It is worth remembering that every writer begins with a naively physical notion of what art is. A book for him or her is not an expression or a series of expressions, but literally a volume, a prism with six rectangular sides made of thin sheets of papers which should include a cover, an inside cover, an epigraph in italics, a preface, nine or ten parts with some verses at the beginning, a table of contents, an ex libris with an hourglass and a Latin phrase, a brief list of errata, some blank pages, a colophon and a publication notice: objects that are known to constitute the art of writing.
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Silent companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,-- Let me return to you; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought: Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well.
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Another piece of advice: when you proofread cross out as many adjectives and adverbs as you can. You have so many modifiers that the reader has trouble understanding and gets worn out. It is comprehensible when I write: The man sat on the grass, because it is clear and does not detain one's attention. On the other hand, it is difficult to figure out and hard on the brain if I write: The tall, narrow-chested man of medium height and with a red beard sat down on the green grass that had already been trampled down by the pedestrians, sat down silently, looking around timidly and fearfully. The brain can't grasp all that at once, and art must be grasped at once, instantaneously. And then one other thing; you are lyrical by nature. The timber of your soul is soft. If you were a composer you would avoid writing marches. It is unnatural for your talent to curse, shout, taunt, denounce with rage. Therefore, you'll understand if I advise you, in proofreading, to eliminate the sons of bitches, curs, and flea-bitten mutts that appear here and there on the pages of Life.
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Our brains are no longer conditioned for reverence and awe. We cannot imagine a Second Coming that would not be cut down to size by the televised evening news, or a Last Judgment not subject to pages of holier-than-thou second-guessing in The New York Review of Books.
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Contrary to the claims of some of my critics and some of the editorial pages, I am an ardent believer in the free market.
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Moonlight falls on the gravestone like death the gravestone is mine... a crow caws so close to my ear, i taste a bitter taste and it smells like death i see nothing but utter stillness i can see my fear run through the yard i see the ghost of curt cobain run through the yard and i chase after him there is a taste of sweet dew on my tongue in my bedroom there are posters on the wall i read a note over and over again and the words 'sup loser' haunt me... the giants peer over the midgets intimidating he loves everything about me, why does he had me so? the dull pencil of life tried to write on the soul and failed. i am as happy as a dull face in the dark my eyes go from ice blue to pitch black in the blink of an eye Lydia is dead in her mind. in the next months i'll walk through in a daze the hazy fog echoes as she lives for death she dies everyday and lives for tomorow elle amour mort mais elles deteste vie her pen writes on the pages of her heart a sweet song she will end the wait of life with the death of spirits.
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Why Paul God already had called twelve apostles of the kingdom Although Judas had fallen in transgression, the seat of his apostolic office was filled by Matthias preceding the day of Pentecost. Insofar as Paul was unconverted at the time, he could not have possibly fulfilled the qualificatios set down by the Holy Spirit to be numbered with the twelve (Acts 121-26). Of course, there are many dispensationalists who would agree with this interpretation, but teach that God ordained Paul to be the thirteenth apostle of the kingdom. Perhaps you have heard the saying, 'They jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.' In other words, we have gone from bad to worse, which is certainly the case with this view. the number twelve is stamped throughout the pages of prophecy, thus eliminating the possibility of a thirteenth apostolic office (Matt. 1928 cf. Rev. 12-21). What logical explanation then can we give for Paul's apostleship Before the foundation of the world, God foreordained that He would raise up a new apostle to reveal His eternal purpose for the parenthetical age of Grace in which we now live. Hence, Paul says 'But when it pleased God, who separated me from my mother's womb, and called me by His grace, to reveal His Son in me, that I might preach Him among the heathen Gentiles...' (Gal. 115.16). When God temporarily rolled up the building plans of prophecy and placed them aside, He made known a secret set of plans. With this program came a completely new set of blueprints. According to the counsel of His will, He had predetermined to call Paul as the masterbuilder of the project. So then, the instructions for our building program are found in Paul's epistles. Little wonder the apostles says 'I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon.' (1 Cor. 310). It is essential to use Pauline constructio materials (grace doctrines), simply because someday soon the Building Inspector will examine our workmanship to determine if we followed His codes.
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Do not commit your poems to pages alone, sing them I pray you.
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Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates -- but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
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I am deeply distressed by what I only can call in our Christian culture the idolatry of the Scriptures. For many Christians, the Bible is not a pointer to God but God himself... God cannot be confined within the covers of a leather-bound book. I develop a nasty rash around people who speak as if mere scrutiny of its pages will reveal precisely how God thinks and precisely what God wants.
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No more angels, No more dreams, Only rain and wind, The coldness of steel. The end of my Chapter, But the story goes on, Pages turned and forgotten, I'll read yours when I'm gone. No glory in death, No heaven or hell, Just a void which is empty, Where nothingness dwells.
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I believe that communism is another sad, bizarre chapter in human history whose last pages even now are being written. I believe this because the source of our strength in the quest for human freedom is not material, but spiritual. And because it knows no limitation, it must terrify and ultimately triumph over those who would enslave their fellow men.
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Hardly a book of human worth, be it heaven's own secret, is honestly placed before the reader; it is either shunned, given a Periclean funeral oration in a hundred and fifty words, or interred in the potter's field of the newspapers back pages.
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Men are doubtful and skeptical about the Church they suspect and dislike the clergy they are impatient of theological systems but for Jesus Christ, as he stand out to view in the sacred pages, as they dimly realize him in their own best selves, as they catch faint traces of him in the lives of his saints, they have no other sentiments than those of respect and affection.
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This is politics, raw and urgent. What is happening across the pages of almost every newspaper is a ruthless attempt to destroy the young challenger among the Tory modernizers' camp and to keep the Conservatives firmly on the right of British politics.
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The first duty of a lecturer to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks, and keep on the mantlepiece forever.
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A playwright must be his own audience. A novelist may lose his readers for a few pages; a playwright never dares lose his audience for a minute.
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Personal Web pages are the '90s equivalent of home video, except that you don't have to visit someone else's house to fall asleep - you can do so in the comfort of your own home.
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There is a difference between a book of two hundred pages from the very beginning, and a book of two hundred pages which is the result of an original eight hundred pages. The six hundred are there. Only you don't see them.
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All of a sudden, those few pages of script that he had shown me with the weird images I could visualize all of that in my brain, and I knew that there was this mad little genius at work here and I really wanted to do the film.
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All I do is act on my passions and they call it sin. All I do is tell the truth and they call me a hypocrite. All feel is pain and sorrow and they call it love. All I do is pour my heart out to empty pages and they call it poetry.
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The West will not contain Communism, it will transcend Communism. We will not bother to denounce it, we'll dismiss it as a sad, bizarre chapter in human history whose last pages are even now being written
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All I do is act on my passions and they call it sin. All I do is tell the truth and they call me a hypocrite. All feel is pain and sorrow and they call it love. All I do is pour my heart out to empty pages and they call it poetry.
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I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people's accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man's failures.
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I know every book of mine by its smell, and I have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts of things.
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Looking at the proliferation of personal web pages on the net, it looks like very soon everyone on earth will have 15 Megabytes of fame.
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All that mankind has done, thought or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books.
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Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life; or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
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But as the Pope has a long arm, which might reach me in France, I have gone a little out of the way to tell him the plain truths contained in these pages.
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So if it seems that some of what I'll have to say in the pages to come doesn't reflect the mellowing of age, that's only because I've never found that life and memories respond to time the way that tobacco does.
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