...there was practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation.

I prefer the pen. There is something elemental about the glide and flow of nib and ink on paper.

A woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting.

Irony, we want our handwriting to look like typed fonts, and our computer fonts to look like handwritten text.

I no longer believe that William Shakespeare the actor from Stratford was the author of the works that have been ascribed to him.

I cannot marry the facts of William Shakespeare to his verse: Other men had led lives in some sort of keeping with their thought, but this man is in wide contrast.

The life of Shakespeare is a fine mystery and I tremble every day lest something turn up.

I have never thought that the man of Stratford-on-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.

We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.

The child is father of the man….attributed to Sigmund Freud, but believed to have been coined by a well-known poet years before Freud's time

Think about it: send SLASH receive. Email is the frenzied killer of proper communication.

A bad handwriting is as annoying to a reader … as an irritating voice is to a listener.

Like seeing a photograph of yourself as a child, encountering handwriting that you know was once yours but that now seems only dimly familiar can inspire a confrontation with the mystery of time.

Writing with a biro is the emotional equivalent of giving your loved one a plastic rose on Valentine’s Day.

Handwriting enables civilization.

To my amazement, miraculously, the lid suddenly loosened and slid all the way open, revealing its hidden cargo: A stack of small paper booklets. Dozens and dozens of them. Booklets made of ordinary sheets of white writing paper, folded in half, and hand-stitched along the spine. Booklets in remarkably pristine condition, all covered in a small, neat handwriting that I instantly recognized. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could hardly breathe.