Ink Quotes

You have never let me down. You are always there for me. You are the best part of me, who I want to be, and every time I look at you I can hardly believe how lucky I am to be with you and I hope you know that.

I'm the old type setter who gets his blood poisoned from the ink.

I am feeling more. I feel everything more. I cannot express it. I can hardly keep track of it all. It is you! All you! Everything!

Whether this blood was daemon, human, or something else, it was still only blood, and blood was only the ink of life.

This assignment could damn well project all the words across my face and the ink stain my hands a gory mess before I finished it.

I love you, Ink, and I want you-only you. Being strong doesn't mean I don't want you too. You are the only person who knows every part of my life, every part of me in it, the good and the bad and the horrible, and you still love me. You are always with me, even when you're not there. And when you're not there, I can feel it, like an empty space where you ought to be, and I can hardly wait until you're back to fill it again. Neither world feels like it fits, but we belong.

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.

The book did not say anything about a statue, valuable or otherwise, and so I stopped reading about the Bombinating Beast and got interested in the chapter about the Stain'd witches, who had ink instead of blood in their veins. I wondered what they kept in their pens.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Technically, you cannot really own a book you bought; you can only own the sheets of paper your copy is printed on; unless, of course, you are the book’s publisher.

Inking is meditation in liquid form...

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Let thy words be few. I agree, but only if my ink can relentlessly run.