Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Slashes. 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 Slashes Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including Joel Spolsky,George Eliot,Alan Perlis,Patrick O'brian,Sarah Rees Brennan for you to enjoy and share.
If you are a programmer working in 2006 and you don't know the basics of characters, character sets, encodings, and Unicode, and I catch you, I'm going to punish you by making you peel onions for six months in a submarine.
Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all semicolons and parentheses.
We toast the Lisp programmer who pens his thoughts within nests of parentheses.
What are bashed neeps?"
"Neeps hackit with balmagowry.
They were curved together like quotation marks with no words in between.
I can see one of them clearly now, walking
along with a newspaper tucked under his arm.
he has cut himself shaving and a bit of tissue
with a circle of blood is stuck to his cheek,
Soothe and sly stamina with a short sword they slice
They are beyond precise making the victim pay the price
It (the dash ) is a comfortable punctuation mark since even the most rigorous critic can seldom claim that any particular example of it is a misuse. Its overuse is its greatest danger, and the writer who can't resist dashes may be suspected of uncoordinated thinking.
Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim.
What is this word that broke through the fence of your teeth, Atreides?
Cunning authors cut to be quoted.
The blade sings to me. Faintly, so soft against my ears, its voice calms my worries and tells me that one touch will take it all away. It tells me that I just need to slide a long horizontal cut, and make a clean slice. It tells me the words that I have been begging to hear: this will make it ok.
All that shit starts in E.
Shattered edges of the diamonds rough sets to cut the unsuspecting.
If letters had eyebrows, these would be arched.
Apparently, using two spaces after a period has become anachronistic. But tell that to my right thumb. -
Spare me the goddamn ellipses." He hissed.
first cut is the deepest
The way the word sinks
into the deep snow of the page
an incantation of hatred.
The finger cut, to save the hand.
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Forward, always forward, everywhere forward.
The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
When we turned right on Thirty-fifth Street our suffix came along. By the time we rolled to the curb in front of Wolfe's house there wasn't even hyphen between us.
Images
split the truth
in fractions.
first four letters, and used to write them out
On the way home, I saw a fist fight between an adverb and a pair of parentheses.
I kept on walking.
X, n. In our alphabet being a needless letter has an added invincibility to the attacks of the spelling reformers, and like them, will doubtless last as long as the language.
The plastic surgeon's knife slashes at time, which may seem to retreat, but then keeps on coming.
He stabbed a sharp-nailed digit in the direction of the Shattered Straits,
I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
[I wrote] '...letters designed to hide behind.
The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. "Ha," he said, "I see that none has passed here In a long time." Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. "Well," he mumbled at last, "Doubtless there are other roads.
Throb
You cut me
into pieces and
put them in separate corners
of the room
each part
placed under pillows
or into water
I grow from this darkness
like starfish
my fingers know the shape to take again
Down the Rabbit-Hole
I spread my fingers outward,
letting the knife tip of my
middle finger rip the sky as
it tares a rift in the moon.
Riven and torn with cannon-shot, the trunks of the trees protruded bunches of splinters like hands, the fingers above the wound interlacing with those below.
I never could make out what those damned dots meant.
glared an upset glare
Writing:
It starts at the keyboard,
and it ends at the far corners of the universe.
Paako
row of stitches.
Cars get girl names. Guns get guy names. What do knives get?
punching holes the size of dogs
Mark Hughes crossed every I and dotted every T.
What see you in the horizon's bruised smear
That cannot be blotted out
By your raised hand?
We wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die:
We ride the blades again
beside the crooked bay. You smile.
I hold you like a hole holds light.
We wear our hats and ride the knives.
They cannot fix you. They try and try.
Tunnel! Into the dark open we go.
Days you are sick, we get dressed slow.
Never put a question mark where God puts a Period
As dawn leaks into the sky it edits out the stars like excess punctuation marks, deleting asterisks and periods, commas, and semi-colons, leaving only unhinged thoughts rotating and pivoting, and unsecured words.
Men who would letterspace lower case would shag sheep.
Wrists are for bracelets not cutting
Carving?"
"Your name. My back. I can't fucking wait."
Jane whistled under her breath. "Do I get to do it?"
He barked a laugh. "No!"
"Come on. I'm a surgeon, I'm good with knives.
The night is falling down around us. Meteors rain like fireworks, quick rips in the seam of the dark ... Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas - a whole grammar made of light, for words too hard to speak.
The cold cut like a many bladed knife
R is for wussies if you're talking about blood and guts.
The first cut is the deepest.
I write scars and dead butterflies.
Sophisticated ignorance, write my curses in cursive.
Two dots an inch apart, as small and tidy as punctuation marks at the end of a sentence none of us could read. The sentence would have started somewhere just above her heart.
There are wire cutters carving holes in my heart.
a furtive groove
They see my fingers, they run. Dominique. Alicia. Penny.
They see my fingers, they want their hair pulled. Alex. Renee. Kristin.
I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with ... G."
"Sausages.
Don't put a question mark where God already put a period.
A 'T' for Tess, a 'T' for Toby.
Some syllables are swords.
A symbol is best answered by a symbol. Not by a . . . meat cleaver.
Words make more revolutions than swords. Words cut deeper than knives. Words cut more cleanly, and leave the victim alive.
Got it. Demon. Death. Doom.
Writing is a perpetual choice between a thousand expressions, none of which satisfies me, none of which, above all, satisfies me without the others. Yet I ought to know that only music permits a succession of chords.
Two words, Super Cuts.
Most people would say 'the deets', but I say 'the tails'. Just another example of innovation.
Turning away, I stared at the long road winding off ahead of me.
I sighed. This trip might take awhile.
"Then start walking, Rose," I muttered to myself.
I set off, off to kill the man I loved.
The knife cuts into the
sun.
the plate
breaks.
the cat yawns.
Hell hath no correctly punctuated fury like a book nerd scorned.
What are you looking at?-- Jesse Stone
The Cutter leaned toward me, resting his forehead against mine. 'Fool me once,' he whispered, 'shame on you.' He pressed the bridge of his nose against mine, his breath burning the back of my throat. His voice was rough and furious. 'Fool me twice, and I will cut out your fucking throat.
You and I
We do not talk anymore
And all our asterisks
Are turning
Into flowers.
She cuts with daggerous eyes of fire
Words like poison coat fangs of bad intent
And biting remarks carve into holiday delights
Leaving dark the places once light.
Emotional cutters cut where it caused the deepest wound.
Snakes and bastards!
I have never written except to fix and perpetuate the memory of these cuts, these scissions, these ruptures, these abrupt and bottomless falls.
I let my eyes drift into the maze of leaves that only trees understand. Hatred has its gravitational web, locking stray specks of confusion into spirals of violence.
Upward and Onward
He says tools but somebody will mention the cutting edges of things and one will see billhook, scythe, fauchard, debris, wood chips and sketches all entangled like words in summertime, when crickets and corn, lives and vines, sunflowers and stormy hours touch and quench one another.
Slice and Dice, Slice and Dice
Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood, The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes.
Blade, she thought. I swallowed it; now cuts my loins forever. Punishment. Married to a Jew and shacking up with a German assassin. She felt tears again in her eyes, boiling. For all I have committed. Wrecked. 'Let's go,' she said, rising to her feet. 'The hairdresser.
She thought in exclamation points
Call them fangs, Dru. That's what they are.
I don't think-"
"Clearly. Why start now?
One word, two lips, three four five fingers form a fist.
One corner, two parents, three four five reasons to hide.
One child, two eyes, three four seventeen years of fear.
A broken broomstick, a pair of wile faces, angry whispers, locks on my door.
I knew Slash in high school, but not very well. Just knew him as this kid that used to hang out in the hallway. Pretty much looked then the way he does now.
Books. They tumbled from the bleeding sky like wounded birds. The spines snapping open and the pages fanning white. Black letters slipping off the slanted pages and falling, falling to the ground where they ... Shatter.
4. The Road Through the Forest
I hate crew cuts.
Cut these words and they would bleed; they are vascular and alive.
Death aims with fouler spiteAt fairer marks.
If I had a razor, I'd cut your throat - just to see what ran out of it."
"Caterpillar blood," I said.