Best 885 quotes in «letters quotes» category

I like to send letters. I love to receive them. I could never throw away a letter.

I like your energy. I love your legs. I long to see you.

I love you more than I could have ever imagined to love.

I love you so much, much, much that it just hurts every minute I’m without you.

I'm accustomed to reading Georgian and Victorian letters and sometimes you simply know in your gut that a blithe sentence is covering up a deeper emotion.

I’m imagining your response as you read this letter —which by then will have spent a week or two sitting in this lagoon, then another month riding the chaos of the Italian mail system, before finally crossing the Atlantic and being passed over to the US Post Office, who will have transferred it into a sack to be pushed along in a cart by a mailman who’ll have slugged through rain or snow in order to slip it through your mail slot where it will have dropped to the floor, to wait for you to find it.

I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.

I'm not sure if I should break this to you but you'd remain kinda broken till you let me in.

I’m here for you. Always. Do you feel me?Hear me? I talk to you every night, does it reach you?

In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.

In a sick country every step to health is an insult to those who live on its sickness.

I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away. My heart goes wandering around and calls for Susie...My heart is full of you; none other than you are in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. If you were here, we need not talk at all for our eyes would whisper for us and, your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language.

Innocence is the beginning of ignorance. Experience is the end of stupidity.

In a man's letters, you know, madam, his soul lies naked. His letters are only the mirror of his heart. Whatever passes within him is there shown undisguised in its natural progress; nothing is invented, nothing distorted; you see systems in their elements, you discover action in their motives. Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Thrale (1777)

In the square field of the game he has found the ground mirror of the circular plan of the heavenly sphere. Through play, he was becoming aware of the crux gemmata – the sign of Christ, and he created the letters of the Glagolitic script, and turned the trinitarian game into a tetragonic one. He had made the Glagolitic script, a game of four gospels in which the symbol of Christ’s name is placed. The Glagolitic is his game with three marbles – one for each of the messengers of the good news.

In this story, we both are the ends...

I often thought how peculiar my life must look to someone reading those letters, far away.

I put together letters, I formed words, I spoke.

I really should be studying now, but you're much more important to me than a .50 calibre machine gun.

I should have written you a letter, it was too late to make the deaths of my brothers an excuse. Since they died, I wrote a book; why not a letter? A mysterious but truthful answer is that while I can gear myself up to do a novel, letters, real-life communications, are too much for me. I used to rattle them off easily enough; why is the challenge of writing to friends and acquaintances too much for me now? Because I have become such a solitary, and not in the Aristotelian sense: not a beast, not a god. Rather, a loner troubled by longings, incapable of finding a suitable language and despairing at the impossibility of composing messages in a playable key--as if I no longer understood the codes used by the estimable people who wanted to hear from me and would have so much to reply if only the impediments were taken away.

I should like to write four lines at a time, describing the same feeling, as a musician does; because it always seems to me that things are going on at so many different levels simultaneously.

I swear I will never trust Edward again. This is not kingly, this is not as Arthur of Camelot. This is behaviour as base as an archer’s bastard and I cannot meet his eyes when I see him stuffing his mouth at King Louis’ table and pocketing the gold forks.

I thought I had everything until I found you.

it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing.

It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you – and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created – out of five vowels and three consonants.

It is very melancholy without you. I love you more all the time and since I did not think there was any more it’s an overwhelming and frightening state to be in.

…it perished with beautiful reluctance, like an evening star—

It's my letter," she began. "I cannot make it right." "Come in, come in," the Prince said gently. "Maybe we can help you." She sat down in the same chair as before. "All right, I'll close my eyes and listen; read to me." " 'Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only, my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup.' " She looked at Humperdinck. "Well? Do you think I'm throwing myself at him?" "It does seem a bit forward," the Prince admitted. "It doesn't leave him a great deal of room to maneuver.

I myself was passionate about games and contests... I wanted to be the first in translation, wandering and writing.

Instead of writing epitaph on your grave ; more beautiful and memorable is to leave some hand written letters to your wife, sons and daughters and grandchildren.

In strokes of fresh blue, pink and orange dispersed with soft white kisses, the sky writes letters to me.

It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person ― some stranger ― had gone to the trouble of marking my name on this envelope.

It has been our experience that American houses insist on very comprehensive editing; that English houses as a rule require little or none and are inclined to go along with the author's script almost without query. The Canadian practice is just what you would expect--a middle-of-the-road course. We think the Americans edit too heavily and interfere with the author's rights. We think that the English publishers don't take enough editorial responsibility. Naturally, then, we consider our editing to be just about perfect. There's no doubt about it, we Canadians are a superior breed! (in a letter to author Margaret Laurence, dated May, 1960)

I think drink is ugly, and therefore I have nothing to do with it.

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.

It went on, this lifetime in a box, one letter after another.

I used to think of the Christian life as a sort of achievement test in which we were supposed to hurry to figure out all the right answers, but I'm starting to wonder if these slow, hard days of growth help transform us into our eternal form, and therefore are crucial. God lets us live out our belief (and our unbelief) in such a way that the truth of ourselves rises to the surface. Sincere doubt and deflective doubt are divided. What we love most is exposed by our long days of chasing. We are shown ourselves so that we can resign more and more to the indwelling God. Those who love the light pursue the light, and those who love the darkness of self-deification are allowed to feel the gravity of this choice while time remains to make new choices.

I've always found old bookstores exciting. Whenever I'm in a city that's new to me, I immedicately look through the telephone directory for BOOKS, USED AND RARE. Book dealers send me their catalogs, and I read them as carefully as I would a letter from an old friend, never knowing what treasure I might find. Sometimes the catalogs contain printed material other than books, such as old photographs, newspapers, pamphlets, postcards, and letters.

I've never had a love letter before. Not from anyone. It is a most wonderful thing to receive. I realise that it makes a present to me of your life, not just your love.

I thought about us being kids, not having anything but each other. I thought about the dreams we shared, and how I was so ready to spend the rest of my life with you. You helped shaping me into the man I was becoming, and this was a representation of my love and appreciation for you.

I want to read and write and be very quiet.

I was a witness of the execution at Horsemonger-lane this morning. ... I believe that a sight so inconceivably awful as the wickedness and levity of the immense crowd collected at that execution this morning could be imagined by no man, and could be presented in no heathen land under the sun. The horrors of the gibbet and of the crime which brought the wretched murderers to it, faded in my mind before the atrocious bearing, looks and language, of the assembled spectators. ... When the two miserable creatures who attracted all this ghastly sight about them were turned quivering into the air, there was no more emotion, no more pity, no more thought that two immortal souls had gone to judgment, no more restraint in any of the previous obscenities, than if the name of Christ had never been heard in this world, and there were no belief among men but that they perished like beasts.

I will return to the books... Constantine is right; books are more merciful towards each other than people.

I woke raging with desire for you…

Love and Hate: both are four-lettered and both involve passion. And sometimes when love turns into hate, passion grows murderous.

Love covers all shortcomings and failures, overlooks one's mistakes and does not bring to mind one's past mistakes - My Last Letter, Chapter 1

It's pouring, the trees are getting greener before my eyes, I love you. A little over three weeks left. I'm almost afraid of the intensity of that happiness.

I've just stopped talking to you. It seems so strange. It's perfectly peaceful here--they're playing bowls--I'd just put flowers in your room. And there you sit with the bombs falling around you. What can one say-- except that I love you and I've got to live through this strange quiet evening thinking of you sitting there alone. Dearest-- let me have a line... You have given me such happiness...

Mientras estaba tendido allí, a un paso de mí yacía un escarabajo, patas arriba, desesperado. No podía enderezarse, me habría gustado ayudarlo, era tan fácil hacerlo, bastaba un paso y un empujoncito para brindarle una ayuda efectiva. Pero lo olvidé a causa de la carta. Además no podía ponerme de pie. Por fin, una lagartija logró que volviera a tomar conciencia de la vida que me rodeaba. Su camino la llevó hasta el escarabajo, que ya estaba totalmente inmóvil. De modo que no fue un accidente, me dije, sino una lucha mortal, el raro espectáculo de la muerte natural de un animal. Pero la lagartija al deslizarse por encima del escarabajo, lo enderezó. Por uno instantes continuó inmóvil, como muerto, pero luego trepó la pared como la cosa más natural. Es probable que eso me haya brindado, de alguna manera, un poco de coraje. Lo cierto es que me puse de pie, bebí leche y le escribí a usted.

Lubię pisać listy. Zawsze myślałem, że gdybym urodził się w bogatej rodzinie i trzysta lat temu tam, gdzie urodziłem się w biedzie, we Florencji, chciałbym tylko podróżować po całym świecie, żeby pisać listy. Dziennikarstwo do pewnego stopnia pozwoliłó mi robić coś podobnego, ale byłem ograniczony iłością miejsca, terminami, wymogami języka. Teraz w końcu mogę po prostu pisać listy.