Handwritten Letters Quotes

It was a blessing and also a curse of handwritten letters that unlike email you couldn’t obsessively reread what you’d written after you’d sent it. You couldn’t attempt to un-send it. Once you’d sent it it was gone. It was an object that no longer belonged to you but belonged to your recipient to do with what he would. You tended to remember the feeling of what you’d said more than the words. You gave to object away and left yourself with the memory. That was what it was to give.

A handwritten letter carries a lot of risk. It's a one-sided conversation that reveals the truth of the writer. Furthermore, the writer is not there to see the reaction of the person he writes to, so there's a great unknown to the process that requires a leap of faith. The writer has to choose the right words to express his sentences, and then, once he has sealed the envelope, he has to place those thoughts in the hands of someone else, trusting that the feelings will be delivered, and that the recipient will understand the writer's intent. How childish to think that could be easy.

By the time you read this letter, these words will be those of the past. The me of now is gone.

To me, reading through old letters and journals is like treasure hunting. Somewhere in those faded, handwritten lines there is a story that has been packed away in a dusty old box for years.

Lara Jean and Peter's amended contract *Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail. *Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, befero she goes to bed. *Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter's choosing on her wall. *Peter will keep the scrapbook out on his desk so any interested parties will see tha he is taken. *Peter and Lara Jean will always tell each other te truth, even when it's hard. *Peter will love Lara Jean with all his heart, always.

handwritten letters, direct eye contact, stolen smiles and the art of listening to your heart was the original social media...

Inrealized how valuable the art and practice of writing letters are, and how important it is to remind people of what a treasure letters--handwritten letters--can be. In our throwaway era of quick phone calls, faxes, and email, it's all to easy never to find the time to write letters. That's a great pity--for historians and the rest of us.

When she opened it, she discovered a handwritten dedication on the patterned endpapers: To my beloved—may you always believe in fairy tales. Smiling, she traced her fingers over the letters, feeling the indentations they had left on the paper. This was one of the things she loved best about books. She might never know who had written the dedication, or how long ago, or to whom, but she could briefly clasp hands with them across eternity, a chance meeting of souls made possible by their shared love of a story.

Nothing is as endearing as a handwritten letter scribed by the person who holds your heart spellbound.

Knight seemed to weigh the precision of every word he used, careful as a poet. Even his handwritten letters had gone through at least one draft, he said, mostly to remove unnecessary insults. Only necessary ones remained.

This womens skin is shimmering and pale, her long black hair is tied with dozens of silver ribbons that fall over her shoulders. Her gown is white, covered in what to Bailey looks like looping black embroidery, but as he walks closer he sees that the black marks are actually words written across the fabric. When he is near enough to read parts of the gown, he realizes that they are love letters, inscribed in handwritten text. Words of desire and longing wrapping around her waist, flowing down the train of her gown as it spills over the platform. The statue herself is still, but her hand is held out and only then does Bailey notice the young woman with a red scarf standing in front of her, offering the love letter-clad statue a sungle crimson rose. The movement is so subtle that it is almost undetectable, but slowly, very, very slowly, the statue reaches to accept the rose. Her fingers open, and the young woman with the rose waits patiently as the statue gradually closes her hand around the stem, releasing it only when it is secure. ....The statue is lifting the rose, gradually, to her face. Her eye lids slowly close.

The cabin looked as warm as a handwritten love letter, with a stone fireplace that took up an entire wall and a forest of candles dangling from the ceiling.

I wrote to expose the brutality of entitlement, gender violence, and class privilege in our society. But I would be failing you if you walked away from this book untouched by humanity, without seeing what I saw: those thousands of handwritten letters, the green-lipped fished at the bottom of the ocean, the winking court reporter. All the small miracles that sustained me. We may spend half our time wandering around, wondering what we're even doing here, why it's worth the effort. But living is an incredible thing, just to have been here, to have felt, if only briefly, the volume and depth of others' empathy. I wrote, most of all, to tell you I have seen how good the world could be.

6/17/10 My dearest Ruth—You are the only person I have loved in my life, setting aside, a bit, parents and kids and their kids, and I have admired and loved you almost since the day we first met at Cornell some 56 years ago. What a treat it has been to watch you progress to the very top of the legal world!! I will be in JH Medical Center until Friday, June 25, I believe, and between then and now I shall think hard on my remaining health and life, and whether on balance the time has come for me to tough it out or to take leave of life because the loss of quality now simply overwhelms. I hope you will support where I come out, but I understand you may not. I will not love you a jot less. Marty -- Handwritten letter from Marty to Ruth

Whenever I cut myself, I always grab a stack of stationery and write my signature on as many sheets as I can before it coagulates, because I think that in this era of text messages and emails, people still appreciate a desperate, hand-written letter signed in blood.

She craved the permanence and precision of the old-fashioned. Handwritten letters.

Do you think I’m crazy, fantasizing about a guy I’ve never met in person, Jeremiah? Hell, we haven’t even spoken on the phone or video chatted—just old-fashioned, hand-written letters.

I go up to my room to change out of my dress. Sitting on the bed is my yearbook. I flip to the back of the book, and there it is, Peter’s message to me. Only, it’s not a message, it’s a contract. Lara Jean and Peter’s Amended Contract Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail. Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, before she goes to bed. Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter’s choosing on her wall. Peter will keep the scrapbook out on his desk so any interested parties will see that he is taken. Peter and Lara Jean will always tell each other the truth, even when it’s hard. Peter will love Lara Jean with all his heart, always.

I wanted to tell Sam this. I wanted to tell him all of it, in beautiful handwritten letters or at least in long, rambling emails that we would later save and print out and that would be found in the attic of our house when we had been married fifty years for our grandchildren to coo over. But I was so tired those first few weeks that all I did was email him about how tired I was. I'm so tired. I miss you. Me too. No, like really, really tired. Like cry at TV advertisements and fall asleep while brushing my teeth and end up with toothpaste all over my chest tired. Okay, now you got me. I tried not to mind how little he emailed me. I tried to remind myself that he was doing a real, hard job, saving lives and making a difference, while I was sitting outside manicurists' studios and running around Central Park. His supervisor had changed the rota. He was working four nights on the trot and still waiting to be assigned a new permanent partner. That should have made it easier for us to talk but somehow it didn't. I would check in on my phone in the minutes I had free every evening but that was usually the time he was heading off to begin his shift. Sometimes I felt curiously disjointed, as if I had simply dreamt him up. One week, he reassured me. One more week. How hard could it be?

That night, after all the guests have gone, after the chairs have been stacked back up, and the leftovers put in the fridge, I go up to my room to change out of my dress. Sitting on the bed is my yearbook. I flip to the back of the book, and there it is, Peter’s message to me. Only, it’s not a message, it’s a contract. Lara Jean and Peter’s Amended Contract Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail. Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, before she goes to bed. Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter’s choosing on her wall. Peter will keep the scrapbook out on his desk so any interested parties will see that he is taken. Peter and Lara Jean will always tell each other the truth, even when it’s hard. Peter will love Lara Jean with all his heart, always.

Sitting between the two professors, I enjoyed their contradictory advice. I sat there smiling, thinking of the first message I received from John Berger. It was a beautiful handwritten letter, from a writer who had been my hero for years: 'Your fiction and nonfiction—they walk you around the world like your two legs.' That settled it for me.

Handwritten in neat block letters on a page torn from a novel by Nikolay Gogol, it read: S.O.S. I NEED YOUR HELP. I AM INJURED, NEAR DEATH, AND TOO WEAK TO HIKE OUT OF HERE I AM ALL ALONE, THIS IS NO JOKE. IN THE NAME OF GOD, PLEASE REMAIN TO SAVE ME. I AM OUT COLLECTING BERRIES CLOSE BY AND SHALL RETURN THIS EVENING. THANK YOU, CHRIS MCCANDLESS. AUGUST?

The house had always been full of books, far too many for one person to get through in a lifetime. Her father didn't collect them to read, to own first editions or to keep those signed by the author; Gil collected them for the handwritten marginalia and doodles that marked the pages, for the forgotten ephemera used as bookmarks. Every time Flora came home he would show her his new discoveries: left-behind photographs, postcards and letters, bail slips, receipts, handwritten recipes and drawings, valentines and tickets, sympathy cards, excuse notes to teachers; bits of paper with which he could piece together other people's lives, other people who had read the same books he held and who had marked their place.

This book is handwritten because, in its way, it is a love letter, and love letters should not be typeset by compositors or computers.

I’d have come to you on my knees with a brown paper bag holding three handwritten love letters, a mix tape, and scrap of pressed flowers between the annotated copy of the novel that made your head hurt.

At their time of life they should be wearing trouser suits and baking cakes, maybe spending their days penning hand-written letters of complaint to newspapers. Not drinking alcopops with crude straws in them.

With apologies to the folks in Redmond, I’ll end on another Microsoft joke because it makes the point well (a point that applies everywhere, not just at Microsoft): A helicopter was flying around above Seattle when a malfunction disabled all of its electronic navigation and communications equipment. The clouds were so thick that the pilot couldn’t tell where he was. Finally, the pilot saw a tall building, flew toward it, circled, and held up a handwritten sign that said WHERE AM I? in large letters. People in the tall building quickly responded to the aircraft, drawing their own large sign: YOU ARE IN A HELICOPTER. The pilot smiled, looked at his map, determined the route to Sea-Tac Airport, and landed safely. After they were on the ground, the copilot asked the pilot how he had done it. “I knew it had to be the Microsoft building,” he said, “because they gave me a technically correct but completely useless answer.

I began going through dozens of boxes stored away in her apartment and her art studio. They were filled with journals, and documents, and letters. She saved everything. Handwritten notes from her aunt Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and schoolbooks my grandfather Reginald Vanderbilt doodled in as a child. I found old wills and financial records, and as I read the contents of these files stained by time and mold, I began to hear the voices of those people I never knew.

It was a blessing and also a curse of handwritten letters that, unlike email, you couldn’t obsessively reread what you’d written after you’d sent it. You couldn’t attempt to unsend it. Once you’d sent it, it was gone. It was an object that no longer belonged to you, but belonged to your recipient to do with what he would. You tended to remember the feeling of what you’d said more than the words. You gave the object away, and left yourself with the memory. That was what it was to give.

Seeing Myself in a Season Burgundy sweaters Handwritten letters If I were a season I would be Fall Brown curly hair playing truth or dare Adventures and change Feelings all strange If I were a season I would be Fall Messy notebooks filled with All of my secrets Looking out the windows Like Mother Earth I'd let out a breath and The trees would shake My blood would be an apricot color I'd hide in the forest Covered with bright yellow leaves Branched out above two lovers Because if I were a season I would be Fall

This woman's skin is shimmering and pale, her long black hair is tied with dozens of silver ribbons that fall over her shoulders. Her gown is white, covered in what to Bailey looks like looping black embroidery, but as he walks closer he sees that the black marks are actually words written across the fabric. When he is near enough to read parts of the gown, he realizes that they are love letters, inscribed in handwritten text. Words of desire and longing wrapping around her waist, flowing down the train of her gown as it spills over the platform. The statue herself is still, but her hand is held out, and only then does Bailey notice the young woman with a red scarf standing in front of her, offering the love-letter clad statue a single crimson rose.

That evening, Hope wrote a letter to her MP, Jack Crow. She found no difficulty at all in composing it, but quite a bit in writing it. She hadn't hand-written an entire page since primary school. In the end she found an app on her glasses that sampled her handwriting and turned it into a font that looked like her handwriting would if it had been regular, and printed it off. There was even an app for the printer that indented the paper a little, and an ink that looked like ballpoint ink.

The Five Causes We practice gratitude daily, remembering that the human heart cannot hold gratitude and negative emotions at the same time. From gratitude, joy and all other virtues are born. We practice forgiving those that have harmed us as a mode of healing ourselves. We reach out to those we have harmed, either personally or by handwritten letter, offering apology and reconciliation. We practice kindness and honesty in word and deed toward all, and especially toward our romantic partner. Kindness and honesty must always remain unified, for one without the other leads to harmful behavior. We practice humility. We never treat any others as servants or beneath us, regardless of their social or economic status. We show respect to all, and are considerate of the consequences of our actions on others. We practice our ethics in our business. Our career is a major forum for our practice of transformation, so we infuse our highest ideals into our work and workplace, always looking for win-win opportunities. We hold firm that the end never justifies the means, and teach our ethics by example.

He stared at her in insolent silence, unable to believe the alluring, impulsive girl he remembered had become this coolly aloof, self-possessed young woman. Even with her dusty clothes and the smear of dirt on her cheek, Elizabeth Cameron was strikingly beautiful, but she’d changed so much that-except for the eyes-he scarcely recognized her. One thing hadn’t changed: She was still a schemer and a liar. Straightening abruptly from his stance in the doorway, Ian walked forward. “I’ve had enough of this charade, Miss Cameron. No one invited you here, and you damn well know it.” Blinded with wrath and humiliation, Elizabeth groped in her reticule and snatched out the handwritten letter her uncle had received inviting Elizabeth to join Ian there. Marching up to him, she slapped the invitation against his chest. Instinctively he caught it but didn’t open it. “Explain that,” she commanded, backing away and then waiting. “Another note, I’ll wager,” he drawled sarcastically, thinking of the night he’d gone to the greenhouse to meet her and recalling what a fool he’d been about her. Elizabeth stood beside the table, determined to have the satisfaction of hearing his explanation before she left-not that anything he said could make her stay. When he showed no sign of opening it, she turned furiously to Jake, who was sorely disappointed that Ian was deliberately chasing off two females who could surely be persuaded to do the cooking if they stayed. “Make him read it aloud!” she ordered the startled Jake. “Now, Ian,” Jake said, thinking of his empty stomach and the bleak future that lay ahead for it if the ladies went away, “why don’t you jes’ read that there little note, like the lady asked?” When Ian Thornton ignored the older man’s suggestion, Elizabeth lost control of her temper. Without thinking what she was actually doing, she reached out and snatched the pistol off the table, primed it, cocked it, and leveled it at Ian Thornton’s broad chest. “Read that note!” Jake, whose concern was still on his stomach, held up his hands as if the gun were pointed at him. “Ian, it could be a misunderstanding, you know, and it’s not nice to be rude to these ladies. Why don’t you read it, and then we’ll all sit down and have a nice”-he inclined his head meaningfully to the sack of provisions on the table-“supper.” “I don’t need to read it,” Ian snapped. “The last time I read a note from Lady Cameron I met her in a greenhouse and got shot in the arm for my trouble.” “Are you implying I invited you into that greenhouse?” Elizabeth scoffed furiously. With an impatient sigh Ian said, “Since you’re obviously determined to enact a Cheltenham tragedy, let’s get it over with before you’re on your way.” “Do you deny you sent me a note?” she snapped. “Of course I deny it!” “Then what were you doing in the greenhouse?” she shot back at him. “I came in response to that nearly illegible note you sent me,” he said in a bored, insulting drawl. “May I suggest that in future you devote less of your time to theatrics and some of it to improving your handwriting?” His gaze shifted to the pistol. “Put the gun down before you hurt yourself.

Caslon or Garamond or Baskerville is shouted as the compositors search for as many cases of these types as can be found. But never is there enough of those metal letters. The apprentice is charged to clean the ones just used so he can distribute a constant supply, lest a compositor be forced into some fancy spelling for the want of Es. With his uppercase upper and his lowercase lower, the compositor, standing at his frame with his stick held in his hand, like an artist with his palette, looks first to the handwritten copy, before click, click, clicking metal letters into a line. Then, line by line, each page is built up upon a form and the metal words are banged home with a mallet, tightened and spaced with slugs of wood, then locked within this frame by the teeth of quoins. And when the page is set, 'Proof" is yelled at the door.

Miss Rudy, the former Harmony librarian, had single-handedly held off a siege of the town council bent on cutting her funds. She had locked the library doors and hid the only key in her bra, living on water from the toilet tank after the town had shut off water to the building to drive her out. She ate paste to keep up her strength. Oh, they had underestimated her. On the fourth day, the men of the council had capitulated, apologizing for cutting the funds, begging her to open the doors and come out. But she had stayed in the library an extra day, just to show them one could live on books, then marched out at noon on the fifth day, her head held high, and three pounds heavier. She had gained weight! When word got out, her picture made the cover of American Libraries magazine. Admiring letters poured in from librarians around the world – beaten down, beleaguered librarians who had drawn strength from her bravery. She answered each one in flowing, Palmer-method, handwritten script.

BEST FRIENDS SHOULD BE TOGETHER We’ll get a pair of those half-heart necklaces so every ask n’ point reminds us we are one glued duo. We’ll send real letters like our grandparents did, handwritten in smart cursive curls. We’ll extend cell plans and chat through favorite shows like a commentary track just for each other. We’ll get our braces off on the same day, chew whole packs of gum. We’ll nab some serious studs but tell each other everything. Double-date at a roadside diner exactly halfway between our homes. Cry on shoulders when our boys fail us. We’ll room together at State, cover the walls floor-to-ceiling with incense posters of pop dweebs gone wry. See how beer feels. Be those funny cute girls everybody’s got an eye on. We’ll have a secret code for hot boys in passing. A secret dog named Freshman Fifteen we’ll have to hide in the rafters during inspection. Follow some jam band one summer, grooving on lawns, refusing drugs usually. Get tattoos that only spell something when we stand together. I’ll be maid of honor in your wedding and you’ll be co-maid with my sister but only cause she’d disown me if I didn’t let her. We’ll start a store selling just what we like. We’ll name our firstborn daughters after one another, and if our husbands don’t like it, tough. Lifespans being what they are, we’ll be there for each other when our men have passed, and all the friends who come to visit our assisted living condo will be dazzled by what fun we still have together. We’ll be the kind of besties who make outsiders wonder if they’ve ever known true friendship, but we won’t even notice how sad it makes them and they won’t bring it up because you and I will be so caught up in the fun, us marveling at how not-good it never was.

to look at Louisa, stroked her cheek, and was rewarded by a dazzling smile. She had been surprised by how light-skinned the child was. Her features were much more like Eva’s than Bill’s. A small turned-up nose, big hazel eyes, and long dark eyelashes. Her golden-brown hair protruded from under the deep peak of her bonnet in a cascade of ringlets. “Do you think she’d come to me?” Cathy asked. “You can try.” Eva handed her over. “She’s got so heavy, she’s making my arms ache!” She gave a nervous laugh as she took the parcel from Cathy and peered at the postmark. “What’s that, Mam?” David craned his neck and gave a short rasping cough. “Is it sweets?” “No, my love.” Eva and Cathy exchanged glances. “It’s just something Auntie Cathy’s brought from the old house. Are you going to show Mikey your flags?” The boy dug eagerly in his pocket, and before long he and Michael were walking ahead, deep in conversation about the paper flags Eva had bought for them to decorate sand castles. Louisa didn’t cry when Eva handed her over. She seemed fascinated by Cathy’s hair, and as they walked along, Cathy amused her by singing “Old MacDonald.” The beach was only a short walk from the station, and it wasn’t long before the boys were filling their buckets with sand. “I hardly dare open it,” Eva said, fingering the string on the parcel. “I know. I was desperate to open it myself.” Cathy looked at her. “I hope you haven’t built up your hopes, too much, Eva. I’m so worried it might be . . . you know.” Eva nodded quickly. “I thought of that too.” She untied the string, her fingers trembling. The paper fell away to reveal a box with the words “Benson’s Baby Wear” written across it in gold italic script. Eva lifted the lid. Inside was an exquisite pink lace dress with matching bootees and a hat. The label said, “Age 2–3 Years.” Beneath it was a handwritten note:   Dear Eva, This is a little something for our baby girl from her daddy. I don’t know the exact date of her birthday, but I wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten. I hope things are going well for you and your husband. Please thank him from me for what he’s doing for our daughter: he’s a fine man and I don’t blame you for wanting to start over with him. I’m back in the army now, traveling around. I’m due to be posted overseas soon, but I don’t know where yet. I’ll write and let you know when I get my new address. It would be terrific if I could have a photograph of her in this little dress, if your husband doesn’t mind. Best wishes to you all, Bill   For several seconds they sat staring at the piece of paper. When Eva spoke, her voice was tight with emotion. “Cathy, he thinks I chose to stay with Eddie!” Cathy nodded, her mind reeling. “Eddie showed me the letter he sent. Bill wouldn’t have known you were in Wales, would he? He would have assumed you and Eddie had already been reunited—that he’d written with your consent on behalf of you both.” She was afraid to look at Eva. “What are you going to do?” Eva’s face had gone very pale. “I don’t know.” She glanced at David, who was jabbing a Welsh flag into a sand castle. “He said he was going to be posted overseas. Suppose they send him to Britain?” Cathy bit her lip. “It could be anywhere, couldn’t it? It could be the other side of the world.” She could see what was going through Eva’s mind. “You think if he came here, you and he could be together without . . .” Her eyes went to the boys. Eva gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod, as if she was afraid someone might see her. “What about Eddie?” “I don’t know!” The tone of her voice made David look up. She put on a smile, which disappeared the

people, and pets. Always include a caption. Screen Tints — Use screen tints to draw attention to specific areas of copy. This gives the appearance of more than one color when doing one-color printing. Use light backgrounds for maximum readability. Short Words, Sentences, and Paragraphs — Short. Delivers. Punch. Short grabs attention, helps keep the reader reading, and effectively breaks up long copy. Sidebars — Sidebars help hold together — and differentiate — blocks of copy. They are excellent for case studies, testimonials, and product highlights. Simulated Hand-Drawn Doodles — A.k.a. CopyDoodles®. Simulated hand-drawn doodles help draw the reader's eyes to important areas of your copy, add variety and interest to the eye and brain, and create a more personal reading experience. Simulated Handwritten Margin Notes — These

There was an electric bell push screwed to the counter. It had a thin wire that ran away to a nearby crack, and a handwritten sign that said If Unattended Ring For Service. The message was carefully lettered and protected by many layers of clear tape, applied in strips of generous length, some of which were curled at the corners, and dirty, as if picked at by bored or anxious fingers.

Just after his election I sent him a handwritten note of congratulations. He told me some time later that I had quite a knack for grabbing someone’s attention in the opening lines of a letter. Apparently, after the mandatory salutation of ‘Dear Mr President’ I had followed with the immortal phrase: ‘You poor bastard. Welcome to Messiah syndrome. Infinite expectations. Finite resources.’ He told me he laughed and laughed when he read it. It was certainly of a different hue to the correspondence he received from other

So if Rebecca wanted to hear the news about someone, she either had to e-mail them (which was only a little less weirdly formal these days than mailing a handwritten letter) or call them (which was far too intimate) or text them (and a text from someone you hadn’t kept in touch with regularly had a good chance of going ignored—people got too many texts to respond to them all). And all of these involved remembering that someone existed whom you hadn’t thought of in a while, an ability that had atrophied in the minds of people who could not remember a time without social networking,

A handwritten letter is a treat for me now—quaint!—and you couldn’t pay me to pick up your phone call. God help you if you leave a voice mail.

I wore my best clothes. I prepared a hand-written letter for the judge. I worked to create a report card that many parents of exemplary children would have envied. But I allowed none of these good decisions to refine me; I was as insidiously rebellious as ever. I was determined nothing could change me. I was set in my ways. My heart was hardened, my beliefs were set, nothing could sway them. My positive actions were nothing but a way to preserve myself and mitigate my punishments. On the outside, people thought I was doing better, but every good decision that I made was superficial. I did what I needed to do so my love affair with drugs might continue lustfully.

Could an agreement you made when you were 16 years old really stand up in a court of law? I know it was a handwritten letter that I had signed, but surely no one would take the promise of marriage made by a 16-year-old seriously?

And still the handwritten letters keep coming, the words keep coming, the words a woman wants to hear. No dashed-off faxes from Trader. Faxes, which fade in six months, like contemporary love. No scrawled reminders propped against the toaster, such as I get from Tobe. And used to get from Deniss, from Jon, from Shawn, from Duwain. GET SOME TOILET PAPER FOR CHRIST SAKE. That wouldn’t do for Jennifer. She got a fucking poem every other day.

Their other books hummed like summer bees. This book throbbed like unspent thunder and when she opened the cover the handwritten words swam in front of her eyes, rearranging themselves every time a letter nearly became clear.

Upon the unwrapping of each package, she vows to write a thank-you letter to Aunt Tammy—a letter of the handwritten, thick-papered, thesaurus-consulted variety—but every day following, Joan “forgets.” She “forgets” for so many consecutive days that the idea of a thank-you letter begins to gain weight in her mind, becoming too heavy to lift. By the end of the first week, a mass of gratitude and shame has accumulated inside her body and grown so dense that adequately transcribing it, surely, would take a lifetime. It would bruise both writer and reader. To send a thank-you letter now, she believes by week two, would be like mailing a handwritten account of my indolence, my boorishness. I can’t. I can’t. And once Joan has decided that the opportunity to demonstrate her appreciation has expired, the gifts begin to sicken her. Even when they’re hidden, their presence fills her apartment like an odor that is also an itch. Like some toxin. Joan hides the gifts in drawers, tucks them beneath sweaters too expensive to donate but not comfortable enough to wear, twists them in plastic bags, which she then shoves in paper sacks, which she then stows in the coat closet, behind the vacuum. But it doesn’t help. She can’t eat or sleep or read or pray or watch her shows or even recite the nation’s capitals. She tears her cuticles. Her asthma worsens. At any given moment, she feels like she might cry—not because she wants to, to bespeak her sensitivity, but because she needs to, in order to proceed with her day. By the end of the month, her guilt crescendos, the odor of the unthanked gifts too foul and itchy to endure any longer, and Joan surrenders. She gathers the gifts in

I didn’t want anyone else to get handwritten letters. I didn’t want him to smile at another woman or hang out with them. I felt oddly possessive of him and this little universe we’d built, which was equal parts ridiculous and scary, because how much of our universe was even real?

Closing in on his eighty-sixth year on earth, he’d been a senator for thirty of them and he’d never seen anything like this. Handwritten presidential letters weren’t unheard of, but this one had “destroy after reading” written all over it.

A letter allows us to travel through time.

I like to send letters. I love to receive them. I could never throw away a letter.

There are in Timbuktu numerous judges, doctors [of letters] and priests [i.e., learned Muslims]. [The ruler] greatly honors scholarship. Here too they sell many handwritten books that arrive from Barbary [i.e., North Africa]. More profit is had from their sale than from any other merchandise. –Leo Africanus (1550)

Langdon joined her at the book, peering down at the text. Now that he knew the line, he was able to make out the faint handwritten letters: The dark religions are departed & sweet science reigns.

The Letter Game: Again, there is not much you have to do for this game. You tell your partner to write you a letter. The letter can be handwritten, typed, or even emailed. Give him a deadline. Tell him it must be in your hands (or in-box) by a certain day and time. Make sure he has time to write such a letter. The subject of the letter is, of course, your choice. It could be his favorite fantasy, or his deepest, darkest, fantasy. It could be a letter giving you all the reasons he can come up with that you should deny him an orgasm. That one is especially good if you want to tell him that he has convinced you that you should deny him the orgasm you promised. You can choose any subject you like. You can even give him the subject of one of your favorite fantasies and see what he does with it. Remember, just because he does what you ask does not mean you have to give him what you promised. You can always say that he did not do well enough, or that you changed your mind. Teasing games are all about winning. He wants to win in order to get an orgasm, you want to win in order to deny him one. In many cases, he will be just as happy being denied, as you are denying him. It is just the way the game is played. Just because you lose, does not mean he wins. He should understand that there are times when you, as a woman, can change your mind. The point is, he will have had fun trying to accomplish whatever task you assigned.

handwritten letter or a phone call, or it can be as significant as rewarding a coworker with a trip for their dedication and hard work. Gratitude can take many forms, but it can be effortless. It only takes a second to say “thank you” and mean it.

I guess a true romantic might see the artistry of a handwritten note,” I suggested.

He was looking for one man’s name in particular. Someone who had, years ago, sent a letter to my post office box. It was a beautiful letter, tender and sexy—like the emails we’d been sending back and forth for several years. We rarely saw each other in person and the intimacy of handwritten words became a lifeline. I could have just as easily thrown away all evidence of our tryst, but I didn’t want to. He was a secret, but he was my secret, and having tangible proof that he was real felt like necessity.

Old school love and the hand-written love letters still hold the greatest power. - From (The Awakening)

It was something so intimate and special about sitting down and expressing one’s thoughts to the person you loved through a handwritten letter.

drawer of some kind. “Got it,” she said. “I found what we needed in the second place I looked.” “Hey,” Nelson objected. “Wait a minute. That’s part of the linen closet. You can’t take that.” “You’re right,” Robin replied. “This drawer is part of the linen closet, but we can take it. Have you ever bothered looking inside it?” Drexel Nelson answered with a shrug. “Me? Why would I? Washing clothes and making beds aren’t my responsibility around here.” They will be now, buddy boy, Joanna thought. “What did you find, Agent Watkins?” she asked aloud. “The top couple of layers in the drawer contained exactly what you’d expect in a linen closet—sheets and pillowcases—but underneath those is a gold mine of material: handwritten letters and notes from what looks like a whole flock of lovesick boys. At least that’s what the ones on the top of the stack appear to be.” “Letters?” Joanna asked. “As in snail mail letters?” “Not exactly,” Robin replied. “I think it’s more likely that the notes were cloak-and-dagger stuff, dropped off somewhere and collected by hand rather than sent through USPS. But now we know why nothing

Despite Byrd's claims that he had only been a member between 1942 and 1943, a handwritten letter from Byrd to the KKK Imperial Wizard, dated 1946, stated, 'The Klan is needed today as never before, and I am anxious to see its rebirth here in West Virginia'.

We had a very different approach that got a lot of people excited. Not just about the product, but they felt good about the way we treated them. We went old school, researching several hundred health and fitness influencers, then sending them handwritten letters and free samples.

The letter suddenly seemed like my most important possession, and like all the real, handwritten, postally delivered letters these days, an instant relic from a previous era, before time and space collapsed and we started sending messages to each other's pockets.

For years now, during my workweek, we’ve been ships passing in the night, our interactions reduced to handwritten notes—at once sarcastic and quotidian—scribbled on a pad and left on the counter. Each one is equal parts to-do list, love letter, and death threat: a conjugal visit in imperfect cursive.

in his stocking feet so as not to awaken Emilee or the children, Hans padded into the living room, walked past the Christmas tree, and moved into the small vestibule that served as his home office. Only then did he turn on a small desk lamp. He opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew the leatherbound book he had placed there earlier that day. He opened it to the first page and looked at the neatly lettered inscription: To My Beloved Hans Merry Christmas, 1932 From Emilee, Alisa, Jolanda, Hans Otto, Enrika, & Nikolaus Your Adoring Family Hans smiled and reread the handwritten message on the inside cover. Hans: A brief note of explanation. I can hear you saying to yourself as you read this: “Really? A journal? My

Don't send me nudes, send me a picture of your handwritten poetries...

A guided meditation is like sending your subconscious an email newsletter while hypnosis is like sending your subconscious a handwritten letter.

One day he asked me for my address, and shortly thereafter he sent me a card from Eddie’s funeral, a chair with Eddie’s likeness on it from the PPV where Eddie beat Brock Lesnar to win the WWE title, and a handwritten letter. I’ve never published this before, but this is what he wrote: Life is the journey we perceive it to be. I got so much of my perception from Eddie. Eddie shared so much of his life and his life’s experiences with me. He was never too proud or never too ashamed to open up and share with me his experiences, at times revealing his deepest wounds. I am so blessed, so fortunate to have had Eddie’s influence in my life. I pray to God that each one of my children find a friend in life, like I have in Eddie.

WINES, ALES, SPIRITS. Below that, in more modest lettering, Fine Food. Handwritten along the bottom, clearly an afterthought, was Rooms to Let, though the s had been struck out, leaving just the singular Room.

Handwritten letters make you realize how bad your writing is but how clean is your heart which still feeds hope.

By now I’d noticed the rest of the room. Mostly it was just dusty shelves and boxes, with a bare brick floor that sloped down towards the middle. Stood over this was a huge, square table, which was covered in notes – handwritten, scribbled ones, done on little scraps of paper and weighed down by a huge grey pebble. There were also maps, a compass and an old brass pocket watch that did seem to be ticking.

Secure in his victory, Jefferson believed that he embodied the will of the American people and could afford to be magnanimous in his inaugural address. He struck a conciliatory note when he remarked in a soft, almost inaudible voice, “We have called by different names brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists.”38 As Joseph Ellis has noted, in his handwritten draft of the speech, Jefferson did not capitalize Republicans and Federalists, making the famous statement a little less generous than it seemed. Jefferson sounded quite a different note when he said in a private letter that he would “sink federalism into an abyss from which there shall be no resurrection.”39

It is a Someday, when we’re gray and lined like handwritten scripture – we sit content to lose our memories and minds together, glowing brightly, in and out of time

According to Persian legend, someone who writes their name on a piece of paper and presents it to another person has given away the most important thread of their soul. The leash consisting of ink, devotion, and humility can be used to call them and lead them around until the owner of the written name returns the piece of paper, destroys it, or removes it from their home. It used to be said that you should never sign your full name at the end of a handwritten letter if you aren't completely sure you are willing to belong to the recipient. That's especially true of love letters.