Best 885 quotes in «letters quotes» category

When we separate the word business into its component letters, B-U-S-I-N-E-S-S, we find that U and I are both in it. In fact, if U and I were not in business, it would not be business. Furthermore, we discover that U comes before I in business and the I is silent-it is to be seen, not heard. Also, the U in business has the sound of I, which indicates it is an amalgamation of the interests of U and I. When they are properly amalgamated, business becomes harmonious, profitable, and pleasant.

When Yoko [Ono] and I got married, we got terrible racialist letters - you know, warning me that she would slit my throat. Those mainly came from Army people living in Aldershot. Officers.

When you find you don't like a character, you just type four letters and he's dead.

When you get arrested it's in big letters. When you get acquitted it's in small letters.

When you see a handwritten envelope addressed to you in your packet of mail when you get your mail out of the mailbox - when you see a personal letter waiting for you - it's exciting. It touches you. You say "Oh, somebody really thought of me and didn't just slap a mailing label across an envelope. Somebody wrote something to me.

When you travel to the Celestial City, carry no letter of introduction. When you knock, ask to see God,--none of the servants.

Woman--with a capital letter--should by now have ceased to be a specialty. There should be no more need of "movements" on her behalf, and agitations for her advancement and developmentthan for the abolition of negro slavery in the United States.

Whoever dreamed up Scrabble had an exaggerated idea of how many 7-letter words have five i's.

Why' is a crooked letter and can't be made straight.

Why' is the only question that bothers people enough to have an entire letter of the alphabet named after it. The alphabet does not go 'A B C D What? When? How?' but it does go 'V W X Why? Z.

Will the kindness of this letter excuse the shortness of it?

Without the letters of condolence, telegrams of congratulations and even occasional postcards, the friendship of a separated friend is not a social reality. It has no existence without the rites of friendship. Social rituals create a reality which would be nothing without them.

With the benefit of hindsight, the content of that letter has bothered me since her death.

Woe to the makers of literal translations, who by rendering every word weaken the meaning! It is indeed by so doing that we can say the letter kills and the spirit gives life.

Write letters to your editors, write to your members of Congress, and write to your news stations.

Write: write letters. Keep journals. Besides your children, there is no surer way of achieving immortality.

Writing a good query letter has very little to do with writing a good novel. But if you can't write the one, it makes it really hard to get the other published.

Yeah, I've gotten a few letters from prison.

Where there is no market economy, the best intentioned provisions of constitutions and laws remain a dead letter.

While [Domald] Trump chose a running mate, [Mike] Pence, who wrote [a letter to an Indianapolis newspaper] about how women shouldn't work because it's bad for the family. So we're really facing such a stark contrast between the candidates. Not to mention the vulgarity that Trump has been spouting about women for his entire life and continues to throughout his campaign. It's just a different world that we'd be living in [if he won].

Words are the source of all power. And names are more than just a collection of letters.

Words had started swimming off the page, circling my head, the letters doing one-eighties as if they were riding skateboards.

Words matter. Especially ones with four letters.

Write letters to your grandmother. She will love it. And leave you money in her will.

Writers spend three years rearranging 26 letters of the alphabet. It's enough to make you lose your mind day by day

Writing is, in the end, that oddest of anomalies: an intimate letter to a stranger.

'Y' is about the weakest letter of all. 'Y' can't make up its mind if it's a vowel or a consonant, can it?

You are a fool in four letters, my son.

You can email me, but I prefer letters that come through conventional mail. I like letters that have been licked by strangers.

You can send people letters, and show them photos, but they can never come to visit where you live. Unless you love them. And then they can burn it down.

You cannot ... transmute some incoherent mixture of words into sense merely by introducing the three-letter word "God" to be its grammatical subject.

You can write a letter with a typewriter, a pencil, or a crayon. What you have to say is the important thing.

You know what a fan letter is - it's just an inky raspberry.

You grow up watching certain films or admiring certain filmmakers, and to write a love letter to one and have them validate it, it's extraordinary.

You learned to accept, or you ended up in a small room writing letters home with Crayolas.

You know these love letters mix with whisky, just don't light a match when you kiss me.

You'll get much better results by being upfront, answering creditors calls, and responding to their letters. Delaying the inevitable only digs a deeper hole.

You say love is just a four letter word.

You're gone. No mailing address. But I send you letters anyway.

About letters made by me; I choose. About words to speak to you; I tell you.

You would get longer livelier and more frequent letters from me, if it weren't for the Christian religion. How that bell tolling at the end of the garden, dum dum, dum dum, annoys me! Why is Christianity so insistent and so sad?

You've read some of the poems in this new unpublished book [Walker's Alphabet], e.g., the poem "C." I have a number of poems whose titles are letters of the alphabet: A, B, C, D, E, F.

You will not mistake the newspaperman - looks like a big turtle - published a letter meant to embarrass me.

All letters of love are Ridiculous. They wouldn’t be love letters if they were not Ridiculous.

Af en toe levensgrote paranoia creëren verleent aan een tocht een bepaalde, aantrekkelijke dimensie, die mij soms aanzet de gekste situaties te bedenken.

Alma wrote in depth about laurel, mimosa, and verbena. She wrote about grapes and camellias, about the myrtle orange, about the cosseting of figs, She published under the name "A. Whittaker." Neither she nor George Hawkes believed that it would much benefit Alma to announce herself in print as female. In the scientific world of the day, there was still a strict division between "botany" (the study of plants by men) and "polite botany" was often indistinguishable from "botany"- except that one field was regarded with respect and the other was not- but still, Alma did not wish to be shrugged off as a mere polite botanist. Of course, the Whittaker name was famous in the world of plants and science, so a good number of botanists already knew precisely who "A. Whittaker" was. Not all of them, however. In response to her articles, then, Alma sometimes received letters from botanists around the world, sent to her in care of George Hawkes's print shop. Some of these letters began, "My dear Sir." Other letters were written to "Mr. A. Whittaker." One quite memorable missive even came addressed to "Dr. A. Whittaker." ( Alma kept that letter for a long time, tickled by the unexpected honorific.)

A love letter lost in the mail, forgotten, miss delivered and then discovered years later and received by the intended is romantic. A love letter ending up in someone's spam filter is just annoying.

Also, when I write letters, I spend the next two days thinking about what I figured out in my letters.

Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place the mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, “I was waiting for you.” She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, read the letters one by one, and as she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years — the days, the moments – that that man, before he even met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps, more simply, she will overturn the box and, astonished at that comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, “You are mad.” And she will love him forever.

atque illi artifices corporis simulacra ignotis nota faciebant; quae uel si nulla, nihilo sint tamen obscuriores clari uiri.