Quotes About Scribbled

Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man?

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

I think back on that day when 16-year-old me scribbled on some silly piece of paper for some long-forgotten high school career-day project that my dream job was 'romance novelist.'

As he scribbled his odds and ends, he made a note reaffirming his belief that art always serves beauty, and beauty is delight in form, and form is the key to organic life, since no living thing can exist without it, so that every work of art, including tragedy, expresses the joy of existence.

A message was scribbled on the wall: Life is for sale. Alert the news for the media .

Stalin scribbled on an intelligence report predicting that Hitler would attack the Soviet Union in June 1941: 'You can send your source to his f*cking mother. This is disinformation.

There were valuable first editions of books in the enormous library, most of them had been scribbled in by some idiot named Will H.

Second only to the master of us all, Clodia has become the most discussed person in Rome. Versus of unbounded obscenity are scribbled about her over the walls and pavements of all the baths and urinals in Rome.

Though the idea was Hitler's, originating in a scribbled note

Shakespeare," he thought as he scribbled away. "Foolish fancy. This is life as it is lived.

The third type of book owner has scribbled in the margins, marked on the front and back covers, turned many a dog-eared page and a few of the books in the collection might even be considered downright worn out. This is the person who owns books. This is the person who is willing to fall in love.

The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

Old fan scribbled with poems – shredded by summer's end. 232