Typewritten Quotes

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy

How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

I love you because you are me ... my writing, my desire to be many lives. I will be a little god in my small way. My happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper. I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print.

Motherhood is hard. Harder than I ever imagined anything could be. It’s harder than studying for my SATs. My LSAT. More challenging than that paper I had to write for the Women’s Studies course in my freshman year that came back to me looking like two red pens had engaged in a murder/suicide all over my typewritten words.

...My writing, my desire to be many lives. I will be a little god in my small way. My happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper. I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print.

...my writing, my desire to be many lives. I will be a little god in my small way. At home on my desk is the besttstory I've ever written. How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print? ...Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy 2. Submissive to everything, open, listening 3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house 4. Be in love with yr life 5. Something that you feel will find its own form 6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind 7. Blow as deep as you want to blow 8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind 9. The unspeakable visions of the individual 10. No time for poetry but exactly what is 11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest 12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you 13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition 14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time 15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog 16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye 17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself 18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea 19. Accept loss forever 20. Believe in the holy contour of life 21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind 22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better 23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning 24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge 25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it 26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form 27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness 28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better 29. You're a Genius all the time 30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Anne had wandered down the the Dryard's Bubble and was curled up among the ferns at the root of the n=big white birch where sher and Gilbert had so often sat ion summers gone by. Hew had gone into the newspaper office again when college was closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him. He never wrote to her, and Anne missed the letters that neer came. To be sure, Roy wrote twice a week; his letters were exquisite compositions which would have read beautifully in a memoir or biography. Anne felt herself more deeply in love with him that ever when she read the; but her heart never game that queer, quick, painful bound at sight of his letters which had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane had handed her out an envelope addressed in Gilbert's black, upright handwriting. Anne had hurried home to the east gable and opened it eagrly--to find a typewritten copy of some college society report--"only that and nothing more." Anne flung the harmless screed across her room and sat down to write and especially nice epistle to Roy

The park was the heart of the city. He had come to the city – and with a knowing in his blood – he had established himself at the heart of it. Everyday he looked at the heart of it; every day; he was so stunned and awed and overwhelmed that just to think about it made him sweat. There was something, in the center of the park, that he had discovered. It was a mystery although it was in a glass case for everybody to see and there was a typewritten card over it telling all about it. But there was something the card couldn't say and what it couldn't say was inside him. He could not show the mystery to just anybody; but he had to show it to somebody. Who he had to show it to was a special person. This person could not be from the city but he didn't know why. He knew he would know him when he saw him and that he would have to see him soon or the nerve inside him would grow so big that he would be forced to steal a car or rob a bank or jump out of a dark alley onto a woman.

...My happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper.

In the gleaming briefcase I carried ten typewritten pages I had written for International Relations the year before on the Balfour Declaration.

when one makes of one's own heavens and hells a few hunks of neatly typewritten paper and editors are very polite and reject it, one is, in whimsy, inclined to identify editors with god's ministers. this is fatal.

The German correspondent of the British Daily Mail reported on 29 July 1923: "In the shops the prices are typewritten and posted hourly. For instance, a gramophone at 10 a.m. was 5,000,000 marks but at 3 p.m. it was 12,000,000 marks. A copy of the Daily Mail               purchased on the street yesterday cost 35,000 marks but today it cost 60,000 marks.

A few days later she sent him a two page, single-spaced, typewritten letter preaching to him about the Catholic stand on premarital sex, and especially condemning the use of that horrendous tool of the devil, the seed-killing prophylactic. Don't worry. Those facetious words weren't hers. I paraphrased. This boy was more browbeaten by mommy than Norman Bates.

Item: The typewritten sheet of paper containing the text of the blasphemous altar card discovered at Holy Trinity had been checked for latent fingerprints. Impressions had been found on both sides. Some had been made by Damien Karras. But still another set had been found that, from their size, were adjudged to be those of a person with very small hands, quite possibly a child. Item:

Can’t think why you don’t make an offer for the leech,” said Robert. One of the features of Perpignan was a leech in a bottle in the window of a chemist’s shop, with a typewritten notice saying: IF THE LEECH GOES UP IN THE BOTTLE, THE WEATHER WILL BE FAIR IF THE LEECH GOES DOWN—STORMY. “It might be nice,” said Linda, “but I can’t somehow imagine her getting very fond of one—too busy fussing about the weather all day, up and down, up and down—no time for human relationships.

You want to what?!" She and Michael had blurted it out in unison as they stared down at the typewritten list. "Do these things before I settle down." He weighted the piece of paper down with the ketchup bottle and then took another bite of burger talking while he chewed. "Actually, I want to do a lot more - but I narrowed it down to ten for now." Pam set her own sandwich down and read the list again with a combination of anger and terror. Hang-gliding. Rock-climbing. Sky-diving. "Isn't there something you'd like to do that isn't potentially lethal?

There was a trembling tightness around his diaphragm, as though something struggled for release or escape there. He knew the phrase "butterflies in your stomach," but is one of those people to whom phrases like that communicate nothing. He has had butterflies in his stomach as he'd had the willies, and the jitters; more than once he has been beside himself; but has always thought these experiences were his alone, and never knew they were so common as to have names. His ignorance allowed him to compose poetry about the weird feelings he felt, a handful of typewritten pages which as soon as he was dressed in the neat black suit he put carefully into the green canvas knapsack. . .

Clock snips time in two Lap of rain In the drain pipe Two o’clock And never you. Never you, down the evening, I cannot14 Cry, or even smile Acidly or bitter-sweetly For never you and incompletely. Things surround me; I could touch Soap or toothbrush Desk or chair. Never mind the three dimensions All is flat, and you not there. Letters, paper, stamps And white. And black. typewritten-you, and there It is. The trickle, liquid trickle Of rain in drain-pipe Is voice enough For me tonight. And the click-click Hard quick click-click Of the clock Is pain enough, enough heart-beat15 For me tonight. The narrow cot, The iron bed Is space enough And warmth enough …16 Enough, enough. To bed and sleep And tearless creep The formless seconds Minutes hours And never you The raindrops weep

ED ABBEY’S FBI file was a thick one, and makes for engrossing reading. The file begins in 1947, when Abbey, just twenty and freshly back from serving in the Army in Europe, posts a typewritten notice on the bulletin board at the State Teachers College in Pennsylvania. The note urges young men to send their draft cards to the president in protest of peacetime conscription, exhorting them to “emancipate themselves.” It is at that point that Abbey becomes “the subject of a Communist index card” at the FBI, and from then until the end of his life the Bureau will keep track of where Abbey is residing, following his many moves. They will note when he heads west and, as acting editor of the University of New Mexico’s literary magazine, The Thunderbird, decides to print an issue with a cover emblazoned with the words: “Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest!” The quote is from Diderot, but Abbey thinks it funnier to attribute the words to Louisa May Alcott. And so he quickly loses his editorship while the FBI adds a few more pages to his file. The Bureau will become particularly intrigued when Mr. Abbey attends an international conference in defense of children in Vienna, Austria, since the conference, according to the FBI, was “initiated by Communists in 1952.” Also quoted in full in his files is a letter to the editor that he sends to the New Mexico Daily Lobo, in which he writes: “In this day of the cold war, which everyday [sic] shows signs of becoming warmer, the individual who finds himself opposed to war is apt to feel very much out of step with his fellow citizens” and then announces the need to form a group to “discuss implications and possibilities of resistance to war.

There are occasions, however, when even S holds a secret delight or two in the form of a pink, such as the one I found among the citations (or "cits" for short) for "sex kitten": sex kitten sex pot There is no essential difference in these defs [definitions], but they're not the same. Some differentiation shd be made. The pink was written by one of our former physical science editors infamous for commenting as brusquely as possible on things beyond his remit... Another one of our science editors who was reviewing the batch later was apparently irritated by this note, and decided to comment on what he no doubt saw as needless meddling. His typewritten response to the note about "sex kitten" reads, "I will no doubt regret saying this but I think you have misconstrued the meaning of 'physical' science somewhere along here." But a pink's a pink. Steve acted on it for the Tenth, adding the word "young" to the definition for "sex kitten.

Gimmicks too often fail. Saying something of genuine importance and interest to the recipient usually succeeds. You say it with a headline. Yes, I am well aware that advertising has headlines and letters generally do not. However, successful sales letters do. It can go above the salutation or between the salutation and the body copy. It can be typeset in big, bold type while the rest of the letter has a typewritten look. Or it can be put in a “Johnson box,” a device presumably named after an inventor named Johnson, that looks like the one in the letter in Exhibit #8. What your headline says and how it says it are absolutely critical. You might compare it to the door-to-door salesperson wedging a foot in the door, buying just enough time to deliver one or two sentences that will melt resistance, create interest, and elevate his or her status from annoying pest to welcome guest; you've got just about the same length of time, the same opportunity. Exhibit #8 Johnson Box September 12, 2005 Mr. Horace Buyer President ACME Co. 123 Business Street City, State, Zip Dear Mr. Buyer: * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Your headline goes here. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Body copy begins here and continues normal letter format.

It is curious to note how slowly the mechanism of the intellectual life improves. Contrast the ordinary library facilities of a middle-class English home, such as the present writer is now working in, with the inconveniences and deficiencies of the equipment of an Alexandrian writer, and one realizes the enormous waste of time, physical exertion, and attention that went on through all the centuries during which that library flourished. Before the present writer lie half a dozen books, and there are good indices to three of them. He can pick up any one of these six books, refer quickly to a statement, verify a quotation, and go on writing. Contrast with that the tedious unfolding of a rolled manuscript. Close at hand are two encyclopedias, a dictionary, an atlas of the world, a biographical dictionary, and other books of reference. They have no marginal indices, it is true; but that perhaps is asking for too much at present. There were no such resources in the world in 300 B.C. Alexandria had still to produce the first grammar and the first dictionary. This present book is being written in manuscript; it is then taken by a typist and typewritten very accurately. It can then, with the utmost convenience, be read over, corrected amply, rearranged freely, retyped, and recorrected. Fig 00346

I tried to imagine myself dead, someone sorting carelessly through my belongings. What was there really of my life? Canceled checks. Reports all typewritten and filed. Everything of value reduced to terse prose. I didn’t keep much myself, didn’t hoard or save.

Being or nothingness, that is the question. Ascending, descending, coming, going, a man does so much that in the end he disappears. A taxi bears him off, a metro carries him away, the Tower doesn't care, nor the Pantheon. Paris is but a dream, Gabriel is but a reverie (a charming one), Zazie the dream of a reverie (or of a nightmare) and all this story the dream of a dream, the reverie of a reverie, scarcely more than the typewritten delirium of an idiotic novelist.

Mr. Thompson was pacing among the groups, snapping at random bystanders in the restless manner of a man of action who feels contempt for the duty of making speeches. He was clutching a sheaf of typewritten pages, as if it were a bundle of old clothing about to be discarded.

then burned the typewritten sheets and the photos, and lit a cigarette.

portrait is based on Ruth Harbecke Jewett, The Swiss Connection. The lives and times of Frederick Joss and Emily Bigler Joss and their descendants. Chicago: Privately printed, 1983. Numbers in the text refer to this richly illustrated type-written work. – An abbreviated version in Swiss American Historical

The entrepreneurs in this book sell. They frequent public parks to see if anyone will buy their custom, typewritten stories. They use crowdfunding websites to raise money from customers before their products even exist. They post their ideas to massive web forums to gauge interest, or set up online shops the second they have a product to sell. Sales come first, not last. Finally, the entrepreneurs in this book try again. In almost every instance, the first versions of their products don’t work properly, or customers don’t want them. Instead of giving up, they tinker – sometimes for years – until they get things right. They hit roadblocks and spend late nights anguishing over seemingly insurmountable obstacles, until one day, through sheer force of will, they make it. The ones who survive are the ones who don’t quit.

The Resume Your resume is like an advertisement for you as a job candidate. It should present you in the best possible light. Consult reference books for appropriate formats. Styles vary, but a resume should be typewritten or typeset, with your name and address clearly displayed at the top, and your employment history and educational background listed below in an organized fashion. If you wish, you may include a heading for personal interests—this can often be a good ice-breaker during the interview itself. People with social anxiety often find it very useful to pay for professional assistance in preparing a resume. Having an objective person categorize your skills and experience can be extremely helpful, especially if you are reentering the work force or are experiencing difficulty putting your background into the appropriate format. Remember, your resume is often your first contact with a prospective employer, and it may determine whether you will get an interview in the first place. It is your calling card and should be impeccably professional in appearance and content.

On Degenerate Templates and the Adaptor Hypothesis: A Note for the RNA Tie Club,” which Crick sent out early in 1955, is the first of his master-works about protein synthesis and the coding problem. By 1966, he had written two dozen papers related to the subject. Six at least were of great and general importance. Two of those included experiments and were written with collaborators. One more paper, of pleasing ingenuity, happened to be wrong: nature turned out to be less elegant than Crick’s imagination. Of the entire run, however, this first was the most unprecedented and original. The paper defined the next questions, and many were new questions. More, it established the way the questions were to be approached, and the terms in which they were to be argued. Most generally, it took for granted that the questions were spatial, physical, logical, easy to apprehend, and therefore tractable and even—in principle—simple. Yet even now, only a few hundred people have ever read the paper—for the surprising reason that it has never been published. It remained a note for the RNA Tie Club: seventeen foolscap pages, typewritten, double-spaced, mimeographed.

On 2 November 1917, five weeks before Allenby walked through the Jaffa Gate, the government in London had issued a document that was to have a fateful and lasting impact on the Holy Land, the Middle East and the world. The foreign secretary, Lord Balfour, wrote to Lord Rothschild, representing the World Zionist Organization, to inform him that: His Majesty’s government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country. The sixty-seven typewritten words of the Balfour Declaration combined considerations of imperial planning, wartime propaganda, biblical resonances and a colonial mindset, as well as evident sympathy for the Zionist idea. With them, as the writer Arthur Koestler was to quip memorably – neatly encapsulating the attendant and continuing controversy – ‘one nation solemnly promised to a second nation the country of a third’.8 Lloyd George highlighted sympathy for the Jews as his principal motivation. But the decisive calculations were political, primarily the wish to outsmart the French in post-war arrangements in the Levant9 and the impulse to use Palestine’s strategic location – its ‘fatal geography’ – to protect Egypt, the Suez Canal and the route to India.10 Other judgements have placed greater emphasis on the need to mobilize Jewish public opinion behind the then flagging Allied war effort. As Balfour told the war cabinet at its final discussion of the issue on 31 October: ‘If we could make a declaration favourable to such an ideal [Zionism], we should be able to carry on extremely useful propaganda both in Russia and in America.’11 Historians have spent decades debating the connections and contradictions between Balfour’s public pledge to the Zionists, the secret 1916 Sykes–Picot agreement between Britain, France and Russia about post-war spheres of influence in the Middle East, and pledges about Arab independence made by the British in 1915 to encourage Sharif Hussein of Mecca to launch his ‘revolt in the desert’ against the Turks. The truth, buried in imprecise definitions, misunderstandings and duplicity, remains elusive.

It was, I saw, a local letter with a typewritten address. I opened it before the two with London postmarks, since one of them was a bill and the other from a rather tiresome cousin. Inside, printed words and letters had been cut out and gummed to a sheet of paper. For a minute or two I stared at the words without taking them in. Then I gasped. Joanna, who was frowning over some bills, looked up.

soon as I speak with Grant, I am certain we will be both be heading out to the sawmill.” “That’s where I’m going from here,” Ozzie said. “I will see you later then.” Less than an hour later, she walked into Grant Coolidge’s study at their ranch house some two miles from Lockwood. Her husband was at his desk absorbed with working the typewriter keys that spread printed words across the page. With the aid of a few books, he was a self-taught typist who had finally surrendered to the new edict of most publishers that manuscripts be submitted in typewritten format. His fingers did not sweep the keys nearly so fast as Ginger’s at the office, but he no longer suffered the frustration of the early days and was rather proud of his finished product. “Grant,” she said. Startled, he looked up and smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “Between that typewriter’s clacking and your concentration, you turn deaf when you’re writing.” He pulled his timepiece from his trouser pocket and looked at it. “It’s not three o’clock yet. You’re never home this early.” She sat down in the captain’s chair at the side of his desk. “Believe me, right now I would rather be at the office.” She related the information the deputy had given her, while Grant listened, stone-faced and seemingly impassive. She suspected, however, that his mind was racing, but Grant Coolidge was not

The libraries, as they were written by Edwards, were typed on paper 8-1/2” by 13,” the marginal stops so placed that a typewritten line approximated the same line when printed. Eighty of these sheets completed a story, and five pages were regularly allowed to each chapter. Thus there were always sixteen chapters in every story.

Do I want to know what it says?” Olivia asked. Ed trotted up behind her. “Nope, but you’re going to.” He shoved a typewritten note in front of her eyes. I will destroy everything you love.

The final page was altered to be more of a note than part of the text. Most of the actual typewritten words had been edited through with a red pencil. There was a large aside written in a flowing hand across the bottom third of the page. The words read, “Final conclusions drawn; When he is young, he asks why do people have to die? A wise older man tells him that life would be far less precious if we didn’t die someday. In his youth, he wants to go on living with the people he loves and never wants to leave them. When he is a sixty-year-old man, he is asked whether he would want to live his life again. He answers that he would prefer not to. He was happy with where his life has taken him. He likes his life and loves the people he is with. He would not want to chance that a second attempt would leave him less happy. When he is eighty-five, he decides he is old and tired and ready to die. He wants to live in order to be with those he loves, as he will miss them when he is gone. He knows they have their own journey to take and has faith that someday they will once again be together.” Beneath the text was a separate comment. In scribbled words it read, possible inscription: “Thank you Lord, for the nameless depression that endlessly haunts the recesses of my mind. Without it, I would be a far less compelling author.

I remember the people I’ve heard complain about the very texture of digital images, filmless film: how it lacks richness, depth. I’ve heard the same thing said about CDs. Someone once told me that it was Mark Twain who turned in the first typewritten manuscript, and this was generally thought to be a Bad Thing: Work composed on a machine would naturally lack richness, depth.