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.

There is a master way with words which is not learned but is instead developed: a deaf man develops exceptional vision, a blind man exceptional hearing, a silent man, when given a piece of paper...

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.

The internet is killing the art of writing. The big "publish" button begs you to publish even before you go back and make one single edit, and as if this was not enough, you have instant readers who praise your writing skills!-

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 maze. is agony! The brainIs soon enclosed in a steel cap of pain.A muse in overalls directs the drill Which grinds and which no effort of the willCan interrupt, while the automatonIs taking off what he has just put on Or walking briskly to the corner store [860] To buy the paper he has read before.

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 words are: pink, round, firmness, succulent, supple, and pillowy. Personally, I think at least one of the words should be buhbuhbuhbuh.

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

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

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

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.

I write our names on the page.What of it, if the paper will be burned?I write our names in the sand.What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?I write our names on trees that will be cutand benches that will be painted,but what of it?I will keep on writing our namesbecause in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.

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 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.

You can lead if you can serve. You can serve when you can love. You can love when you are graced. The truth is that God knows love will be needed in volumes, this is why he made his grace abundant. Leaders are lovers. Misleaders are haters!

Ballot papers don’t determine who leads; they determine who takes which position. As to whether that person occupying the position will lead or will manipulate, character must come to prove it.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

I am going to build a fortress of books.Will you come inside and live with me?

I used to be afraid about what people might say or think after reading what I had written. I am not afraid anymore, because when I write, I am not trying to prove anything to anyone, I am just expressing myself and my opinions. It’s ok if my opinions are different from those of the reader, each of us can have his own opinions. So writing is like talking, if you are afraid of writing, you may end up being afraid of talking

I am not a supporter of burning books; but like poison, some books should be kept away from simple minds who can't take in the strong content they provide

One author said "I write because I want to live a footprint in the sands of history.” It's hard to live a footprint in the sands of history when giants are passing through the same sands unless you are one of the giants

I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been created?When the alphabet lacks the very letters?How can it be my fault when your loveliness only growsby the time I reach for pen and paper?Tell me how I am at faultwhen I am only a beginner in poemsand you are exquisite poetry?To write you in words is to put a veil upon you.Why must I writewhen I can kiss you instead?

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.

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

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

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 never enough numbers.

Bookworms are the most precious worms in the world when they are humans, feeding upon the paper's body with their starving minds.

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.

These bits of paper are covered with lies. They poison your minds. And so long as they exist, you cannot hope to see the world as it truly is.(...)You turn to them for answers and salvation. (...) You rely more upon them than upon yourselves. This makes you weak and stupid. You trust in words. Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or why? No. You simply accept their words without question. And what if those words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous.

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.

In order to protect their good names for posterity, many writers never wrote what they thought or the truth as it stood. That's why truth still lies hidden in matters of power, sex and religion. No wonder they chose to do so, many who dared paid with their heads

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

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.

A little deed done very well is better than a mighty plan kept on paper, undone. Wishes don't change the world; it's actions that do this business!

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

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

Lack of courage is what makes big dreams to sit in the ink of the paper instead of them running in the shoes of actions. Without courage, you remain a dreamer!

I don't understand this irony - valuable things like cars, gold, diamond are made up of hard materials but most valuable things like money, contracts and books are made up of soft paper.

If you are writing fiction, think like a god. Release all the power of your imagination; create worlds and destroy them at your will, create as many miracles as your story needs

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 house has been disordered, leaving its walls full of openings. Consequently, she must always occupy a second house, a building to protect her soul. Gradually this sense of vulnerability to the exterior was extended to all bodies which were then subjected to a kind of supervision traditionally given to the woman. The classical argument about her lack of self-control had been generalized.

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.

The world would have been a better place if some men had just shut their mouths.

I am what I have ever read

We write, not because we claim to know more than others, but perhaps because we want to know more than others. Writers are explorers

Words disappear in the air, but writing remains. If you want something to be remembered about you, write it down

A writer is never alone, he is always with himself

You say you have nothing to write about? How do you find things to talk about? You can write about those things you like to talk about, that's your area of expertise

. If you want to write, just write anything that comes into your mind. You will be surprised at how you can force inspiration to stand on your side.

You can edit what you write. Why not edit what you say? If it hurts somebody, you can still offer an apology or withdraw your statements

Able writers let us into their minds and show us how they think and by that open our minds to ourselves

Sometimes I have a good idea, something I wish I could remember, and instead of writing it down, commit it to my memory only to disappear when I needed it. Write your ideas as they come, if you wait it will be too long and you may not recover it. It may get destroyed as it is to seed to and fro in the ever rushing river of our thoughts

If you are afraid of the critics you will never write a word

You never know what you will write until you write it

Write it as you see in your own perspective, you may be right or wrong but then what, that's how you see it

How do you feel when you read stuff written by dead authors? A visit by a ghost?

You cannot write if you are not angry

You cannot write if you are not on fire

Writing is sharing. You share what you have. Great writers have more to share

People speak even after their death. Only do speak those who have recorded their speech in writing before they die, the rest go silent forever

The power of a writer is that he is a god of sorts. He can create his own worlds and populate them with his own people, all by the powers of his imagination. It's the closest a man can come close to the gods. No wonder the most successful writers are considered immortals

Self-censorship is more efficient than any police. You write and say not what you really think, but what you believe is acceptable. By that process we lose those revolutionary ideas that could change society for the better

Many writers write because they’ve been there, seen that, did it and burnt their fingers

A writer reports on the universe. When he presents his credentials, the gates of heaven and hell are equally opened to him. He can hear the devil’s defense and god’s accusations. The guards at the king’s heart let him in. The writer can be anything and any one he wants. When he writes he is a god, he creates.

If I can write, who possibly can’t. Even drawing a line in the sand is writing

The power of the writer is to capture the thoughts live and present them as they appeared in his mind

Writing is self-pleasure

Writing is all about self-expression, we want to speak up, to get it off our chest. Whether we make an impact or not that is not for us to decide

If I had time, money and knowledge I could write about everything; but no problem, Google is already doing it

Writing is magic happening on paper

Every book is worth reading. If it cannot make you wiser it will make you a critic

Today almost everybody is a writer, the enormous publish button on blogs and websites begs you everywhere to click on it! And bam you are a writer. To hell with agents and publishing houses and rejection letters. Immortality for you is on the click of a mouth! We are advancing at the speed of light! You can become an author at 140 characters. To hell with long winding sentences and long hours of scratching the head, the immortals of today instantly get a "like" and they instantly enter the pantheon! They seat side by side Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, St Paul, Buddha, Martin Luther, Rousseau, Bangambiki…

When I write sometimes I strike gold, sometimes I labor in vain and keep producing rubbish

Don't believe in everything that is written. Not everything that is written is true

Pencil. Paper. Forget the world.

I guess if there’s one thing I can say about the 21st century, it’s that the 21st century is all flash and no substance… everything is digital, nothing but files of invisible electronic data on computers and mindless zombies on their cellular phones… it’s sad how because of the digital age, society is ultimately doomed. Nothing in the digital age is real anymore, and you know, they say celluloid film and ray tube televisions and maybe even paper might become obsolete in this century? …What’s most annoying is that nobody cares, they’ve just learned to accept the digital age and get addicted to it… none of them are ever going to step up and say to the world, “you’re all a bunch of sheep!” and even if they did say anything, I doubt anyone would listen… they’re all too obsessed and attached to their cellular phones and overly big televisions and whatever other moronic things they’ve got these days… it almost makes me want an apocalypse to happen, to erase digital technology and force the world to start over again.

The future is as blank as a plane sheet if you don't have an eagle's eye, that's why you should climb to a vantage point to get a good perspective view at your future.

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

Technically, you cannot really own a book you bought; you can only own the sheets of paper your copy is printed on; unless, of course, you are the book’s publisher.

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

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

Never keep staring at the dreams you have on the paper... Don't just live like a spectator. You have the power, you have the mine, you have the skills, you can dribble your obstacles to get your goals moving to the other

It is said that if you want to change the world, take pen and write. I want to add that if you want to maintain that change, then be the ruler to rule the pen's lines. True rulers are true leaders; they maintain a change!

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.

She loves mysteries that she became one.

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

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.

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

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

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.

Welcome to Book-a-holic Anonymous.Hi, I'm Jazz and I am addicted to the written word. I love the smell of the blackest ink sliding across texture paper. My eyes squint against the loss of time within the pages of story. I don't think there's a cure for my compulsion to lose myself within life and times of those characters bound between the covers.

The ink line drawing flowed the cursive journey,created on paper canvas that brought the story to life.

I am sorry, I am not a writer. I simply put my thoughts on paper. Those helped by them call them a book and me a writer. Those who are not helped call it rubbish and me a fool. Both have reason.

One day I will write a book. An epitaph

Every book has its ancestors

Writing is exposing yourself to strangers

Writing is a competition between the writer and the page. When the page wins, you fail as a writer.

Each day hands me a clean sheet of paper upon which to write. Therefore, I would be wise to write without ever having the need to erase.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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 published: some say one every thirty seconds, others four thousand per day, others a million per year – and somehow, whether through the off-site storage of the physical books themselves, or microfilm copying, or digital scanning, we remain obliged to keep up with or afloat in this vast deluge of paper. Even the new, high-tech rebranded libraries opened to great fanfare in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets in the 1990s could not get away from this essential fact of paper hoarding: they were called “Idea Stores.” - p.56