagging me on this ridiculous journey, with this bit of paper. I think if you want to change things, it's not with an X on a piece of paper, it's with an X on someone's forehead.

...it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings of England.

I am a veteran of the War on Christmas. I am just emerging from a battlefield strewn with dead trees and torn shreds of brightly colored wrapping paper.

Outside, the coo shadows that lurk under rocks and beneath houses during the day have crept out for their night-time prowl. Fingers of them climb up my legs beneath mu nightie, chasing out the warmth of my bed. Cold beats hot, like stone beats scissors and paper beats stone.

I love the book. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the compactness of it, the shape, the size. I love the feel of paper. The sound it makes when I turn a page. I love the beauty of print on paper, the patterns, the shapes, the fonts. I am astonished by the versatility and practicality of The Book. It is so simple. It is so fit for its purpose. It may give me mere content, but no e-reader will ever give me that sort of added pleasure.

I loved the fresh alkaline tang of new ink and paper, a smell that never emanated from a broken-in library book. I loved the crack of a newly flexed spine, and the way the brand-new pages almost felt damp, as if they were wet with creation.

Once words and thoughts are poured into them, books are no longer just paper and ink and glue: They take on a kind of human vitality.