Ink Quotes

First game I win, I get your panties. The second game I win, I make you scream. ~ Christine Feehan

I still let myself be a fan of music and that motivates me to want to be better than certain people or just getting the same love. Nothing is new under the sun so you cant be afraid to take things from others and try to flip them and make them your own at the end of the day. ~ Kid Ink

The permanence of ink encourages one to "go for it," to try to put the line right where it should be ... continued attempts to place lines accurately build the eye-hand coordination necessary for sketching. ~ Paul Laseau

Temptation was the color white. It was black ink, quivering at the point of a pen's nib. ~ Marie Rutkoski

Honesty is easier when you have no face and no real name. And honesty, for me, is very easy on paper. ~ Katherine Reay

I could write my name across the sky, and it would be in invisible ink. ~ Shaun David Hutchinson

From the life's pen
My ink flows and my feelings pour
Some call it poetry
I call it my boat's oar… ~ Neelam Saxena Chandra

Waiting for the pen to dry up so he can start fresh with thoughts that are worth new ink. ~ Brian Andreas

A private meeting with Hoover is like sitting in a both of ink. ~ Henry L. Stimson

As much as I'd wanted to stay in Japan to be with him, the real reason was that I wanted control of my life. I was connected to the ink and I belonged here. ~ Amanda Sun

Oh my God ...
Xhex's heart stopped as she looked at him in the mirror. Across his upper back, in a glorious spread of black ink ... in a declaration that didn't whisper but shouted ... in a billboard-size front with flourishes ...
Her name in the Old Language. ~ J.R. Ward

Life is how you brew it. Wake up, you have a story to tell. Don't chase vain glory, your story will tell it. You owe it to yourself to write the lines of your story in the ink of purpose! ~ Israelmore Ayivor

He recognized this particular act for what it was: a woman's need to mark her man. The scary part was, he didn't care. Hell, at this moment, if she wanted to tattoo her name on his ass, he'd go buy the fucking ink. ~ Alannah Lynne

It is to be regretted that no mental method of daguerreotype or photography has yet been discovered by which the characters of men can be reduced to writing and put into grammatical language with an unerring precision of truthful description. How often does the novelist feel, ay, and the historian also and the biographer, that he has conceived within his mind and accurately depicted on the tablet of his brain the full character and personage of man, and that nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to perpetuate the portrait, his words forsake, elude, disappoint, and play the deuce with him, till at the end of a dozen pages the man described has no more resemblance to the man conceived than the signboard at the coner of the street has to the Duke of Cambridge? ~ Anthony Trollope

Generally, I don't pencil, especially with the autobiographical comics, although I've usually planed out composition in my head during the scripting stage. I like to work directly in ink, to keep the spontaneity and expression conveyed by a less worked over line. ~ Jeffrey Brown

Had I just made a date with a tatted up bat wielding miscreant? ~ Holly Hood

Nick gave a sharp nod. "Fair point". Rising, he stepped toward the desk and stole a chip off Marz's plate.
"Dude," Marz said, holding out his hands, "get your own crunchy goodness. ~ Laura Kaye

We are not gods. We make mistakes. We do not live very long.
Sometimes someone grinds ink, mixes it with water, arranges paper, takes up a brush to record our time, our days, and we are given another life in those words. ~ Guy Gavriel Kay

I dip my pen in the blackest ink, because I'm not afraid of falling into my inkpot. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

But she's going to see the world and she's going to feel the wind in her hair. And she's going to solve all her crosswords in ink. ~ Fredrik Backman

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

I went back every evening, after work, for nearly a year. I learned the meaning of the cud of a leaf and the glisten of wet pebbles, and the special significance of curves and angles. A great deal of the writing was unwritten. Plot three dots on a graph and join them; you now have a curve with certain characteristics. Extend that curve while maintaining the characteristics, and it has meaning, up where no dots were plotted.

In just this way I learned to extend the curve of a grass-blade and of a protruding root, of the bent edges of wetness on a drying headstone. I quit smoking so I could sharpen my sense of smell, because the scent of earth after a rain has a clarifying effect on graveyard reading, as if the page were made whiter and the ink darker. I began to listen to the wind, and to the voices of birds and small animals, insects and people; because to the educated ear, every sound is filtered through the story written on graves, and becomes a part of it.

("The Graveyard Reader") ~ Theodore Sturgeon

Utensil

While feasting
On venison stew
After we buried my mother,
I recognized my spoon

And realized my family
Had been using it
For at least forty-two years.
How does one commemorate

The ordinary? I thanked
The spoon for being a spoon
And finished my stew.
How does one get through

A difficult time? How does
A son properly mourn his mother?
It helps to run the errands--
To get shit done. I washed

That spoon, dried it,
And put it back
In the drawer,
But I did it consciously,

Paying attention
To my hands, my wrists,
And the feel of steel
Against my fingertips.

Then my wife drove us back
Home to Seattle, where I wrote
This poem about ordinary
Grief. Thank you, poem,

For being a poem. Thank you,
Paper and ink, for being paper
And ink. Thank you, desk,
For being a desk. Thank you,

Mother, for being my mother.
Thank you for your imperfect love.
It almost worked. It mostly worked.
Or partly worked. It was almost enough. ~ Sherman Alexie

He knew Kandinsky by heart: every trickle of red, slash of black ink, and hemorrhage of gold. Each dissonant note in its allegro, the harmony in its adagio, and its deep blue intermezzo, formed a symphony he had memorized in his body. He couldn't say if Fragment 2 symbolized the Deluge, the Last Judgment, or the Resurrection. But it had become his religion, offering both redemption and pain.. ~ Kelly Oliver

I don't have many friends, not the living, breathing sort at any rate. And I don't mean that in a sad and lonely way; I'm just not the type of person who accumulates friends or enjoys crowds. I'm good with words, but not spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper. And I suppose, in a sense, that's what I do, for I've hundreds of the other sort, the friends contained within bindings, pages after glorious pages of ink, stories that unfold the same way every time but never lose their joy, that take me by the hand and lead me through doorways into worlds of great terror and rapturous delight. Exciting, worthy, reliable companions - full of wise counsel, some of them - but sadly ill-equipped to offer the use of a spare bedroom for a month or two. ~ Kate Morton

Why read? Because books are precious guides to our humanity - civilization's backbone - that tenuous ridgeline that allows us to climb above the jungle and see what the horizon has to offer. Thus they represent the yearning to go beyond, to explore. Yet they are also human-sized. And made of paper and ink, and thus they come from the earth. Their physicality is what makes them immensely human. And they contain the flesh-and-bone thoughts of one person capturing one blink of time, now made immortal in the bound pages carried by your own hands and touched by your own eyes. How can such fragile and thin paper and spidery veins of ink be our most precious treasure, binding together the entire hope and legacy and language of a civilization - of our existence. We touch the book and turn the page, and thus we are bound to our destiny. ~ Carew Papritz

If organs as elemental as brain and heart can be persuaded to regenerate, and others, like ears and corneas, can be fashioned from living ink, how will that change us as a species? Will the printing of organs affect our evolution? Could it alter our genes? ~ Diane Ackerman

Steele knew Breezy wasn't going to be won over easily, but as far as he was concerned, there was no other choice. He 'had' to win her over for his own self-preservation. ~ Christine Feehan

Ink is the transcript of thought. ~ Alphonse De Lamartine

Concentrate on sharpening your memory and peeling your sensibility. Cut every page you write by at least one third. Stop constructing those piffling little similes of yours. Work out what it is you want to say. Then say it in the most direct and vigorous way you can. Eat meat. Drink blook. Give up your social life and don't think you can have friends. Rise in the quiet hours of the night and prick your fingertips and use the blood for ink; that will cure you of persiflage! ~ Hilary Mantel

Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious ~ Kathryn Stockett

An oceanic expanse of pre-dawn gray white below obscures a checkered grid of Saskatchewan, a snow plain nicked by the dark, unruly lines of woody swales. One might imagine that little is to be seen from a plane at night, but above the clouds the Milky Way is a dense, blazing arch. A full moon often lights the planet freshly, and patterns of human culture, artificially lit, are striking in ways not visible in daylight. One evening I saw the distinctive glows of cities around Delhi diffused like spiral galaxies in a continuous deck of stratus clouds far below us. In Algeria and on the Asian steppes, wind-whipped pennants of gas flared. The jungle burned in incandescent spots in Malaysia and Brazil. One clear evening at 20,000 feet over Manhattan, I could see, it seemed, every streetlight halfway to the end of Long Island. A summer lightning bolt unexpectedly revealed thousands of bright dots on the ink-black veld of the northern Transvaal: sheep. ~ Barry Lopez

Your choices, your words, and every move you make are permanent. Life is lived in indelible ink, boy. Wake up. You're making little bitty brushstrokes every minute you walk around on this earth. And with those tiny brushstrokes, you are creating the painting that your life will ultimately become - a masterpiece or a disaster. ~ Andy Andrews

My life felt heavy that night, with each year of my life like a weighty crate, so I had almost thirteen crates to carry around inside me, with each crate full of notebooks and each notebook full of secrets. It is hard to lug such a heavy load around with me and to keep everyone from seeing it. But some secrets are so strange and so dangerous that showing them to people makes the strangeness and the danger pour into their lives like dark, dark ink. I lived with this ink myself, emblazoned on my ankle for me to see each morning when I got out of bed, except for the days when I collapsed exhausted with my shoes on. But I did not want to stain anyone else's life. ~ Lemony Snicket

If I could sleep with my arms around you, the ink could stay in the bottle. ~ Shelly King

I know that the Bible is a special kind of book, but I find it as seductive as any other. If I am not careful, I can begin to mistake the words on the page for the realities they describe. I can begin to love the dried ink marks on the page more than I love the encounters that gave rise to them. ~ Barbara Brown Taylor

At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink. What I've chosen, what's happened unchosen, can't be unmade or redone. Poetry, though, is a door that only continues to open. Even the unchangeable past changes inside a poem. Not the facts, but the feeling, the comprehension. ~ Jane Hirshfield

I lifted my Bible in one hand and with my other scooped up all the papers on my adoption. Both hands held paper that contained words printed in black and white ink. Both contained facts. Yet only one held the truth. I had to choose which of these documents I would entrust with my life. ~ Christine Caine

BOOK BEAUTY

Here's the end of that story about the old woman who wanted to lure a man with strange

cosmetics. She made a paste of pages from the Qur'an to fill the deep creases on her face and

neck with. This is not about an old woman, dear reader. It's about you, or anyone who tries

to use books to make themselves attractive. There she is, sticking scripture, thick with

saliva, on her face. Of course, the bits keep falling off. "The devil," she yells, and

he appears! "This is a trick I've never seen. You don't need me. You are yourself a troop

of demons!" So people steal inspired words to get compliments. Don't bother. Death comes

and all talking, stolen or not, stops. Pity anyone unfamiliar with silence when that happens.

Polish your heart with mediation and quietness. Let the inner life grow generous and handsome

like Joseph. Zuleika did that and her "old woman's spring cold snap" turned to mid-July. Dry

lips wet from within. Ink is not rouge. Let language lie bygone. Now is where love breathes. ~ Rumi

I shall die in the belief that to make France free, republican and prosperous, a little ink would have sufficed - and only one guillotine. ~ Camille Desmoulins

Look at that," he said. "How the ink bleeds." He loved the way it looked, to write on a thick pillow of the pad, the way the thicker width of paper underneath was softer and allowed for a more cushiony interface between pen and surface, which meant more time the two would be in contact for any given point, allowing the fiber of the paper to pull, through capillary action, more ink from the pen, more ink, which meant more evenness of ink, a thicker, more even line, a line with character, with solidity. The pad, all those ninety-nine sheets underneath him, the hundred, the even number, ten to the second power, the exponent, the clean block of planes, the space-time, really, represented by that pad, all of the possible drawings, graphs, curves, relationships, all of the answers, questions, mysteries, all of the problems solvable in that space, in those sheets, in those squares. ~ Charles Yu

Something can only become an illusion after disillusionment. before that, it is something real. what caused the disillusionment? no one told me the print on the wall was just ink and paper and had no life of its own. at some point the cat stopped blinking, and i stopped thinking it could. ~ Lynda Barry

Ink cannot tell the glow that lights me at this moment in turning to the mountains. I feel strong [enough] to leap Yosemite walls at a bound. ~ John Muir

Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it ~ Elizabeth Wein

I am feeling more. I feel everything more. I cannot express it. I can hardly keep track of it all. It is you! All you! Everything! ~ Dawn Metcalf

There was something soothing about the crackle of paper, the smell of ink, and the soft scratching of nibs and brushes. ~ Leigh Bardugo

The directions weren't written in invisible ink on the back of my diploma. They came ever so slowly for me; and ever so firmly I trusted that they would emerge. All I can say is, it's worth the struggle to discover who you really are. ~ Maxwell King

When the ink runs dry, you're most likely writing at the wrong angle. ~ Carolyn Shields

Author:
A common gadabout who freely wanders over the landscape with wanton disregard. His days are spent picking up all the stray free words he can handle and squirreling them away for later use.
Subsequently, (days, months or years later) working by candlelight and hidden away in his dank, musty secluded lair, the rogue simply rearranges the collected words on yellowed bond with a sharpened quill ink pen fashioned from the tail feather of a bald-headed vulture.
Once finished, the dastardly cur audaciously attempts to sell those assembled pages for fleeting fame and profit. ~ Leopold Throckmorton

The videos are sometimes the only way for people across the country and different places to see and hear the music. They may not get the same radio stations or they don't get the same TV channels, they don't have the same MTV that plays the same music. People will use to the Internet and that's why YouTube and stuff like that is so important. ~ Kid Ink

When finally the sky grew ink-black, the trees were visible only as their swaying branches blotted out the stars that crossed in blazing showers, as sometimes they do. The language of the stars, seldom read and heeded less, told beautifully and in silence of all the victories that had ever been won and all the defeats ever suffered. In uncountable lines of light across the widest sphere, the stars spoke of everything notable even down to a leaf blowing rhythmically in the wind. ~ Mark Helprin

Jonathan's arm jerked to the side in clumsy reaction, tipping over the bottle of ink that sat on the desk beside his papers. He watched the dark liquid obliterate in a moment what had cost him an afternoon of painful effort to complete. It was a fitting metaphor for his life, he thought, like the despair that spread inexorably through his being, a creeping blackness that threatened to blot out what small hope or purpose was yet left to him. ~ Sondra Allan Carr

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. ~ Box Brown

How do you tell when you're out of invisible ink? ~ Steven Wright

The most important story we'll ever write in life is our own - not with ink, but with our daily choices. ~ Richard Paul Evans

And just like that, I was officially In Deep:
1. Interested in art. (Me, charcoal; him, colored ink).
2. Not afraid of love. He's stuck with Cruella de Vil for a long time.
3. Or of telling the truth. "Three things it costs a little to tell."
4. Hot. Like, smokin'.
5. Daring. Sharks. Ocean. He swims where Here Be Monsters.
5, subsection a. Daring enough to take a chance on me.
Oh,that one,always the glitch in If My Prince Does,In Fact, Come Someday, It Would Be Great If He Could Meet These Five Criteria. But I had one thing when it came to Alex that I'd never had with Edward. Hope. Well, that and a drunk e-mail. ~ Melissa Jensen

I've read dozens of interviews and accounts that basically come down to How Poets Do It and the truth is they're all do-lally and they're all different. There's Gerard Manly Hopkins in his black Jesuit clothes lying face down on the ground to look at an individual bluebell, Robert Frost who never used a desk, was once caught short by a poem coming and wrote it on the sole of his shoe, T.S. Eliot in his I'm-not-a-Poet suit with his solid sensible available-for-poetry three hours a day, Ted Hughes folded into his tiny cubicle at the top of the stairs where there is no window, no sight or smell of earth or animal but the rain clatter on the roof bows him to the page, Pablo Neruda who grandly declared poetry should only ever be handwritten, and then added his own little bit of bonkers by saying: in green ink. Poets are their own nation. Most of them know. ~ Niall Williams

Her last stop in the produce section was as the asparagus, which she planned to marinate and grill. She felt eyes on her, and did a double take at Derek holding possibly the world's largest zucchini in his hands with a totally amused grin on his face. He waggled his brows.
Emilie couldn't help but give in to the urge to laugh. "Okay," she said. "I'm all done here."
"Oh, good," Derek said. "Let's go see what fun we can have with the meat. ~ Laura Kaye

There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink. ~ Truman Capote

away, she and Bernadette had become penpals. They wrote real letters with ink on paper and mailed them with pretty stamps - because everyone knows it is way more fun to open up an envelope with your name on it than to get an e-mail on the computer. Their letters to each other sometimes included surprises like lip balm or temporary tattoos or hair clips. For Hallowe'en, Jasmine had sent Bernadette a giant lollipop with a jack-o'-lantern face. And Bernadette once sent Jasmine a pair of socks with frog cartoons on them, because frogs were Jasmine's favorite ~ Susan Glickman

( ... ) perfectly ordinary books, printed on commonplace paper in mundane ink. It would be a mistake to think that they weren't also dangerous, just because reading them didn't make fireworks go off in the sky. Reading them sometimes did the more dangerous trick of making fireworks go off in the privacy of the reader's brain. ~ Terry Pratchett

His features were smudged and indistinct, as though a thumb had smeared itself across an ink drawing of a face. His ~ John Connolly

When ink joins with a pen, then the blank paper
can say something. Rushes and reeds must be woven
to be useful as a mat. If they weren't interlaced, the wind would blow them away. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi

It became obvious to me that if Abril was to consider itself a communications group, it could not remain indefinitely in paper and ink. ~ Roberto Civita

And so, Navani painted a prayer onto the stones themselves, sending her attendants for more ink. She paced off the size of the glyph as she continued its border, making it enormous, spreading her ink onto the tan rocks.
Soldiers gathered around, Sadeas stepping from his canopy, watching her paint, her back to the sun as she crawled on the ground and furiously dipped her brushpen into the ink jars. What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed. Creating a wish out of despair, a plea out of anguish. Bowing one's back before the Almighty, and forming humility from the empty pride of a human life.
Something from nothing. True creation.
Her tears mixed with the the ink. She went through four jars. She crawled, holding her safehand to the ground, brushing the stones and smearing ink on her cheeks when she wiped the tears. When she finally finished, she knelt back before a glyph twenty paces long, emblazoned as if in blood. The wet ink reflected sunlight, and she fired it with a candle; the ink was made to burn whether wet or dry. The flames burned across the length of the prayer, killing it and sending its soul to the Almighty. ~ Brandon Sanderson

Let me be one of the people who writes their life history, not with ink, with the colors of a caring heart. ~ Debasish Mridha

I take pride in using fountain pens. They represent craftsmanship and a love of writing. Biros, on the other hand, represent the throwaway culture of modern society, which exists on microwave ready-meals and instant coffee. ~ Fennel Hudson

I called it a baptism in flaming ink that forced me to shed my shyness about recognizing myself as a poet and to accept the fact that life had never given me any choice in the matter. And then I had to discover exactly what that meant. ~ Aberjhani

In my position, I think the best thing I do is just keep girlfriend involved. ~ Kid Ink

Emma thought of Julian, sitting here, in this office. Year after year, from the time he was twelve and all scraped elbows and torn jeans. He would sit patiently with pen and ink, writing his letter to the Clave, petitioning them to let his sister Helen come home from Wrangel Island. ~ Cassandra Clare

If ever you need it, I will level mountains to give you a desk. Even if an army is at our door, I'll hold them off until your ink runs dry. ~ Meljean Brook

There comes a time when you swim or sink so I jumped in the drink 'cause I couldn't make myself clear. Maybe I wrote in invisible ink, oh I've tried to think how I could've made it appear. ~ Aimee Mann

Scottish Play Doe was born at 4:13 a.m. on September 6th. The ink was barely dry on his father's new tattoo. ~ Adam Rex

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

Craig inscribed something in the journal and Bob walked over to study the entry. "Does the name Bob Ford mean anything to you?

Craig dipped his quill in the ink bottle and scripted cursively on a brown blotter. "Is that your actual name or your alias?"

"Actual," said Bob, and he grinned with delight when he saw the name recorded in Craig's elegant calligraphy. "Pretty soon all of America will know who Bob Ford is. ~ Ron Hansen

At the tattoo parlor, my friend worked with needle and ink applying a design to the skin on his client's back, as the three of us sat discussing our spiritual desires and ambivalence about religion. In the midst of our conversation, the man under the needle turned and said, 'Jesus is cool, it's just that they have f***ed with Jesus. I mean, Christianity was at its best when it was secret and hidden and you could die for it.' This profound, if crass, statement recognizes that the power of the gospel lay in its ability to be a counter-cultural and revolutionary force - not only a story to believe, but a distinctive way of life. The man's comment prompted me to consider the questions: Am I in some measure complicit in the domestication of Jesus? ~ Mark Scandrette

She has a bookshelf for a heart, and ink runs through her veins, she'll write you into her story with the typewriter in her brain. Her bookshelf's getting crowded. With all the stories that's she's penned, of all the people who flicked through her pages but closed the book before it ended. And there's one pushed to the very back, that sits collecting dust, with its title in her finest writing, 'The One's Who Lost My Trust'. There's books shes scared to open, and books she doesn't close. Stories of every person she's met stretched out in endless rows. Some people have only one sentence while others once held a main part, thousands of inky footprints that they've left across her heart. You might wonder why she does this, why write of people she once knew? But she hopes one day she'll mean enough for someone to write about her too. ~ E.H.

Put down the pen someone else gave you. No one ever drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink. Get to San Francisco. Get to San Francisco in defiance of your geography, your ancestry and the lonely change rattling sad excuses in your pocket. Fuel up on pie and diner coffee and mystic visions and the freedom of not knowing what's coming next except that you're burning the road to outrun it. ~ Jack Kerouac

To recklessly excuse a failure is to believe that I've effectively erased it from the story of my life, when I've actually imprinted it in indelible ink. ~ Craig D. Lounsbrough

I love craftsmanship of any kind, a job well done either by my chiropractor or carpenter, and I am addicted to print, the type, the ink. But my basic passion is journalism and I can't live without being online. ~ Harold Evans

All her life she had known that books were living things, not just a convergence of concept and ink, intellect and paper. They did not breathe or think, but they grew and gave a sense of potential so much larger than whatever was written on their pages. ~ Tim Lebbon

I can do it, yes I can." from "You can do it, yes you can." Think Tank Ink for Scriptwriters. ~ Lena "Think Tank Ink" Banks

APPLES SCENT,
You arrive in the basement. Immediatly it catches you. Apples are here, lying on fruit trays, turned crates. You didn't think about it. You had no wish to be flooded by this melancholic wave. But you can't resist. Apple scent is a breaker. How could you manage without this childhood, bitter and sweet ?
Shrivelled fruits surely are delicious, from this feak dryness where candied taste seems to have wormed in each wrinkle. But you don't wish to eat them. Particularly don't turn into an identifiable taste this floating power of smell. Say that it smells good, strong? But not ..... It's beyond .... An inner scent, scent of a better oneself. Here is shut up school autumn, with purple ink we scratch paper with down strokes and thin strokes. Rain bangs against glasses, evening will be long ....
But apple perfume is more than past. You think about formerly because of fullness and intensity from a remembrance of salpetered cellar, dark attic. But it's to live here, stay here, stand up.
You have behind you high herbs and damp orchards. Ahead it's like a warm blow given in the shade. Scent got all browns, all reds with a bit of green acid. Scent distilled skin softness, its tiny roughness. Lips dried, we alreadyt know that this thirst is not to be slaked.
Nothing would happen if you bite the white flesh. You would need to become october, mud floor, moss of cellar, rain, expectation.
Apple scent is painful. It's from a stronger life, a slowness ~ Philippe Delerm

The clouds of night opened like ink blossoming in water. ~ Christopher Fowler

Love's agony is the pain of ink on a needle buried into skin, the necessary sting, and something beautiful blossoming under its touch. ~ Alice Broadway

When I first met Billy I thought about sucking his eyes right out of their sockets. They're like turquoise gum drops. ~ Jo Treggiari

It's a long, slow sunset for ink-on-paper magazines, but sunsets can produce vast sums of money. ~ Felix Dennis

Did I ever tell you that my mother and father started out as pen pals? They wrote these long, unabashedly affectionate love letters to one another, peppered with clichés and pie-in-the-sky proclamations of eternal devotion. Despite my father's eventual dishonesty and unfaithfulness, I have to believe he meant every word he wrote at that time, and it was admittedly romantic, uncovering my parents' yellowed letters, all soft, crumbling corners and black ink stains, one rainy afternoon. Because how can anyone scrawl lies, really, in their own handwriting, the evidence of your own betrayal right in front of you? I sat cross-legged on the floor, holding my breath as I unfolded each letter, fragile and expectant, like a little girl opening her presents on Christmas morning. I sat there and soaked up my parents' love for each other, and then I wondered where all those feelings had escaped to. I wondered where love went when it was lost - did it travel far, across miles and oceans and forests and deserts, or did it linger somewhere nearby, just waiting for a chance to be summoned again? Wherever it was, I could only hope it had ended up settling somewhere quieter, safer. ~ Marla Miniano

Every woman, even the most respectable, had roses blooming under glass; lips cut with a knife; curls of Indian ink; there was design, art, everywhere; a change of some sort had undoubtedly taken place. ~ Virginia Woolf

A lot of ink is given over to mythologizing female friendships as curious, fragile relationships that are always intensely fraught. Stop reading writing that encourages this mythology. ~ Roxane Gay

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nips
never lie, swear to me that this feeling is real. ~ Lori Jenessa Nelson

He sees his world in black and white: Filthy snow, a hollow sky, the gray cement of the walls - water stains, like giant ink spills, eating into them - and his own skin, an ashy patina enveloping his body. Even the wounds on his feet, hardened and crusted, have lost their red. He has come to think of colour as something fantastic that exists only in his mind - the red of a tomato sliced and salted at the lunch table, the deep blue of a lapis lazuli on Farnaz's finger, the honey hue of his daughter's hair in the sun. ~ Dalia Sofer

The letters from the ink in my pen are an absurd map of magic signs. ~ Fernando Pessoa

When your words enter the material world in the form of ink or on screen, you are immediately afforded the opportunity to judge their worth. ~ Chris Matakas

If you're going to love a poet you should know this. Our words are our truths. Our blood hums with verse. We break easily. Our words save us. Our stanzas keep us alive. If we loved you at all, we loved you truly. And you will never leave us but live under our skin and beneath the tips of our fingers and in the ink spill on blank page.
Because poetry, like some love, is forever. ~ Jeanette LeBlanc

An ocean of ink in a single drop,
Trembling at the tip of my brush.
Poised above stark white paper,
A universe waits for existence. ~ Lao-Tzu

The man angered her, made her feel like she wasn't wanted, and yet her damned libido still wanted him.

It was just her dry spell, and he happened to be an oasis in the desert.

A Mirage.

That was it. ~ Carrie Ann Ryan

Love is wind for the soul ~ D. Antoinette Foy

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

I'm still the kid who grew up with ink on his hands from delivering newspapers. ~ Tom Verducci