Quotes about paper

With different changes but the same plot, sometimes our story has already unfolded. It's just trapped in the pages of ink and paper. God is waiting in His Word.

Civilization transformed man from a food gatherer to a gatherer of pieces of paper: diplomas, employment contracts, money, etc.

If you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all

Give a typical employee a million, and, he is most likely to use the money to print his CV on fancier paper.

And everything was made of paper: sentences, pardons, pleas, bad records, demerits, proof of guilt, but never, it seemed, proof of innocence. If there were no paper, Carter felt, the entire judicial system would collapse and disappear.

Like a warrior in the battlefield, a writer must endeavour to use his pen to stamp the paper with his identity.

A letter to the beloved is like the ink kissing the paper. (Une lettre à l'aimée, c'est - L'encre embrassant le papier)

In an age of infinite digital documentation, paper was the last safe place for secrets.

Massive changes may have occurred in libraries in recent years, with new digital resources and services supplementing the old traditional resources and services, the dog-eared card catalogues ripped up and destroyed, workstations suddenly everywhere, but one essential aspect of “libraryness” has not changed: libraries remain places dedicated to storage. Books continue to be published in greater and greater numbers – so great in fact that there are no accurate figures as to exactly how many are p

Being an authority on paper does not immediately grant you authority over a group until it is earned by you and given by them.

There is a saying that, paper is more patient than man.

I’m going to destroy you, little man!" Sourcefield yelled after me. "I’ll rip you apart like a piece of tissue paper in a hurricane!""Wow," I said, reaching an intersection and taking cover by an old mailbox."What?" Tia asked."That was a really good metaphor.

History shows how feeble are barriers of paper.

It's an imaginative thing we do; it's about immersing oneself in one's imagination. If you're a novelist, you do it with pen and paper. We do it with our bodies.

Food that's served at the table in a paper parcel always creates a remarkable culinary moment when opened, because the package is full of aromatic steam from the lightly cooked ingredients inside.

A filmmaker has almost the same freedom as a novelist has when he buys himself some paper.

If you can market smut and toilet paper, you can market movies.

What the world really needs is more love and less paper work.

I'm a very methodical writer. Before computers, I used reams of paper and stacks of index cards.

It's hard to get everybody to recycle paper and plastic, let alone.

Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

The letter we all love to receive is one that carries so much of the writer’s personality that she seems to be sitting beside us, looking at us directly and talking just as she really would, could she have come on a magic carpet, instead of sending her proxy in ink-made characters on mere paper.

Block of wood, gives you a big bunch of paper, but it doesn't make it worthy as a piece of mind on single paper.

Without action, a vision is just a piece of paper. In education, we have lots of paper.

He realised he was in a chair. The world was white and blurry in half his vision, and it took him a few moments to realise a sheet of paper was stuck to his face.

She loves mysteries that she became one.

I am grateful for the white sheet - all my stories are his.

Sit and quiet yourself. Luxuriate in a certain memory and the details will come. Let the images flow. You'll be amazed at what will come out on paper. I'm still learning what it is about the past that I want to write. I don't worry about it. It will emerge. It will insist on being told.

Surely it is an odd way to spend your life - sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist, except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.

My life looked good on paper - where, in fact, almost all of it was being lived.

Muses are fickle, and many a writer, peering into the voice, has escaped paralysis by ascribing the creative responsibility to a talisman: a lucky charm, a brand of paper, but most often a writing instrument. Am I writing well? Thank my pen. Am I writing badly? Don't blame me blame my pen. By such displacements does the fearful imagination defend itself.

And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I’m puzzled by the difference between, the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind,A testing of performing words, while he,The other kind, much more decorous, whenHe’s in his study writing with a pen. In method B the hand supports the thought,The abstract battle is concretely fought.The pen stops in mid-air, then swoops to bar[850] A canceled sunset or restore a star,And thus it physically guides the phraseToward faint daylight through the inky m

The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.

Decisions are the privilege we’ve been granted to have a hand in penning the script of our lives. And in the writing, the question is not the availability of the paper or the pen. The question is the wisdom to use them rightly.

You were with Margo Roth Spiegelman last night? At THREE A.M.? I nodded. Alone? I nodded. Oh my God, if you hooked up with her, you have to tell me every single thing that happened. You have to write me a term paper on the look and feel of Margo Roth Spiegelman's breasts. Thrity pages, minimum! I want you to do a photo-realistic pencil drawing. A sculpture would also be acceptable. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to write a sestina about Margo Roth Spiegelman's breasts? Your six

Was it animal pee or human pee? Someone asked.How would I know? What, am I an expert in the study of pee?

A breeze blows up, touching my cheek like a little child's kiss. It flutters a piece of paper. "Trash, out there? Must belong to one of us." We move closer, and when I reached for it, I find...... a perfect paper airplane.

Writing is the dancing of the mind on a stage called paper.

When that little clock on my wall says “Olaotan! Olaotan!! Olaotan!!! It’s half past time to write”, I only have three things at my disposal: A pen, A piece of paper, and a crowded mind.

It taught that there are three versions of things: the one I see in my mind, and the one that carries onto the paper, and then what it ultimately becomes.

GOD PUNISHES NOT FOR WORLD TO LAUGH,I AM NOT A EMOTIONLESS PAPER OF GRAPH,EVEN I AM NOT THE WORLD'S STAFF,DON'T ANGRY THINKING ME A CALF.

The paper is my savior, the pen my blood, to words that shed my world.

​It is Obscene to keep Printing Newspapers in the Digital Era

Best friend is like a pen and we're the paper. We'll not complete without their ink

The personal screenplay- where you dive into the terrifying depths of your soul, unearth the most intimate details about yourself, and put it on paper for the world to see. Proceed with caution, for madness lies ahead.

The pages afforded glimpses into my soul where I'd hidden it, behind masks of paper and ink.

Try to leave an Impression on someone’s Heart, rather than a Paper.

I count everything. Even numbers, odd numbers, multiples of 10. I count the ticks of the clock i count the tocks of the clock I count the lines between the lines on a sheet of paper. I count the broken beats of my heart I count my pulse and my blinks and the number of tries it takes to inhale enough oxygen for my lungs. I stay like this I stand like this I count like this until the feeling stops. Until the tears stop spilling, until my fists stop shaking, until my heart stops aching. There are n

Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

Oh, well, faint heart never won so much as a scrap of paper

I can say that what you know is just a nothing or let's say thats some kind a small of peace of paper. I also know like you... or probably little more but it's nothing compared to everything.

And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone's soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive.

I write amongst the stars, and the canvased paper moon. I paint the fields of green, sprinkling morning dew. I teach the birds to sing, a tweet, a tweet, times two. And when my busy day is done, I dream sweet dreams of you.

To say she is only a woman is to say a violin is a piece of wood with strings, and Dante is mere ink printed on paper.

The first treatise on the interior of the body, which is to say, the treatise that gave the body an interior , written by Henri De Mondeville in the fourteenth century, argues that the body is a house, the house of the soul, which like any house can only be maintained as such by constant surveillance of its openings. The woman’s body is seen as an inadequate enclosure because its boundaries are convoluted. While it is made of the same material as a man’s body, it has ben turned inside out. Her h

As writers we live life twice, like a cow that eats its food once and then regurgitates it to chew and digest it again. We have a second chance at biting into our experience and examining it. ...This is our life and it's not going to last forever. There isn't time to talk about someday writing that short story or poem or novel. Slow down now, touch what is around you, and out of care and compassion for each moment and detail, put pen to paper and begin to write.

Bolts work on nuts; pens work on paper. But you must work on yourself. Go, get working!

The paper burns, but the words fly free.

You know your heart and soul are stapled to that manuscript, but what we see are the words on the paper

And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I’m puzzled by the difference b

Pencil. Paper. Forget the world.