Ink Quotes - page 7
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.
Margaret Atwood
I have been fascinated by it all, grateful for it all, grateful for the sheer majesty of the existence of ideas, stories, fables, and paper and ink and print and books to hold them all together for a man to take aside and examine alone. But the man I liked most and the man who seemed to remind me of myself - of what I really was and would surely become - was George Bernard Shaw.
William Saroyan
I thought I would be safe here.”
"You are.” For the first time, he touched her, touched her hand. "Safe from everything but paper and ink. Please. Put those down.”
"Paper and ink.” She clutched the books to her ample chest. "They're not nothing, Alec. They're pretty much everything to me: the embodiment of ideas, of thought-of free and open thought. Of inquiry and supposition. All of it.
Ellen Kushner
Like the intricately rational web of theology woven around the irrational mysteries of faith, the sober explanations of institutions for hoarding literary relics seem like elegant post-factum justifications for what is essentially a sense of sacred awe. An institution of learning seeks significant manuscripts because they possess qualities that scholarship cannot entirely reproduce - an authentic, holistic connection with the great writers of the past. It is not the intellectual content of the manuscript that is important but its material presence - ink spots, tobacco stains, pinworm holes, and foxing included.
Dana Gioia
What hours I spent of precious time,
What pints of ink I used to waste,
Attempting to secure a rhyme
To suit the public taste,
Until I found a simple plan
Which makes the lamest lyric scan!When I've a syllable de trop,
I cut it off, without apol.:
This verbal sacrifice, I know,
May irritate the schol.;
But all must praise my dev'lish cunn.
Who realise that Time is Mon.
Harry Graham (poet)
I saw the fare welling hands,
They were sickly,
When my hand
Touched her cold and long fingers
Which was from the family of the wailing reed
It gripped an eternal grief in its fist
The pen broke
And pain
Like black drops of ink
dropped on our papery hearts.
I saw the fare welling hands,
They were sickly.
Farrokh Tamimi
