Best 885 quotes in «letters quotes» category

Postman’s bag is always heavy because it carries the life itself: It carries all the sorrows and all the joys, all the worries and all the hopes!

(Quoting Goethe:) "We lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last destroy them out of discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath of life, irrecoverably for ourselves and for others.

Reaching out to her is like drinking from a memory.

Relationships have an unfortunate way of wearing out, like most things in this world.

Remember and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me.

Remember that we always love and think of you. Always. Mother.

SABINE THINGS HAVE BECOME SO DIFFICULT. I MUSTN'T WRITE AGAIN. THIS WHOLE AFFAIR HAS GOTTEN TOO INTENSE. TOO REAL, SABINE, YOU DON'T EXIST. I INVENTED YOU. YOU, THE CARDS, THE STAMPS. THE ISLANDS, YOU'RE A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION. I WAS LONELY AND I WANTED A FRIEND. BUT I'M ALMOST OUT OF CONTROL. I'VE STARTED TO THINK I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU. BEFORE IT TAKES ME OVER IT HAS TO STOP. GOODBYE. GRIFFIN

Saya menulis surat tapi entah untuk siapa? Mungkin untuk diri saya sendiri, nasib surat memang tak selamanya terbalas

Social and cultural history is often comprised of whatever diaries and letters remain and that is down to chance and wide open to interpretation.

She’s a very mysterious creature, with an open smile and a closed soul.

Since the start of his presidency, Barack had asked his correspondence staff to include ten letters or messages from constituents inside his briefing book, selected from the roughly fifteen thousand letters and emails that poured in daily. He read each one carefully, jotting responses in the margins so that a staffer could prepare a reply or forward a concern on to a cabinet secretary. He read letters from soldiers. From prison inmates. From cancer patients struggling to pay health-care premiums and from people who’d lost their homes to foreclosure. From gay people who hoped to be able to legally marry and from Republicans who felt he was ruining the country. From moms, grandfathers, and young children. He read letters from people who appreciated what he did and from others who wanted to let him know he was an idiot. He read all of it, seeing it as part of the responsibility that came with the oath. He had a hard and lonely job—the hardest and loneliest in the world, it often seemed to me—but he knew that he had an obligation to stay open, to shut nothing out. While the rest of us slept, he took down the fences and let everything inside.

So don’t study and swot too much, for that makes one sterile. Enjoy yourself too much rather than too little, and don’t take art or love too seriously- there is very little one can do about it

Some of the things you say are sublime and monstrous at once.

Some letters R - S - T - U whilst following the Q.

Some people write letters, in the library.

Sometimes, I write the articles in capital letters, for the beauty; however, I read out that in small letters. Is it a grammatical problem?

(S)uccessful people, no matter how busy, seem to make time to write letters.

Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper goodbye again.

The crushed flowers and The scented letters Hidden between the pages, I hide them under the pillows, I take them on a trip, Sometimes, they lay in the cupboards The broken flowers still glow, The perfumed letters can Give the peace to my soul.

The fact about contemporaries is that they're doing the same thing on another railway line: one resents their distracting one, flashing past, the wrong way- something like that: from timidity, partly, one keeps one's eyes on one's own road.

The days will have more hours while you are gone away.

the letters are mixed up. U and I should be together.

The flowers have come, and are adorable, dusky, tortured, passionate like you.

The following extracts will give some idea of the interest of his letters to Phillipps, full of news of the sale rooms and the world of scholarship, spiced with that touch of malice which makes for good reading.

The length of the friendship never brought astonishment. After all, the majority of Baby Boomers could likely claim a long-standing friendship in their lives. No, it was always the letters: the-pen-on-paper, inside a-stamped-envelope, mailed-in-a-mailbox letter that was awe inspiring. “You’ve been writing a letter every week for almost thirty years?” The question always evokes disbelief, particularly since the dawn of the Internet and email. We quickly correct the misconception. “Well, at least one letter, but usually more. We write each other three or four letters a week. And we never wait for a return letter before beginning another.” Conservatively speaking, at just three letters a week since 1987, that would equal 4,368 letters each, but we’d both agree that estimate is much too low. We have, on occasion, written each other two letters in a single day.

The first love is not always in order.

The kind of life I want is to be a person who would get a personal note every day.

There are no boundaries concerning your passion for education. No harm done, no offense given! Those who take education as an ass-suffering task makes it so because they have a phobia for alphabets.

The only thing that I am sure of is that we are mysteries to others, as much as to ourselves.

There is a charm to letters and cards that emails and smses can’t ever replicate, you cannot inhale them, drawing the fragrance of the place they have been mailed from, the feel of paper in your hand bearing the weight of the words contained within. You cannot rub your fingers over the paper and visualise the sender, seated at a table, writing, perhaps with a smile on their lips or a frown splitting the brow. You can’t see the pressure of the pen on the reverse of the page and imagine the mood the person might have been in when he or she was writing it. Smiley face icons cannot hope to replace words thought out carefully in order to put a smile on the other person’s face, the pressure of the pen, the sharpness or the laxity of the handwriting telling stories about the frame of mind of the writer, the smudges on the sheets of paper telling their own stories, blotches where tears might have fallen, hastily scratched out words where another would have been more appropriate, stories that the writer of the letter might not have intended to communicate. I have letters wrapped up in a soft muslin cloth, letters that are unsigned, tied up with a ribbon which I had once used to hold my soft, brown hair in place, and which had been gently untied by the writer of those letters. Occasionally, I unwrap them and breathe them in, knowing that the molecules from the hand that wrote them might still be scattered on the surface of the paper, a hand that is long dead.

There are still souls for whom love is the contact of two poetries, the fusion of two reveries. The epistolary novel expresses love in a beautiful emulation of images and metaphors. To tell a love, one must write. One never writes too much. How many lovers, upon returning home from the tenderest of rendezvous, open their writing desks! Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed. The reveries of two solitary souls prepare the sweetness of loving. A realist passion will see nothing there but evanescent formulas. But just the same it is no less true that great passions are prepared by great reveries. The reality of love is mutilated when it is detached from all its unrealness.

The reason I'm not on the e-mail list is because I thought it'd be cooler to write letters to somebody, since I can write e-mails to anybody.

There is something about that burning of all those letters that gives me pause: why should everything be made clear and be brought into the light? Why keep things, archive your intimacies? Why not let thirty years of shared conversation go spiralling in ash up into the air of Tunbridge Wells? Just because you have it does not mean you have to pass it on. Losing things can something gain you a space in which to live.

There is an unknown land full of strange flowers and subtle perfumes, a land of which it is joy of all joys to dream, a land where all things are perfect and poisonous.

There is a vibrational effect in every action, just as there is vibration that rings from every letter in every word.

There’s so much love sent through the mail.

There! you will think this a dreadfully preaching letter! I suppose I have a natural tendency to preach just at present because I am overwhelmed with my work.

There was He, there was She, they become It.

There was no doubt, the world is orbis quadratus, mundus quadratus, and its balance rests on the number four – a symbol of firmness, order and legality.

They believed that the very name Croat comes from the word mountain (gora)... They were competing in the reading of the Bible and the chapters in which their name was mentioned: Isa 10, 29; Isa 10, 31; Ezek 27, 9; Ps 83, 8.

The tear-stained letters of my regret will remain forever unread, for I am never going to be strong enough to give them to you.

The stars are brilliant at this time of night and I wander these streets like a ritual I don’t dare to break for darling, the times are quite glorious. I left him by the water’s edge, still waving long after the ship was gone and if someone would have screamed my name I wouldn’t have heard for I’ve said goodbye so many times in my short life that farewells are a muscular task and I’ve taught them well. There’s a place by the side of the railway near the lake where I grew up and I used to go there to burry things and start anew. I used to go there to say goodbye. I was young and did not know many people but I had hidden things inside that I never dared to show and in silence I tried to kill them, one way or the other, leaving sin on my body scrubbing tears off with salt and I built my rituals in farewells. Endings I still cling to. So I go to the ocean to say goodbye. He left that morning, the last words still echoing in my head and though he said he’d come back one day I know a broken promise from a right one for I have used them myself and there is no coming back. Minds like ours are can’t be tamed and the price for freedom is the price we pay. I turned away from the ocean as not to fall for its plea for it used to seduce and consume me and there was this one night a few years back and I was not yet accustomed to farewells and just like now I stood waving long after the ship was gone. But I was younger then and easily fooled and the ocean was deep and dark and blue and I took my shoes off to let the water freeze my bones. I waded until I could no longer walk and it was too cold to swim but still I kept on walking at the bottom of the sea for I could not tell the difference between the ocean and the lack of someone I loved and I had not yet learned how the task of moving on is as necessary as survival. Then days passed by and I spent them with my work and now I’m writing letters I will never dare to send. But there is this one day every year or so when the burden gets too heavy and I collect my belongings I no longer need and make my way to the ocean to burn and drown and start anew and it is quite wonderful, setting fire to my chains and flames on written words and I stand there, starring deep into the heat until they’re all gone. Nothing left to hold me back. You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss like chains wrapped around my veins, and if you see a fire from the shore tonight it’s my chains going up in flames. The time of moon i quite glorious. We could have been so glorious.

The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective. And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.

They could read it on each other, their faces wrinkled pages. Words hiding in the folds of their clothes. She was made of letters then, as all of us are now.

They say no one reads anymore, but I find that's not the case. Prisoners read. I guess they're not given much access to computers. A felicitous injustice for me. The nicest reader letters I've received– also the only reader letters I've received– have come from prisoners. Maybe we're all prisoners? In our lives, our habits, our relationships?

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words have the ability to change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Today I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge.

This letter isn’t to mark any significant point in your life or mine. This letter is Just Because…Just Because.

This time, Fusako was able to express herself with fluency and candor. The bold letters she had been writing week after week had granted her an unexpected new freedom.