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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One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice-- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. Mend my life! each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do-- determined to save the only life you could save.
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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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I am opposed to writing about the private lives of living authors and psychoanalyzing them while they are alive. Criticism is getting all mixed up with a combination of the Junior F.B.I. -men, discards from Freud and Jung and a sort of Columnist peep-hole and missing laundry list school. Every young English professor sees gold in them dirty sheets now. Imagine what they can do with the soiled sheets of four legal beds by the same writer and you can see why their tongues are slavering.
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Investment banking has, in recent years, resembled a casino, and the massive scale of gambling losses has dragged down traditional business and retail lending activities as banks try to rebuild their balance sheets. This was one aspect of modern financial liberalisation that had dire consequences.
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Bourgeois society is infected by monomania the monomania of accounting. For it, the only thing that has value is what can be counted in francs and centimes. It never hesitates to sacrifice human life to figures which look well on paper, such as national budgets or industrial balance sheets.
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What economy of colors there, compared to a tropical fish or a sunrise or even a pigeon's neck -- dull red, indistinct gray buff, some splotches of green. But what opulence of forms -- serpents, goblets, tapestries, coils, pouches, conch shells, washboards, sheets, waves, curls, fountains of translucent tissue.
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When I go to bed at night I do 4 things. I drop my robe, slide under the sheets, turn on my left side and stick out my ass. That's it. That's the signal. I just - I back it right up there because I know when I do, no matter how cold the damn thing is, no matter how difficult it might feel, no matter how desperately we want to kill each other it's gonna be met by this warm body on the other side that's gonna hold it. Two arms that... wrap around, pull me out of my head, quiet the voices, save me from myself... without ever having to ask. Every night, 31 years. Every night there's my ass and every night... he never lets me down. You find your home, and it may not be what you thought - you know; colour's off, style's wrong... but there it is anyway and to hell with you if you can't take a joke.
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I'm enclosing a few densely written and colourfully printed sheets about the program, as well as a complex application that has brought tears of irritation to many.
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Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of torrid thunder Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard.
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No one uses a ribbon typewriter any more, but your final draft is not the time to try to wring a few more sheets out of your inkjet cartridge.
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His voice was a intimate as the rustle of sheets.
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I got underneath the sheets to go to sleep, ... and there's a 'W sign. Oh well. Cat's a minister's daughter. And she's from the south.
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Misery is when you make your bed and then your mother tells you it's the day she's changing the sheets.
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The difference is wide that sheets will not decide.
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