paper

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

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.

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

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

History shows how feeble are barriers of paper.

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.

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

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

And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I__ puzzled by the difference between, the kind Which goes on solely in the poet__ mind,A testing of performing words, while he,The other kind, much more decorous, whenHe__ 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.

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!-

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.

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

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.

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 __ibraryness_ 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 __dea Stores._ - p.56

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.

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...

I__ going to destroy you, little man!" Sourcefield yelled after me. "I__l 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.