#writ

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say? ↗

— Kurt Vonnegut

#freedom #gagged #living #more #nothing

She knew she could never love any man the way she loved a blank sheet of paper that only she could fill. ↗

— Coco J. Ginger

#jamie-weise #love #paper #short-story #writer-quotes

I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, by the one, would give you a better relish for the other: As you proceed further with me, the slight acquaintance which is now beginning betwixt us, will grow into familiarity; and that, unless one of us is in fault, will terminate in friendship. ↗

— Laurence Sterne

#writing #friendship

All the friends in the world are in the fountain of a pen. ↗

— Michelle Franklin

#friendship #romance #writing #friendship

To read is to cover one's face. And to write is to show it. ↗

— Alejandro Zambra

#act-of-writing #alejandro-zambra #bonsai #inspiring-writers #reading

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse. ↗

— Robert W. Service

#hand #means #mother #poetry #public

But I did not want to be good. I wanted to be a writer. ↗

— Isabel Huggan

#writing #writing-life #home

We live, all of us, in sprung rhythm. Even in cities, folk stir without knowing it to the surge in the blood that is the surge and urgency of season. In being born, we have taken seisin of the natural world, and as ever, it is the land which owns us, not we, the land. Even in the countryside, we dwell suspended between the rhythms of earth and season, weather and sky, and those imposed by metropolitan clocks, at home and abroad. When does the year begin? No; ask rather, When does it not? For us – all of us – as much as for Mr Eliot, midwinter spring is its own season; for all of us, if we but see it, our world is as full of time-coulisses as was Thomas Mann’s. Countrymen know this, with the instinct they share with their beasts. Writers want to know it also, and to articulate what the countryman knows and cannot, perhaps, express to those who sense but do not know, immured in sad conurbations, rootless amidst Betjeman’s frightful vision of soot and stone, worker’s flats and communal canteens, where it is the boast of pride that a man doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. As both countryman and writer, I have a curious relationship to time. ↗

— G.M.W. Wemyss

#country-life #countryside #sir-john-betjeman #time #village-life

Every author really wants to have letters printed in the paper. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels. ↗

— P.G. Wodehouse

#writers #humor

I often fantasize about torturing some of the lazier letters of the alphabet, like C, U, and E, because together they only manage to accomplish as much as the solitary letter Q. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#fantasy #funny #humor #language #letters