"ink"タグの名言

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

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

I think i should get love inked on my skin. Maybe that's the only way i am destined to keep it.

Featherweight by Suzy Kassem One evening, I sat by the ocean and questioned the moon about my destiny. I revealed to it that I was beginning to feel smaller compared to others, Because the more secrets of the universe I would unlock, The smaller in size I became. I didn't understand why I wasn't feeling larger instead of smaller. I thought that seeking Truth was what was required of us all – To show us the way, not to make us feel lost, Up against the odds, In a devilish game partitioned by An invisible wall. Then the next morning, A bird appeared at my window, just as the sun began Spreading its yolk over the horizon. It remained perched for a long time, Gazing at me intently, to make sure I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Then its words gently echoed throughout my mind, Telling me: 'The world you are in – Is the true hell. The journey to Truth itself Is what quickens the heart to become lighter. The lighter the heart, the purer it is. The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes. And the heavier the heart, The more chained to this hell It will remain.' And just like that, it flew off towards the sun, Leaving behind a tiny feather. So I picked it up, And fastened it to a toothpick, To dip into ink And write my name.

Love is wind for the soul

My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed in the moon and breathed out the world.

Brahma and Airavata Long ago in lands of golden sand Brahma turned to Saraswati and gently kissed her inked hand....

He perched the bat on his shoulder, giving a nod that he understood I needed his help. With one loud yell and a couple swings of the bat, he cleared me another path.

My art is that of the 35mm kind; my poetry is of the lead and ink kind; my happiness is of the product of both; and my legacy is of the story of my soul, that my life left behind

Spilled Ink It seemed unfair And unfinished, And now it would always be tragic. Because you kept Loving them Even when the story ended. And there was nowhere To spill the ink Of the heartbreak their absence wrote.

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

Ink, a Drug.

...there was practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation.

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

I prefer the pen. There is something elemental about the glide and flow of nib and ink on paper.

The silence of the pen is only made louder by the sound of the ink running dry.

There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.

Books, after all, are extraordinary things: thoughts made visible, paper and ink sculptures of the mind, time and space made into words. There's no end to judging so many books. But a literary editor's work is never what Ecclesiastes calls a weariness of the flesh. Rather, it's an animation of the spirit.

Never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel.

It's not always the easiest thing to be the center of so much spilled ink.