Quotes About Letters

And my mother, whose radius of travel was short, tied the letters with ribbon and kept them in her desk, When you get the chance, she said to me, go.

Erra chi dice che le lettere guastano e' cervelli degli uomini, perché è forse vero in chi l'ha debole; ma dove lo truovano buono, lo fanno perfetto; perché el buono naturale congiunto col buono accidentale fa nobilissima composizione.

end of this painful story: a man possessed and maddened enough to write such letters, and a bereaved father receiving them, until at last he reached the point at which he refused to read any more.

Your letters arrived today together, at noon, they aren't there to be read, but to be unfolded, to rest one's face on while losing one's mind.

That was why, if you wanted to keep up a correspondence with him, you couldn't give him any actual news, the kind you would unthinkingly write to even your most distant acquaintance.

Don't shut your eyes, don't give in to illusions, I will never change. My need to keep up an uninterrupted exchange of letters with you comes not from love but from my unhappy disposition

Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.

We once employed a girl in Texas to produce a fanzine, and after meeting her there she seemed fine. Then the letters started and they got strange and she began to claim we were an item. She also sent me a rhinestone cow bone sprayed silver and mounted on a plinth. Don't ask me why.

The letters that say 'I'm getting the messages you're sending me through the television screen' are not great. But those are few and far between, thank God. I get wonderful letters, and people send me artwork.

I've gotten a few love letters which I'm very fond of, thank you very much.

Older teens tend to write to me and say, 'Thank you for not writing down to teenagers.' And then there are the letters from adults who say, 'This is such a good book; why did you write it for teens?'

I will always be alone, as nobody will be able to replace you. I tried several times, out of despair, in order to not fall lower. But I have never written and will never write letters like the ones you have from me

Let them leave language to their lonely betters Who count some days and long for cer- tain letters; We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep, Words are for those with promises to keep.

In writing their letters, I say to them, they are to place themselves in the future, looking back, and to report on all the insights they acquired and milestones they attained during the year as if those accomplishments were already in the past.

He often devised sentences that began with his favorite capitals. Rs and Qs were his art.

Two formidable difficulties at once presented themselves: half the correspondence—the letters Dickinson received—had been destroyed and her own letters are undated after 1855.

Another intense relationship was kept under wraps. No letters to Judge Lord were published for half a century, and by that time the renunciatory legend was so firmly established that Emily's delight in the Judge's visits and her candour about desire have been underplayed.

Lavinia insisted that Todd's preface should include a statement that Emily Dickinson's sister had collected the letters. Todd, unaccustomed to submit on demand, persuaded Roberts Brothers to reprint the letters with a different version of that sentence. It was to say that Emily Dickinson's sister had asked Mabel Loomis Todd to collect her letters, implying Todd alone had done the job.

Abyss has no biographer—', Emily Dickinson said. Truth is bottomless, and she herself almost invisible. After her death, letters from correspondents were burnt according to her instructions and soon legend replaced living fact.

She called it a 'still—Volcano—Life', and that volcano heaves, close to the surface, throughout her poetry and a thousand letters. Stillness, for her, was not a retreat from life but a form of control.

The vulnerable image encouraged the pathos woven into her popularity. How the public loves wounded genius! How it loves her all the more if she be unmated, seething with love denied, an all-time poet unrecognised in her lifetime. But the Emily Dickinson who speaks through her letters makes no concession to helplessness.

When griefs are genuine, I find, there is nothing more vacuous, more burdensome, or even more impertinent, than letters of consolation.

I have written letters that are failures, but I have written few, I think, that are lies. Trying to reach a person means asking the same question over and over again: Is this the truth, or not? I begin this letter to you, then, in the western tradition. If I understand it, the western tradition is: Put your cards on the table.

The word literature enters the room with its nose in the air. But get it in a corner, ask the right questions, and it will reluctantly fess up to its humble origins. It hails from the Latin litterae, you whisper in your date's ear. It puts on a big act, but it literally just means "things made of letters.