Envisions Ink Quotes

The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon

It was like we were all so busy trying to be happy or saying we were happy, but underneath there was nothing but bitterness, the kind that could only be bled out in ink, in unspoken word. ~ Elizabeth Scott

She responded to him as if born for him-- and he was certain she was. More importantly, he was beginning to think he had been born for her. ~ Christine Feehan

from the poem: MANNEQUINS THAT SWEAT BLACK INK AND NEVER HAVE ANY FUN

If you put a twizzler in your ear it looks like your ear is vomiting blood. ~ Sam Pink

The first time I made any money, I was 27. I went to Bergdorf's looking like a proper guttersnipe and bought a pair of Louboutins. I'd wear them and an old ink-stained kimono and make my drawings and feel indomitable. ~ Molly Crabapple

This woman could break him when nothing that had come earlier in his life ever had. ~ Christine Feehan

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. ~ Emily Post

I'm a bit like a sponge. When I'm not writing I absorb life like water. When I write I squeeze the sponge a little - and out comes, not water but ink. ~ Georges Simenon

In the world of physics we watch a shadowgraph performance of the drama of familiar life. The shadow of my elbow rests on the shadow table as the shadow ink flows over the shadow paper. It is all symbolic, and as a symbol the physicist leaves it. Then comes the alchemist Mind who transmutes the symbols. The sparsely spread nuclei of electric force become a tangible solid; their restless agitation becomes the warmth of summer; the octave of aethereal vibrations becomes a gorgeous rainbow. Nor does the alchemy stop here. In the transmuted world new significances arise which are scarcely to be traced in the world of symbols; so that it becomes a world of beauty and purpose - and, alas, suffering and evil. ~ Arthur Stanley Eddington

Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic. As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. ~ Diane Setterfield

Don't be afraid to make corrections! Whether the voice came from her memory or was a last whisper from the blinding new star far above, Nita never knew. But she knew what to do. While Kit was still on the first part of the name she pulled out her pen, her best pen that Fred had saved and changed. She clicked it open. The metal still tingled against her skin, the ink at the point still glittered oddly- the same glitter as the ink with which the bright Book was written. Nita bent quickly over the Book and with the pen, in lines of light, drew from the final circle an arrow pointing up-ward, the way out, the symbol that said change could happen- if, only if- ~ Diane Duane

Brush and ink are only servants of thoughts and emotion. They should follow your emotion and change with the emotion. ~ Wu Guanzhong

TV and film are very different media with different requirements. In a TV show, you have actors and fellow writers and directors, who are interpreting your work. With a novel, you only have ink, words and your reader. ~ Howard Gordon

What I noticed at Grace-Calvary is the same thing I notice whenever people aim to solve their conflicts with one another by turning to the bible: defending the dried ink marks on the page becomes more vital than defending their neighbor. As a general rule, I would say that human beings never behave more badly toward one another than when they believe they are protecting God. In the words of Arun Gandhi, grandson of Mohandas, 'People of the Book risk putting the book above people. ~ Barbara Brown Taylor

My books were always full of ink blots, always stained and covered with smeared sketches and pictures, which one draws idly when his attention wanders from his task. ~ Pierre Loti

And on the wedding contract, before me and my parents and the rabbi, and Wanda and Sergey for our witnesses, in silver ink he signed his name.

But I won't ever tell you what it is. ~ Naomi Novik

Nervously, I light a cigarette and chase through the smoke for the wounds that years have seared my soul, words whose fire has never been quenched by ink. Is paper a dustbin for the memory, a place where we always deposit the ash of the last cigarette of nostalgia, the remnants of the final disappointment? Which one of us lights up or stubs the other? I really do not know. Before you, I never wrote anything worth mentioning. Because of you, I put pen to paper. ~ Ahlam Mosteghanemi

Once upon a different time, there was a girl who lived in a kingdom of death. Wolves howled up her arm. A whole pack of them--made of tattoo ink and pain, memory and loss. It was the only thing about her that ever stayed the same. ~ Ryan Graudin

Stories are life," protested Pico. "Without them, books would be only paper and ink, with them they breathe, the reader is drawn in, the stories become him. ~ Keith Miller

Jerusalem, 61 AD Mariamne dipped her reed pen into the shallow wooden bowl of charcoal and olive oil ink and began writing her last entry on the parchment page in front of her. ~ Jerry Harber

She turned her head a fraction of an inch, her eyes very dark, pools of ink, silencing him. She did not say a word. In her eyes he read the answer to the question she had not allowed him to ask. No one had ever looked at him like that. Like he was every star shining down on them that night and the ground beneath her feet, and every other ridiculous phrase found in books that he'd never believed could possibly be true. And he knew she hated herself in
that moment and he knew she loved him precisely because she did not speak a single word. ~ Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Between you and me,
the words,
like mortar,
separating, holding together
those pieces of the structure ourselves.
To say them,
to cast their shadows on the page,
is the act of binding mutual passions,
is cognizance, yourself/myself,
of our sameness under skin;
it rears possible cathedrals
indicating infinity with steeply-high styli.
For when tomorrow comes it is today,
and if it is not the drop
that is eternity
glistening at the pen's point,
then the ink of our voices
surrounds like an always night,
and mortar marks the limit of our cells. ~ Roger Zelazny

The wind smelled clean, like clean magazines. It smelled like invisible ink. ~ Sarah Schulman

Compliments of congratulation are always kindly taken, and cost nothing but pen, ink and paper. I consider them as draughts upon good breeding, where the exchange is always greatly in favor of the drawer. ~ Lord Chesterfield

... He who thought at last the books would tell him why people couldn't stay, and how their maps unraveled into ink-dissolving roads, while the sleepless boy and hall light stood watch... ~ Wyatt Prunty

I run to the high mountains
I pour my heart out to the skies
I sing of the summer song
While the sky above dance in the yellow light.
The cool breeze fools the sun above
Takes a run, wins the mighty fight.
Your light then comes to me with warmth,
A view my heart wants.
Love to me is the song you write.
The tricks you play with the endless sky
And with the icy wind you find a disguise.
You burn me like sun that burns up
In the blue abyss.
With the ink of my emotions
You write a song of Fire and Ice. ~ Jaishree Garg

O Death, old captain, it is time! let us lift anchor.
This land tires us, O Death. Let us be under way!
If the sky and the sea are black as ink,
Our hearts, those you know, have rays of light!

Pour us your poison so that it comfort us!
We wish, this fire burns our brain, so much,
To plunge to the bottom of the gulf, Hell or Heaven,
what does it matter? -
To the bottom of the Unknown, to find Something New! ~ Charles Baudelaire

There are rules, but rules may be rewritten if only one hand holds the ink. ~ Alexandra Bracken

The scent of the spicy squid is almost too much to handle!"
First we start with bite-size chunks of squid sautéed in some olive oil and squid ink...
Once the flavors have fully melded together, in goes a generous splash of white wine to flambé them!
Then some cabbage and onion for sweetness! Tomatoes for a little zing!
And finally... the secret ingredient!
"What the heck? Look at that giant needle!"
"You're not going to use that on the food, are you?!"
We convinced a local restaurant to let us have their huge pile of leftover shrimp heads and seafood shells. By boiling it all down, we infuse all their savory umami goodness and richness into olive oil...
... making a big batch of Hayama's special red olive oil! Using a cooking injector, we inject a dose right into the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, aaand...
PLOOP ~ Yuto Tsukuda

In the middle distance, sails were gliding like butterflies, and farther away, ships dotted the mouth of the bay between Awa and Sagami as if brushed in ink in a single flowing stroke. ~ Haruo Shirane

She stood there looking up at him as if he were a good man and would save her. He was debating whether or not he was that good. Unfortunately for her, he didn't think so. ~ Christine Feehan

Gallons of ink and miles of typewriter ribbon expended on the misery of the unrequited lover; not a word about the utter tedium of the unrequiting. ~ Tom Stoppard

You have ink in your blood, boy, and no help for it. Books will never be just a business to you. ~ Rachel Caine

If I make the seven oceans ink, if I make the trees my pen, if I make the earth my paper, the glory of God cannot be written. ~ Kabir

A book should long for pen, ink, and writing-table: but usually it is pen, ink, and writing-table that long for a book. That is why books are so negligible nowadays. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success.




Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are.




Or is it?




Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real indivi ~ Raven Lockwood

I love words. I crave descriptions that overwhelm my imagination with vivid detail. I dwell on phrases that make my heart thrum. I cherish expressions that pierce my emotions and force the tears to spill over. In essence, I long for a writer's soul sealed in ink on the page. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

The product of paper and printed ink, that we commonly call the book, is one of the great visible mediators between spirit and time, and, reflecting zeitgeist, lasts as long as ore and stone. ~ Johann Georg Hamann

Ink is the great cure for all human ills. ~ C.S. Lewis

The ink of the scholar is more holy than the blood of the martyr. ~ Anonymous

After wasting so much pulp and ink myself, who was I to complain about waste? We live in an advanced capitalist society, after all. ~ Haruki Murakami

If I were a heroine in a fairy tale, I often thought, and a fairy godmother offered to grant me wishes, I would ask for peaches-and-cream skin, eyes like deep blue pools, hair like spun gold instead of blackest ink. I knew I would be worthy of it all. There was nothing I wouldn't trade for that kind of magic, that kind of beauty. If you were pretty, if you were normal, if you were white, then the good things everyone saw on the outside would match the goodness you knew existed on the inside. And wouldn't it be wonderful to go to sleep one night and wake up an entirely different person, one who would be loved and welcomed everywhere? Wouldn't it be wonderful to look at your face in the mirror and know you would always belong? ~ Nicole Chung

Yet when she returned to the house, Sarsine had a smile on her face. "Go into the salon," she said.
Her piano. Its surface gleamed like wet ink. An emotion flooded through Kestrel, but she didn't want to name it. It wasn't right that she should feel it, simply because Arin had given back to her something that he had more or less taken.
Kestrel shouldn't play. She shouldn't sit on that familiar velvet bench or think about how transporting a piano across the city was no mean feat. It meant people. Pulleys. Horses straining to haul a cart. She shouldn't wonder how Arin had found the time and begged his people's goodwill to bring her piano here.
She shouldn't touch the cool keys, or feel that delicious tension between silence and sound.
She remembered that Arin had refused to sing for who knows how long.
Kestrel didn't have that particular kind of strength.
She sat and played. ~ Marie Rutkoski

The whole passage was underlined in bleeding, water-soaked black ink. But there was another ink, this one a crisp blue, post-flood, and an arrow led from "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!" to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight & Fast. ~ John Green

Your tattoo," I said without thinking. "Does it mean anything?"

"Don't most tattoos?" he said. "I kind of want something to have significance if it's in permanent ink. On my skin."

"What does it mean?"

"It's a warning," he said.

Right.

"Do you have others?" I couldn't see any, despite his short sleeves. "I mean, under your clothes?"
What was wrong with me? Was it inappropriate hour or something?

"One more." He was trying not to smile. "But I need to know you a little better first. ~ Mary Watson

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing. ~ Virginia Woolf