Zitat des Tages über Tinte / Ink:
I believe our flag is more than just cloth and ink. It is a universally recognized symbol that stands for liberty, and freedom. It is the history of our nation, and it's marked by the blood of those who died defending it.
When I was at school, I used to end every school day with fountain pen ink all over my hands and face and down my shirt.
A newspaper is lumber made malleable. It is ink made into words and pictures. It is conceived, born, grows up and dies of old age in a day.
I've got a vendetta to destroy the Net, to make everyone go to the library. I love the organic thing of pen and paper, ink on canvas. I love going down to the library, the feel and smell of books.
It was said of old Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, that she never puts dots over her I s, to save ink.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Nothing is more satisfying to me than sitting in a dank room, hunched over a single flickering candle like Ebenezer Scrooge, and watching my ledgers fill themselves with ink.
Our live experiences, fixed in aphorisms, stiffen into cold epigrams. Our heart's blood, as we write it, turns to mere dull ink.
Look at the history of peace accords in Africa. They have a terrible record. They are shredded even before the ink on them is dry.
Never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel.
Pale ink is better than the most retentive memory.
When you sell a man a book, you don't sell him 12 ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life.
'Twin Peaks' is one of those Rorschach ink blot things, where everybody finds their own favorite thing.
For several days after my first book was published, I carried it about in my pocket and took surreptitious peeps at it to make sure the ink had not faded.
Every guy should be the owner of a really nice pen. When you put your thoughts down, or whenever you're going to share something with someone, it means something if it bleeds out in a nice ink.
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.
I have designed my style pantomimes as white ink drawings on black backgrounds, so that man's destiny appears as a thread lost in an endless labyrinth. I have tried to shed some gleams of light on the shadow of man startled by his anguish.
The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns, as it were, instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish squirting out ink.
I refer, of course, to the debts our nation has amassed for itself over decades of indulgence. It is the new Red Menace, this time consisting of ink. We can debate its origins endlessly and search for villains on ideological grounds, but the reality is pure arithmetic.
Animals outline their territories with their excretions, humans outline their territories by ink excretions on paper.
I don't see the world unless I see it in ink.
I still have a lot of the stories I wrote in high school. Hand wrote... a number of them are in purple ink, rendering them illegible, a fact we should probably be forever thankful for.
I work pretty quickly. I'd probably draw somebody once or twice in pencil, then just go to ink. Not really care too much about it, and it just kind of worked out.
Advertising is the ability to sense, interpret... to put the very heart throbs of a business into type, paper and ink.
Paper and ink are all but trash, if I cannot find the thought which the writer did think.
After I'd produced about two dozen pen and ink drawings, one evening I decided that they needed poems to accompany them. I still have no idea where that notion came from, but it took me about two hours to produce verses for these creatures.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
I am using soybean based ink, which is recyclable.
A recluse without books and ink is already in life a dead man.
I always get forwarded these weird pictures of people getting Kenny Powers tattoos. That's probably the craziest thing I've ever seen: Somebody will ink my face on their body for eternity.
My table is now brightly, now dimly lighted. Its temperature varies. It may receive an ink stain. One of its legs may be broken. It may be repaired, polished, and replaced part by part. But, for me, it remains the table at which I daily write.
To say a poem is absolute is saying nothing, because an ink blot can be absolute. Yet you put into it what you like. So it becomes totally relative.
We are material creatures who spend much of our lives on material pursuits (even building a cathedral or writing a novel requires stone and mortar or paper and ink).
I feel like the only person in the world who sees David Beckham modelling his swimming pants on the cover of Elle magazine and thinks - oh, how much better a handsome guy like you would look, David, without all those dumb ink stains stitched into your skin.
How hard it is to make your thoughts look anything but imbecile fools when you paint them with ink on paper.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.