Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Handwringing. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Handwringing Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Charles Dickens,Robert Asprin,Leah Devlin,Ed Marlo,Truman Capote for you to enjoy and share.
Chafed the hands that held his arm. There, there, there! See
Writing that's not working for a living.
ripped the paper
Palming separates the men from the boys!
That's not writing, that's typing.
Writing is daydreaming with ink.
Writing is improvising sitting down. K.B.Brege
I put my hand in my pocket and squeeze my rocks and wonder if there is a word for the marks you get on your palm when you squeeze something so hard that the skin is on the verge of ripping.
If words decorate the home of Being, then hands, and by extension art, are the sketch of Being.
Sloppy writing reflects sloppy thinking.
hands, making him submit
Writing is thinking on paper
Handwriting is civilization's casual encephalogram.
No one touches me when I write my story, unless I hire you to or I allow you to.
The incessant driving of the pen over paper causes intense fatigue of the hand and the whole arm because of the continuous ... strain on the muscles and tendons.
I do write by hand. I just think - I don't know, it's a physical thing for me. It's a bodily thing. It literally has to earn its way through my hand.
After many months of writing, it occured to me that it might be possible to photograph, in the flesh, what I was attempting to capture in words. I bought a Rolleiflex camera and began to take pictures of objects or structures that were used and abused by human hands
It's as if I were collaborating with myself, revealing my relationship to the material. My hand would make the drawing. Then my mouth would transmit it.
I'm known for my handwritten notes.
Handwriting enables civilization.
The difference between a helping hand and an outstretched palm is a twist of the wrist.
She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls' hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.
A painter's hand has a thirst for thieving, it steals from heaven and makes a gift to the memories of men, it feigns eternity and it delights in this pretence almost as if it had created rules of its own, more durable and more profoundly true.
That isn't writing at all, it's typing.
bludgeoning countless typewriter ribbons,
We are all fed from hundreds and thousands of hands. Often we do not know whose they are nor how they work. Only a few of us ever visualize the hands that grope in the coal mines or push levers in the mills or handle axes in the lumber camp.
My songwriting is like extending a hand to the listener.
We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.
The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for the wordlessness.
The expression "to write something down" suggests a descent of thought to the fingers whose movements immediately falsify it.
Writing is rewriting.
A cop told me, a long time ago, that there's no substitute for knowing what you're doing. Most of us scribblers do not. The ones that're any good are aware of this. The rest write silly stuff. The trouble is this: The readers know it.
Hard and steady and engrossing labor with the hands, especially out of doors, is invaluable to the literary man and serves him directly.
Stow your twitchy palm!
The backs of his hands remind him of paper burning in the fireplace, the moment the taut membrane goes slack into a thousand wrinkles, just before it withers to ash and air.
Talking like touching. Writing like punching somebody.
rubbing the ointment into the creases of his knuckles, massaging
You might have announced in front of the entire football team and cheerleading squad that I
fictitiously liked what your hands did to me, but I just made you come with one finger, so tell me now who has the skills.
My hand may slip from lack of practice, but I do not believe my clumsy writing derives from an agitated mind.
The hand is the tool of tools.
Of all fatiguing, futile, empty trades, the worst, I suppose, is writing about writing.
All art is but dirtying the paper delicately.
I am writing with my burnt hand about the nature of fire.
Authors always carry a means for scribbling and an excuse for pausing, often inopportunely, to record those fleeting sparks of creative fancy that might otherwise vanish like a wisp in the wind if ignored. Writing is a jealous and needy lover.
Writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for wordlessness.
Sometimes a writer, like an acrobat, must try a trick that is too much for him.
The Term Paper Artist' represents two models of writing, one of the little boy bouncing his ball, generating stories for the sheer pleasure of it, and the besieged adult, writing to make a living, having to contend with a very competitive, very unreliable world in which public image counts.
What is writing, after all, except fumbling in darkness endeavoring to light a candle?
HAND, n. A singular instrument worn at the end of the human arm and commonly thrust into somebody's pocket.
Ernest Hemingway talked about how writing is opening up a vein and bleeding onto the page. You prepared to do that?
Steady labor with the hands, which engrosses the attention also, is unquestionably the best method of removing palaver and sentimentality out of one's style, both of speaking and writing.
I need a free hand for slapping you when you act stupid.
The beauty and nobility, the august mission and destiny, of human handwriting.
When in doubt, scribble.
I confess to wincing every so often at a poorly chosen word, a mangled sentence, an expression of emotion that seems indulgent or overly practiced. I have the urge to cut the book by fifty pages or so, possessed as I am with a keener appreciation for brevity.
But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
Everyone writes with hand, but very few can write with heart
the beauty of the creative gesture is wild, unwilling and painful.
You've heard about the knitter's handshake? Two hands go in for the grab-and-shake, but at the last minute, they veer to the closest sleeve or band and grab it instead while we ask, "Did you knit this?
To be an artist or a writer is to be this weird thing - a hand worker in an era of mass production.
The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.
The twisted circumstances under which we live is grist for the writing mill, the loving, hating and discovering, finding new handles for old pitchers ...
Writing is rewriting; rewriting is writing - from the first crossed-out word in the first sentence to the last word inserted above a caret, that most helpful handwritten stroke.
With my burned hand, I write about the nature of fire.
After writing a story, I wipe the blood off my hands wondering,"What have I done?
It is important to use
your hands, that is what distinguishes
you from a cow or a computer operator.
I feel something like hands around my throat, threatening to squeeze the life from me. Each word tightens the grip, as if ink alone can strangle me. For a second, I fear I might not breathe again.
Yelling is a form of publishing
His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman's hands. Or maybe she hadn't been patient. Maybe she'd been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.
In the early days, it was, you know, I used to weep while I was writing. I used to grab at any kind of anything, any hint, any tip of how to make it easy.
You know, my first three or four drafts, you can see, are on legal pads in long hand. And then I go to a typewriter, and I know everybody's switching to a computer. And I'm sort of laughed at.
Newspapers are the second hand of history. This hand, however, is usually not only of inferior metal to the other hands, it also seldom works properly.
A people that grows accustomed to sloppy writing is a people in process of losing grip on its empire and on itself.
Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It's descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn't have left so carelessly lying around on the table.
People are laughing at me today for having holes in my pockets, and ink blood on my fingers-
a thirty-something old writer, who strangles words from dictionaries, and feeds on the decay of poetry.
To write: to try meticulously to retain something, to cause something to survive; to wrest a few precise scraps from the void as it grows, to leave somewhere a furrow, a trace, a mark or a few signs.
It is a universally acknowledged, inalienable truth that a knitter faced with the unadorned neck, head, and hands of a person she cares for feels an overwhelming compulsion to smother that person in fancy hand-knits.
The art of newspaper paragraphing is to stroke a platitude until it purrs like an epigram.
If I tried to write long-hand, I suppose I'd never finish a novel. I edit too much as I write - the paper would be "white-out" and sharpie marks. Writing with a computer works for me, so I stick with it.
The journey from the head to the hand is perilous and lined with bodies. It is the road on which nearly everyone who wants to write - and many of the people who do write - get lost.
I used to love hand raising.
There's a hand," she said.
"You need a hand?" Matthew carefully skated back to her. "Have you got yourself stuck?"
"No, Matthew. There appears to be a hand. Frozen in the ice.
The hand has the richest articulation of space.
Helda's been trying to impress me with the embroidery on the sheets. One more minute and I thought I might use them to hang myself."
"My mother did the embroidery," Bittterblue said.
Katsa clapped her mouth shut and glared at Helda. "Thank you, Helda, for mentioning that detail.
Hands could be such expressive things.
Manly deeds, womanly hands.
The pen is in your hands, the rest is still unwritten.
Sloppy script and felt a pang of guilt. She started to close the notebook but paused in thought. It didn't feel right. It didn't seem ... truthful. With a heavy hand and a heavy heart, she added in parentheses
Hands are the heart's landscape.
We will outstretch the hand if you unclench your fist.
Every day, hands are creating the world"
-from "In Praise of Ironing
you see, the thing is, I just don't know
how to write anything that doesn't
start with a lump in my throat.
And I really don't know how to write anything
that doesn't end with your hands on my neck.
They scribble on notepads,
the sound of their pens
scratching the judgemental air.
I'm always writing, even when I'm not at my desk. I write on my hands. I used to write on my kids' hands, too, but they don't let me any more. When I'm driving I sometimes write all the way up my arms.
I do not know if these hands will become Malcolm's - raised and fisted or Martin's - open and asking or James's - curled around a pen. I do not know if these hands will be Rosa's or Ruby's gently gloved and fiercely folded calmly in a lap, on a desk, around a book, ready to change the world . . .
Like a warrior in the battlefield, a writer must endeavour to use his pen to stamp the paper with his identity.
I remain restless and dissatisfied; what I knot with my right hand, I undo with my left, what my left hand creates, my right fist shatters
Everywhere on our planet one hand greases another. Often it's done with a bloated face, wearing a serpent's smile.
M.Sullivan
The copyeditor I drew was a brachycephalic, web-footed cretin who should have been in an institution learning how to make brooms.
By the texting of your thumb, something wicked this way comes? I