Quotes About Letters

imagining her name in a record book. All those demure round letters in the first name, followed by the stalky surprise of the surname. Ona Vitkus.

ABCDE FGHIJ KLMNO PQRST UVWXYZ And each part has five letters, except the last; but Z is used so seldom that it can be lumped together with Y. I then wrote my real message to Mum

I was secretly convinced that with such a marvel one would be able to write anything, from novels to encyclopedias, and letters whose supernatural power would surpass any postal limitations--a letter written with that pen would reach the most remote corners of the world, even that unknowable place to which my father said my mother had gone and from where she would never return.

Write, he said. I'll write to you as soon as I get there, answered Julian. No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.

My father pretended to be reading his letters. He was a dreadful actor. 'Since when have you liked Wagner?

Douglass's hesitation was understandable. His own letters and speeches were consistently full of retribution and bloodshed, but Douglass never actually participated in any such activities.

There were hundreds of them spread across the floor, each telling its own tale of triumph or sadness, each letter representing a phase in her life. She had kept them all.

P.S. I Love You

People can lie in letters, but they tend not to. They certainly lie in memoirs.

I get a lot of letters from French lady admirers - and gentlemen. 'Midsomer' is a huge hit in France, and it's all down to the guy dubbing me into French - a middle-aged balding fellow.

When we did Dynasty, it was the clothes. I think the clothes affected every woman around the world. I got so many letters, I think we made the designer a millionaire!

I do not think anyone can read the letters which passed between Clarke and [Anthony] Collins without admitting that Collins, who writes with wonderful Power and closeness of reasoning, has by far the best of the argument, so far as the possible materiality of the soul goes; and that in this battle the Goliath of Freethinking overcame the champion of what was considered orthodoxy.

Dom Frederic was deep in a pile of letters which covered the desk before him, along with a mountain of other papers and documents. Yet you could see that this tremendous volume of work did not succeed in submerging him. He had it all under control. Since I have been in the monastery I have often had occasion to wonder by what miracle he manages to keep all that under control. But he does.

I find in all the works of the greatest writers, especially in their unedited letters, some touch, some sign of myself - some resemblance, some part of myself, like a thousand reflections of my own hands in a dark mirror.

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me—a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger.

There's something I've learned from years of reading people's letters. In most cases, they already have an answer to their problem. They're asking for advice because they want to see if other people think they're making the right decision. That's why a lot of people send me a response after reading my advice. Maybe they had a different solution in mind.

If silence is golden, then Zen may be called an alchemy that transforms all things into gold by purifying them in the fire of the negation of all words and letters, names and concepts, logical methods and theoretical systems...

Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.

We often dream about people from whom we receive a letter by the next post. I have ascertained on several occasions that at the moment when the dream occurred the letter was already lying in the post-office of the addressee.

Letters and diaries sometimes bring us close to grand moments or touching scenes in the history of Euro-Americans, but harkening back to the thoughts and feelings of the less powerful, we meet only silence

I'm an advocate of the great Dr. Johnson, the English man of letters who said that patriotism was the last refuge of the scoundrel.

How huge it is, how empty, this great space for which I have been longing all my life. Still no letters.

I am beginning to ramble. It is evening. The sea is golden, speckled with white points of light, lapping with a sort of mechanical self-satisfaction under a pale green sky. How huge it is, how empty, this great space for which I have been longing all my life. Still no letters.

What dangerous machines letters are. Perhaps it is as well that they are going out of fashion. A letter can be endlessly reread and reinterpreted, it stirs imagination and fantasy, it persists, it is red-hot evidence. It was a long time since I had received anything resembling a love letter.